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McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales

McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales

3.5 7
by Michael Chabon

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A Vintage Contemporaries Original

Jim Shepard's "Tedford and the Megalodon"

Glen David Gold's "The Tears of Squonk, and What Happened Thereafter"

Dan Chaon's "The Bees"

Kelly Link's "Catskin"

Elmore Leonard's "How Carlos Webster Changed His Name to Carl and Became a Famous Oklahoma


A Vintage Contemporaries Original

Jim Shepard's "Tedford and the Megalodon"

Glen David Gold's "The Tears of Squonk, and What Happened Thereafter"

Dan Chaon's "The Bees"

Kelly Link's "Catskin"

Elmore Leonard's "How Carlos Webster Changed His Name to Carl and Became a Famous Oklahoma Lawman"

Carol Emshwiller's "The General"

Neil Gaiman's "Closing Time"

Nick Hornby's "Otherwise Pandemonium"

Stephen King's "The Tale of Gray Dick"

Michael Crichton's "Blood Doesn’t Come Out"

Laurie King's "Weaving the Dark"

Chris Offutt's "Chuck’s Bucket"

Dave Eggers's "Up the Mountain Coming Down Slowly"

Michael Moorcock's "The Case of the Nazi Canary"

Aimee Bender's "The Case of the Salt and Pepper Shakers"

Harlan Ellison's "Goodbye to All That"

Karen Joy Fowler's "Private Grave 9"

Rick Moody's "The Albertine Notes"

Michael Chabon's "The Martian Agent, a Planetary Romance"

Sherman Alexie's "Ghost Dance"

Editorial Reviews

The Washington Post
All in all, the proportion of good stuff to filler in this anthology is unusually high, and the Moody novella alone is worth the price of the book. Perhaps the book's most ironic accomplishment is the long story by Dave Eggers, Mr. McSweeney's himself. After Moody's, it's the best story here, a wholly un-self-conscious account of a troubled thirtysomething named Rita who spends four days on a guided walk up the side of Mt. Kilimanjaro. It's beautifully written, wonderfully evocative of its exotic setting and full of vivid and finely detailed characters. It ends, not with risen corpses, monster sharks or the end of the world, but with -- and here's the thrilling part -- an epiphany. — James Hynes
The New York Times
''As late as about 1950,'' Michael Chabon writes in his introduction, short fiction meant stories with plots — ''the ghost story; the horror story'' — and not the ones we run across today, ''plotless and sparkling with epiphanic dew.'' Sick of his own epiphanies, Chabon invited category brand names like Elmore Leonard and Stephen King to break bread with Nick Hornby and others not known for hatching science fiction, mystery or adventure plots. The result is an uneven, somewhat gentrified ''Treasury,'' the self-consciousness of the exercise making it more fun in parts than as a whole. Michael Crichton writes pitch-perfect noir, but his loner-detective tale doesn't add up to much. Aimee Bender misfires with her cozy, as does Sherman Alexie with his zombie cannibals. There are thrills, though. Rick Moody's mournful, postapocalyptic thriller about a drug that lets people relive memories — and alter the remembered events — manages to feel personal while recycling Philip K. Dick. Chabon blends alternate history with Jules Verne to gripping effect. Karen Joy Fowler's and Neil Gaiman's acute tales skirt the edge of the supernatural. And Dave Eggers's story about tourists climbing Kilimanjaro seems suspiciously short on plot, but long on character and place, which anywhere else would be a compliment. — Matthew Flamm
Publishers Weekly
Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Chabon teams up with the editors of Dave Eggers's McSweeney's magazine to create a fiction anthology with an innovative, simple concept: the stories are driven by adventurous plots and narrative action, in contrast to the current trend toward stories that are "plotless and sparkling with epiphanic dew," as Chabon writes in his introduction. The roster includes such heavyweights as Michael Crichton, Stephen King, Elmore Leonard, Nick Hornby and Harlan Ellison. As the retro title might suggest, the collection is heavy on sci-fi and detective stories, often updated with contemporary twists. Crichton offers a detective yarn called "Blood Doesn't Come Out," in which a disgruntled PI takes out his frustration on his wife in a cheeky spin on the domestic violence that punctuates the pulp fiction of Jim Thompson and James A. Cain. Hornby's contribution is an entertaining sci-fi story called "Otherwise Pandemonium," about a man who buys a VCR that fast-forwards into an apocalyptic future. In Rick Moody's "The Albertine Notes," a debilitating drug called Albertine wreaks havoc by sending users back in time to relive their memories. Dave Eggers's "Up the Mountain Coming Down Slowly" is a thoughtful story in which a woman climbs Kilimanjaro to bolster her self-confidence after experiencing a personal crisis, but proves oblivious to the deaths of three porters when the weather on the mountain turns ugly. Half a dozen or so stories are markedly slight, but overall this is a strong collection. (Apr.) Forecast: Names like Chabon, Eggers and McSweeney's will give this collection a head start, especially with the under-30 crowd. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Twenty authors write in a hodgepodge of genres, in issue ten of McSweeney’s quarterly. "I think that we have forgotten how much fun reading a short story can be, and I hope that if nothing else, this treasury goes some small distance toward reminding us of that lost but fundamental truth," says editor Chabon. There’s certainly variety to this treasury: Glen David Gold’s hanging of an elephant is just the beginning of weirdness in a story that goes on to postulate that man-killing elephants the country over may be avengers of African murders long kept in elephant memory. Michael Crichton weighs in with a Chandleresque p.i. who loses his fee when he photographs the wrong thief for a client, then loses his girlfriend, then loses his sobriety. Chris Offutt contributes an amusing SF/ghost story/semi-memoir about a writer trying to produce a story for a collection edited by Michael Chabon, eventually getting so close to the deadline that he has to use a time machine to go back in time to inspire himself. Harlan Ellison’s spiritual search for the Core of Unquenchable Perfection will find hip-hop at the mountaintop, and the golden arches awaiting him. Aimee Bender adds a pseudo-detective who is investigating a couple found dead amid their collection of salt and pepper shakers: Is it double murder, or double suicide? Other pieces include mummies (Karen Jay Fowler), Nazis (Michael Moorcock), dream women (Sherman Alexie), and witches (Kelly Link). Unlike Henry James’s ghost stories—where genre was always used to access the literary—the emphasis here is on fun: but what about those who ask for more than that? Still, talent galore, and well worth the price of admission.

Product Details

Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
Vintage Contemporaries Series
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
7.78(w) x 5.08(h) x 1.04(d)

Read an Excerpt

from "Tedford and the Megalodon"


He went in search of a relic of earth's past, and came face-to-face with the mortal specter of his own!

He'd brought some books with him on the way out, but had lost the lot of them on the transfer to the smaller boat. One of the lifting pallets had upset and spilled the crate down the side of the ship. His almanac had been saved, for which he was thankful.

Among the losses had been his Simpson and his Eldredge; his Osteology and Relationships of Chondrichthyans; his Boys' Book of Songs, Balfour's Development of Elasmobranch Fishes, and, thrown in from his childhood, his Beadle's Boy's Library, including Wide Awake Ned: The Boy Wizard.

Above his head, interstellar space was impossibly black. That night he wrote in his almanac, Velvet set with piercing bits of light. There seemed to be, spread above him, some kind of galactic cloud arrangement. Stars arced up over one horizon and down the other. The water nearest the ice seemed disturbingly calm. Little wavelets lapped the prow of the nearest kayak. The cold was like a wind from the stars.

Thirty-three-year-old Roy Henry Tedford and his little pile of provisions were braced on the lee side of a talus slope on a speck of an island at somewhere around degree of longitude 146 and degree of latitude 58, seven hundred miles from Adélie Land on the Antarctic Coast, and four hundred from the nearest landfall on any official map: the unprepossessing dot of Macquarie Island to the east. It was a fine midsummer night in 1923.

His island, one of three ice-covered rocks huddled together in a quarter-mile chain, existed only on the hand-drawn chart that had brought him here, far from those few shipping lanes and fishing waters this far south. The chart was entitled, in Heuvelmans's barbed-wire handwriting, alongside his approximation of the location, The Islands of the Dead. Under that Heuvelmans had printed in block letters the aboriginal word Kadimakara, or "Animals of the Dreamtime."

Tedford's provisions included twenty-one pounds of hardtack, two tins of biscuit flour, a sack of sweets, a bag of dried fruit, a camp-stove, an oilskin wrap for his almanac, two small reading-lanterns, four jerry cans of kerosene, a waterproofed one-man tent, a bedroll, a spare coat and gloves, a spare set of Wellington boots, a knife, a small tool set, waterproofed and double-wrapped packets of matches, a box camera in a specially made mahogany case in an oilskin pouch, a revolver, and a Bland's .577 Axite Express. He'd fired the Bland's twice, and both times been knocked onto his back by the recoil. The sportsman in Melbourne who'd sold it to him had assured him that it was the closest thing to field artillery that a man could put to his shoulder.

He was now four hundred miles from sharing a wish, or a word, or a memory. If all went well, it might be two months before he again saw a friendly face. Until she'd stopped writing, his mother had informed him regularly that it took a powerful perversity of spirit to send an otherwise intelligent young man voluntarily into such a life.

His plan looked excellent on paper. He'd already left another kayak, with an accompanying supply depot, on the third or westernmost island, in the event bad weather or high seas prevented his return to this one.

He'd started as a student of J.H. Tate's in Adelaide. Tate had assured himself of volunteers for his fieldwork by making a keg of beer part of his collection kit, and had introduced Tedford to evolutionism and paleontology, enlivening the occasional dinner party by belting out, to the tune of "It's a Long Way to Tipperary":

It's a long way from Amphioxus,
It's a long way to us;
It's a long way from Amphioxus
To the meanest human cuss.
Farewell, fins and gill slits,
Welcome, teeth and hair-
It's a long long way from Amphioxus,
But we all came from there!

Tedford had been an eager acolyte for two years and then had watched his enthusiasm stall in the face of the remoteness of the sites, the lack of monetary support, and the meagerness of the finds. Three months for an old tooth, as old Tate used to put it. Tedford had taken a job as a clerk for the local land surveyor, and his duties had exposed him to a panoply of local tales, whispered stories, and bizarre sightings. He'd found himself investigating each, in his free time, in search of animals known to local populations but not to the world at large. His mode was analysis, logical dissection, and reassembly, when it came to the stories. His tools were perseverance, an appetite for observation, a tolerance for extended discomfort, and his aunt's trust fund. He'd spent a winter month looking for bunyips, which he'd been told inhabited the deep waterholes and roamed the billabongs at night. He'd found only a few fossilized bones of some enormous marsupials. He'd been fascinated by the paringmal, the "birds taller than the mountains," but had uncovered them only in rock paintings. He'd spent a summer baking on a blistering hardpan awaiting the appearance of the legendary cadimurka.

All that knocking about had become focused on the day that a fisherman had shown him a tooth he'd dredged up with a deep-sea net. The thing had revealed itself to be a huge whitish triangle, thick as a scone, the root rough, the blade enamel-polished and edged with twenty or so serrations per centimeter. The heft had been remarkable: that single tooth had weighed nearly a pound.

Tedford had come across teeth like it before, in Miocene limestone beds. They belonged, Tate had assured him, to a creature science had identified as Carcharodon Megalodon, or Great Tooth, a recent ancestor of the Great White Shark, but nearly three times as large: a monster shark, with jaws within which a tall man could stand without stooping, and a stout, oversized head. But the tooth that Tedford held in his hand was white, which meant it came from an animal either quite recently extinct, or not extinct at all.

He'd written up the find in the Tasmanian Journal of Natural Science. The editor had accepted the piece but refused its inflammatory title.

A year later nearly to the day, his eye had been caught by a newspaper account of the Warrnambool Sea Monster, christened for the home port of eleven fishermen and a boy, in three tuna boats, who had refused to go to sea for several days. They'd been at work at certain far-off fishing grounds that only they had discovered, which lay beside a shelf plunging down into very deep water, when an immense shark, of unbelievable proportions, had surfaced among them, taking nets, one of the boats, and a ship's dog back down with it. The boy in the boat that had capsized had called out, "Is that the fin of a great fish?" and then everything had gone topsy-turvy. Everyone had been saved from the vortex except the dog. They'd been unanimous that the beast had been something the like of which they'd never seen. In interviews conducted in the presence of both the local Fisheries Inspector and one B. Heuvelmans, dentist and naturalist, the men had been questioned very closely, and had all agreed upon the details, even down to the creature's length, which seemed absurd: at least sixty-five feet. They'd agreed that it was at least the length of the wharf shed back at their bay. The account made clear that these were men used to the sea and to all sorts of weather, and to all sorts of sharks, besides. They had seen whale sharks and basking sharks. They recounted the way the sea had boiled over from the thing's surfacing and its subsequent submersion. This was no whale, they'd insisted; they'd seen its terrible head. They'd agreed on everything: the size of its dorsal, the creature's staggering width, its ghostly whitish color. What seemed most to their credit, in terms of their credibility, was their flat refusal to return to the sea for nearly a week, despite the loss of wages involved: a loss they could ill afford, as their wives, also present for the interviews, pointed out.

It had taken him a week to get away, and when he'd finally gotten to Warrnambool no one would speak to him. The fishermen had tired of being the local sport, and had told him only that they wished that anyone else had seen the thing rather than them.

He'd no sooner been back at his desk when other stories had appeared. For a week, there'd been a story every morning, the relevance of which only he apprehended. A small boat had been swamped south of Tasmania, in calm seas, its crew missing. A ninety-foot trawler had struck a reef in what was charted as deep water. A whale carcass, headless and bearing trenchlike gashes, had washed ashore near Hibbs Bay.

As soon as he could get away, he took the early coach back to Warrnambool and looked up B. Heuvelmans, the dentist, who turned out to be an untidy cockatoo of a man holed up in a sanctuary at the rear of his house, where he'd built himself a laboratory. As he explained impatiently to Tedford, in the afternoons he retired there, unavailable to his patients' pain and devoted to his entomological and zoological studies, many of which lined the walls. The room was oppressively dark and close. Dr. Heuvelmans was secretary to the local Scientific Society. Until recently he'd been studying a tiny but monstrous-looking insect found exclusively in a certain kind of dung, but since the fishermen's news, the Sea Monster story had entirely obsessed him. He sat in a rotating chair behind a broad table covered with books, maps, and diagrams, and suggested they do what they could to curtail Tedford's visit, which could hardly be agreeable to Tedford, and was inexpressibly irksome to his host. While he talked, he chewed on the end of what he assured Tedford was a dentifricial root. He sported tiny, horn-rimmed sunglasses and a severely pointed beard.

He wanted no help and he was perfectly content to be considered a lunatic. His colleagues only confirmed his suspicion that one of the marvels of Nature was the resistance that the average human brain offered to the introduction of knowledge. When it came to ideas, his associates stuck to their ruts until forcibly ejected from them. Very well. That ejection would come about soon enough.

Had he information beyond that reported in the newspapers? Tedford wanted to know.

That information alone would have sufficed for him, Heuvelmans retorted; his interviews at least had demonstrated to his satisfaction that if he believed in the beast's existence he did so in good company. But in fact, he did have more. At first he would proceed no further upon that point, refusing all direct inquiry. The insect he'd been studying was apparently not eaten by birds because of a spectacularly malodorous or distasteful secretion, which began to rise faintly from the man's clothing the longer Tedford sat in the stuffy little room.

But the longer Tedford did sit, mildly refusing to stir, the more information the excitable Belgian brought forth. He talked of a fellow tooth-puller who'd befriended some aborigines up near Coward Springs and Bopeechee and who'd reported that they spoke of hidden islands to the southeast infused with the spirit of the deep upwellings, something terrible, something malevolent, something to be avoided. He'd reported that they had a word for "shark that devours the sea." He displayed a piece of fisherman's slate-from a boat he said had gone entirely missing-on which was written "Please help us. Find us soon before we die."

Finally, when Tedford apparently seemed insufficiently impressed, he'd gone into a locked cabinet with a great flourish and had produced a tooth-white-identical to the tooth Tedford had been shown. The Warrnambool fishermen had pulled it from the tatters of their net-line, he said.

Moreover, the dentist said, working the dentifricial root around his back molars, he'd found the fishing grounds. And with them, the islands.

Tedford had been unsuccessful at concealing his shock and excitement.

The job had taken him a couple of weeks, Heuvelmans had gone on, but on the whole he was quite set up by his overall ingenuity and success. He was traveling there in a matter of days, to positively identify the thing, if not catch it. Could Tedford accompany him? Not by a long chalk.

What they were talking about, Heuvelmans mused, after they'd both had sufficient time to ponder the brutality of his refusal, would be second only to the Sperm Whale as the largest predator the planet had ever produced. He then lapsed into silence with the look of a man peering into deep space.

When Tedford finally asked what sort of weapons he intended to bring, the man quoted Job: "He esteemeth iron as straw, and brass as rotten wood." And when his guest responded, "Am I to understand that you're proceeding unarmed?" Heuvelmans said only merrily, "He maketh the deep to boil like a pot."

Tedford had taken his leave intending to return the next day, and the next, and the next, but had come back the following morning to discover Heuvelmans already gone, on, as his housekeeper put it, "a sea-voyage." He never returned.

Tedford finally asked the housekeeper to notify him if there was any news, and two weeks after that the good woman wrote to say that part of the stern of the ship her master had contracted, the Tonny, had floated ashore on the Tasmanian coast.

He'd prevailed upon the housekeeper to give him access to the sanctuary-in order that he might help solve the mystery of the poor man's disappearance-and there discovered, in the course of tearing the entire place apart, the man's notes, a copy of the precious map: everything. On one of the three islands there was said to be a secret opening, a hidden entry to a sort of lagoon otherwise completely encircled by rock and ice. He was to look for light blue ice along the water level, under a half-dome overhang, to paddle up to that place, and to push through what he found. That would be his private gate into the unknown.

Meet the Author

About the Editor

Michael Chabon's works of fiction include The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, A Model World, Wonder Boys, and Were-wolves in Their Youth. His work has appeared in The New Yorker, Harper's, Esquire, and Playboy and in a number of anthologies, among them Prize Stories 1999: The O. Henry Awards. He lives in Berkeley, California, with his wife, Ayelet Waldman, also a novelist, and their children.

Brief Biography

Berkeley, California
Date of Birth:
May 24, 1963
Place of Birth:
Washington, D.C.
B.A., University of Pittsburgh; M.F.A., University of California at Irvine

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McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales 3.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 7 reviews.
Leslie Tidaback Hilmer More than 1 year ago
Don't bother to choose the free sample. There is nothing to read!
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