{"product_id":"the-sea-beast-takes-a-loverisbn-9781101986639","title":"The Sea Beast Takes a Lover","description":"\u003cb\u003e“This debut author rightfully earns his place on the storytelling totem pole with this wildly original short story collection.”\u003c\/b\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eDazzling and delightful, with its feet only slightly tethered to the world we know, \u003ci\u003eThe Sea Beast Takes a Lover e\u003c\/i\u003explores family, faith, and longing through a kaleidoscope of surreal landscapes and spellbinding characters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAndreasen's stories unfold in wildly inventive worlds that invite the supernatural into our familiar routines: in “Bodies in Space,” an extramarital affair is rudely interrupted by an alien abduction, while in “Blunderbuss,” a third-grade class takes an ill-advised field trip to a floundering time travel institute. “Jenny” follows a reluctant caretaker's attempts to manage his kind-hearted headless sister, and in the title story, a group of sailors find their ship commandeered by an aggressively lovestruck kraken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRomping through the fantastic with bighearted ease, these stories uncover a universal yearning for connection in seldom-explored spaces, revealing that aliens can help us think about loss, that time travel is just another way to talk about guilt, and that sea monsters may have a thing or two to teach us about love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith a captivating new voice from an immensely talented storyteller, \u003ci\u003eThe Sea Beast Takes a Lover\u003c\/i\u003e uses the odd, the extraordinary, and the miraculous to expose us at our most profoundly and hilariously human.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Sea Beast Takes a Lover\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A debut short story collection that treads the line between the speculative and the satirical with vivid prose, fatalist joie de vivre, and wild imaginative turns. Andreasen's style is reminiscent of George Saunders. . . . Energetic and engaging, these stories benefit from the sheer vigor of their telling.” –\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Andreasen has the soul of a poet and the heart of a yarn spinner; he breathes new life into familiar tropes via the ingenuity of his storytelling and his tendency to color outside the lines. The 11 refreshing stories in this debut collection are full of delicious detours, and ultimately they’re the point.” –\u003ci\u003ePublisher's Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Each [story] strikes the balance between fantasy as metaphor and fantasy in itself.…Highly recommended for both fans of literary speculative fiction and general readers.” \u003ci\u003e-Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This debut author rightfully earns his place on the storytelling totem pole with this wildly original short story collection.” -\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"These are stories that dare to be about love -- familial, monstrous, erotic, unrequited, doomed -- and their refusal to approach the subject by anything but unconventional means is a posture of deepest reverence.\" -\u003ci\u003eMichigan Quarterly Review \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Andreasen’s assured voice is a blend of quietly brooding naturalism and blithe surrealism, a kind of Raymond Carver sensibility and style mated with Mark Leyner’s fizzy, mad ideation. Employing sharp-edged yet deceptively unadorned prose, Andreasen succeeds in sucking the reader into his drolly insane and charmingly ghastly scenarios…Andreasen wraps his readers in literary tentacles that both stroke and throttle, and pulse with fervent alien life.” -Barnes \u0026amp; Noble Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Sea Beast Takes a Lover \u003c\/i\u003eis a treasury of fantastic tales--full of mermaids, prophetic dancing bears, exploding children, and distraught time travelers. It's also a collection of longing, of loss, of loving deeply, and of learning what it means to care for others. A brilliant book, daring and wonderful.\" –Alexander Weinstein, author of \u003ci\u003eChildren of the New World \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Sea Beast Takes a Lover\u003c\/i\u003e sits on a small shelf of books that I will read a dozen times over.  It is full of explosions of magic, aching tenderness and star-bright writing. This is a book that will make you want to tap the person next to you and say, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have to hear this.’”  –Ramona Ausubel, author of \u003ci\u003eSons and Daughters of Ease and Plenty\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eA Guide to Being Born\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Andreasen has a big, roomy imagination, and a command of language to furnish the worlds he creates with both precision and grandeur. These stories are, by turns, timeless and urgent, dreamy and nightmarish, heartbroken and hopeful. A brilliant collection.\" –Charles Yu, author of\u003ci\u003e Sorry Please Thank You \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“The world is a very strange place. Michael Andreasen’s fantastic storytelling, ripe with tender monsters and understandably tortured humans, opens the window to our weirdness just a crack further, reminding his reader that the human heart is and always will be filled with wonder.” --Samantha Hunt, author of \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eMr. Splitfoot\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Dark Dark\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Sea Beast Takes a Lover \u003c\/i\u003eis such a wildly imaginative work that the book itself could be an artifact drawn from one of the sui generis stories it contains. Uncannily inventive yet unfailingly grounded in all-too-familiar struggles of the heart, these are stories that vary widely in subject matter--paternal pressures, the terror of stasis, our jealous hunger for love--but never in the confident distinctiveness of Michael Andreasen's voice. What a voice it is! What a vision! For what is more exciting to a reader than discovering a new way to see the world? This thrillingly original debut gives us just that in every story, on every page.\" –Josh Weil, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Age of Perpetual Light\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Sea Beast Takes a Lover\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eis a beautiful \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eWunderkammer\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eof a book, filled with delights and curiosities that radically expand our understanding of the world. Tender and demented, hilarious and sublime, Andreasen’ stories achieve quote a marvelous thing: to be as deeply felt as they are wildly imagine.” -Sarah Shun-lien Bynum, author of\u003ci\u003e \u003ci\u003eMadeleine Is Sleeping\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e \u003ci\u003eMs. Hempel Chronicles\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“There really is a lovesick sea beast—along with many other magical creatures—but Andreasen is interested in religion, love, loss and all the stuff of real life. There is so much depth and whimsy in these pages.”–Oprahmag.com\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eMichael Andreasen\u003c\/b\u003e holds a master's degree in creative writing from the University of California, Irvine. His fiction has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTin House\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eZoetrope: All-Story\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eQuarterly West\u003c\/i\u003e, and elsewhere. He lives in Southern California. \u003ci\u003eThe Sea Beast Takes a Lover\u003c\/i\u003e is his first book.Our Fathers at Sea\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The night before we load you into the crate and watch as the      helicopter carries you off to the undisclosed location to drop you      into the Atlantic Ocean, we eat dinner as a family. I roll your      wheelchair to the head of the table, which has always been a      little too small for five, so that it's clear to everyone who's      being honored. I'd hoped to grill up a few of those rib eyes we've      got in the garage freezer-it seemed the right occasion for it-but      then Avery recalled how you'd always loved Rosemary's braised      chicken back when you were still on solid food, and so, in honor      of you, even though you aren't eating, that's what we eat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We try conversation for a little while. I think about going around      the table and having everyone share their favorite memories with      Grandpa, but I know in order to do that I'll need a really good      memory, which I don't know if I have. As I try to come up with      something, Ernest turns on the little TV we keep on the kitchen      counter. I assume Rosemary will object, but she's busy checking      the drip on your IV and I'm busy remembering, so we let it go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As we eat we watch Little Winston, part of the wholesome      black-and-white hour of family programming that usually rounds out      our dinnertime. They're airing the Father's Day episode, which      we've seen a hundred times, but I think we all realize the      importance of watching it again today, especially for the boys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Little Winston and his father, Big Al, sit on the front stoop of      Big Al's Gas 'n Fixit. They've just returned from watching      Chester, Big Al's father and Little Winston's grandfather, get      crated away. Their untouched glasses of lemonade sweat in the      afternoon heat. Little Winston is folding and unfolding his      sausagey fingers on the lap of his blue overalls, which he always      does when he's upset, and Big Al is trying to console him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It makes me scared,\" Little Winston says, tears poised to roll on      the edges of his cheeks, \"to think that one day they'll carry you      off in one of those big crates, Big Al. That one day they'll drop      you into the sea at the undisclosed location with a bunch of      strangers. That I'll never see you again.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I know, son,\" Big Al says. His thick mechanic's arms, normally      crossed over his grimy blue work shirt in stoic disapproval of      Little Winston's comic hijinks, are now on the boy's shoulders,      his rough, greasy hands straightening Winston's cowlicked hair in      one of the series' rare moments of paternal tenderness. \"When you      get to be my age, you'll understand.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm not gonna be able to do it, Big Al,\" Little Winston sniffs.      \"I'm not gonna know when or how.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You will,\" Big Al assures him, his hand on the boy's back. \"You      will. Just follow your heart.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I love you,\" Little Winston mutters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just follow your heart,\" says Big Al. \"That's all I'm doing      here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I love you, Big Al,\" Little Winston repeats.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I love you, too, little buddy,\" says Big Al. \"I love you, too.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gurdy Bills, the actor who played Little Winston, is an old man      now, and kind of a local celebrity. He retired to an enormous      house up in the north foothills, and resurfaces from time to time      for little events and fund-raisers. I'm always surprised that      people still come out to see him, since he never did another show      after Little Winston. I remember once, not long after we crated      Mom, we took you and the kids down to Ainsdale to watch him cut      the ribbon on the new Pine Pleasant Mall. It was some crowd.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I ask Rosemary when she expects we'll read they've crated Gurdy      Bills. I even smirk a little, thinking this is a bit ironic,      considering what we've just watched, and would have enjoyed a      brief discussion about how the years catch up with all of us      eventually, how we should take the time to savor its fleeting      preciousness, etc. I think maybe this is something the boys ought      to hear, that the time is right, but Rosemary is in no mood. This      episode always makes her well up, and she's especially tearful      tonight. She tells Avery to sit on her lap so that she can stroke      his downy arm hair and make small, popping kisses against his ear.      Avery knows his mother needs him, and though he's old enough to      sense that being babied is something he should resist, he doesn't.      At the other end of the table, Ernest has gathered the bones from      our plates and is attempting to reconstruct the entire chicken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Rosemary's done mothering him, Avery asks if he can be      excused from the table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Kiss your grandfather good night,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Gross,\" Ernest says, but Avery understands. He rounds the table      to you, leans over the tray of your wheelchair, and kisses your      cheek the way he kissed mine back in the days when he used to kiss      me, as young boys sometimes do before their fathers put a stop to      it. But it means something to me in this moment, watching my son      give you, my father, this sincere kiss good-bye, which is why I      think you and everyone else will forgive me when I say that he is      the good one and, of my two sons, the one I prefer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then you start having one of your fits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's a shame that Avery is so close, and he's just finished such a      sweet thing, such a gentle act of affection, because your fits      terrify him. Right away, his chin rumples like a raisin to lock      down incoming tears. I try to steady you so that Rosemary can      secure the straps to your head and arms. Avery disappears upstairs      to cry out of sight, no doubt assuming that his act of love has      somehow caused your spasm. You pull against the straps like a      weightlifter, drool snaking down your chin in little fingers. As I      force your shoulders against the back of the chair, I can't help      blaming you a little for ruining what had been a really beautiful      moment, because a chance like that doesn't come again, and now      Avery, who is already extremely sensitive, will always have this      crappy memory attached to kissing his grandfather the night before      he was crated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hours later, while Rosemary readies the boys for bed, I put a      couple bottles of good beer in my coat and wheel you out onto the      porch so that we can enjoy the lake at night. ItÕs our lake, yours      and mine, and now mine and my sonsÕ. For all the fighting, all the      hurt feelings, the years of not talking even before you lost the      ability to speak, we still end up here, you and I, looking at a      lake full of stars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For some reason, one of the beers is much warmer than the other,      almost room temperature, but rather than spoiling the moment by      running back in for another, I suck it up and decide to just drink      a warm beer. I put a straw in the colder one and set it on your      tray, then lift my warm one and say, \"Well, here's to you, Dad. We      sure will miss ya.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I take a drink while you let the straw find your mouth. You manage      a few sips and seem pleased with them. We look out on the lake,      admiring the way its stillness makes everything around it seem not      as quiet. I suddenly remember the memory I should have remembered      at dinner, the day you taught me to catch tadpoles, which we used      to keep in an old mason jar with a few inches of water. You showed      me how controlling the water level prevented them from maturing      into frogs, and how nice it was to keep tadpoles as they were,      blindly swimming around until they died and we replaced them with      new ones. It's a practice I've passed on to the boys, who've lived      their whole lives with jars of black blobs sitting on their      windowsills, never imagining they should grow to be anything more      than what they are.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That night I dream that Mom and I are standing on the small dock      just beyond the house. SheÕs the age she was when I was in high      school, still decades away from crating. She tells me that you      died in your sleep. In the dream she calls you ÒDaddy,Ó which she      never did in life. ÒDaddyÕs gone,Ó she says, and I feel the relief      whistle out of me like an untied balloon. YouÕre gone. I donÕt      have to crate you. IÕm so happy I dive into the lake, where the      dream lets me breathe freely, the warm water hugging me close      until I wake up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I go to your room to check on you, the way Rosemary will on the      boys after she's had a bad dream about them, or a bad feeling, or      just wants to know that they're safe. Like you, I've never put      much stock in dreams. I'm not checking on you because I think mine      has come true, though it would definitely make things easier on      everyone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You have enough blankets to keep you warm, and your IV bag is full      and dripping properly thanks to Rosemary, who always puts you to      bed, and again I realize how lucky I am to have a wife who treats      you like her own. As I get closer I can see that some of the      sheets are twisted around you, which means you've been fitting in      your sleep. I consider strapping you to the bed for the rest of      the night like we sometimes do, but I can always tell from the      looks you give me in the morning that you've slept badly, and I      don't want to get one of those looks tomorrow, so I leave you be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I realize now that we could have made the room a little nicer for      you. The curtains are old and faded, and there isn't much on the      walls except for a print of a sandpiper-ridden beach that's been      hanging there since we moved in. It's nothing like the boys' room,      which we've always tried to keep comfortable and cheerful to make      up for the fact that they share.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The other day I caught Ernest standing in your doorway, sizing up      the place. At first I thought he might be mustering the courage to      come in and spend some time with you, to talk to you or hold your      hand for once in his life, but then I remembered that Rosemary and      Avery had taken you for one last stroll on the little boardwalk      that circles the water. We've promised Ernest your room after      you're gone, but the sight of him mentally replacing your things      with his made me uneasy as a parent. Yesterday he showed me a      floor plan he'd drawn. He pointed to where his TV will go, and      described the loft he wants to build to free up more floor space.      Whenever he looks at you now with that cool, unsmiling stare of      his, I worry that maybe he isn't turning out the way I'd like him      to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On the dresser are some of your old photos. There's a close-up of      Mom when she was the age I am now, and one of you and your      brothers as kids on a first day of school. They're too far from      the bed for you to see, which means you probably haven't seen them      in a while.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I get an idea. I take the photos downstairs and tape them to the      tray of your chair, so that tomorrow in the crate, when you look      down, you'll see them, Mom and your family and everyone looking up      at you. I add one of you and me from that trip to the Kenner River      when I was eleven, just a few months after we crated your dad,      which is probably why you planned it. We took our time canoeing      the river, with Mom driving ahead each day to lay out a picnic at      the spot where we'd break for lunch. The picture, which she must      have taken from the shore, is of the two of us on the water, our      toes dragging in the lazy current. I also tape down the photo from      the mantel that we used for this year's Christmas card. We're at      the state fair, huddled around a pumpkin that's shaped like a pig.      Sure, Avery's ruining it a little with that ridiculous pig face      he's making, but we all seem pretty happy, even you, in your chair      with Rosemary's hands clasped around your neck in an adoring way.      I head back to bed, but I'm so pleased about the photo idea that      it's hard to drift off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That morning at breakfast Avery gives you a picture heÕs drawn. It      shows a crate, one of the modern titanium models with a wide      pressure-resistant window, through which we can see a man waving.      Avery says this is you. The crate is set against a background of      deep blue, suggesting that itÕs already been dropped at the      undisclosed location. Outside the crate, walking along an ocean      floor next to a single starfish and a lone hermit crab, is another      figure wearing a kind of space suit, waving back. Avery says this      is him. I want to ask him why he didnÕt draw the crate before the      drop, so that we could all be waving together, but for a moment I      think the way Rosemary encourages me to think-that is, with      patience, with understanding-and I donÕt ask. Instead I tell him      itÕs a great drawing. I tell him that you like it, though youÕre      not looking at it. YouÕre looking at him, but in a cross-eyed way      that I can tell is making him uncomfortable, and IÕm mad at you      all over again, because this is your chance to make up for last      night and youÕre blowing it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As we head to the car, Ernest calls shotgun. I tell him we're      giving you the front seat today so that you can get a good view of      the lake one last time before you leave. He asks if he can have      shotgun on the way back. I pretend not to hear him and wheel you      around to face the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"There's the house, Dad,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It doesn't look great. I've been meaning to repaint, especially      the shutters and trim, which have shed pretty much every trace of      their original blue. Half the porch balusters are missing, kicked      out by Ernest during one tantrum or another. I honestly don't know      if you have any sentimental attachment to this place, and suddenly      it occurs to me to drive you up to see the old family home in      Clark County where you grew up. I don't even know if the house is      still there. The drive is forty-five minutes each way, and crating      check-in is at eleven on the dot.","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303032770789,"sku":"NP9781101986639","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101986639.jpg?v=1730752812","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-sea-beast-takes-a-loverisbn-9781101986639","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}