posted and written by caroline picard

After The Death of Her Mother, Before The Death of Barry:

Upon the death of their mother, Lydia’s brother and sister, her aunt and uncle and cousins too-everyone went hunting the witchcraft-substance, scaring it out with sticks and brooms, lighting skirts on fire to see whether or not they burned, pointing fingers, whispering on the phone, examining one another, taking notes, conferring behind backs, begging the pendulum, asking pyschics and crystals and giants from the fifth dimension, so her family pointed back and forth and back and forth, a crossfire over their mother’s grave: Who has inherited her slick black gut juice?
In this version of the story, they cut the corpse posthumously: to see the juice came oozing out her spleen—just like it did with their mother’s mother.
And then they ate the body.

Poor, poor narcissists. Poor feeble and trembling, women with bended knees, quaking old women with unsteady tea-colored and small eyes, victims of their own miserable decisions.

Terrified she might contain what it was they sought, Lydia ran away.

They say this substance inhabits the lower intestines. They say if you slice the belly open, examine that intestine and you will see see see. A ball of greaazzsie dark matter like crude oil. A beady mass, by which the quaking witch-craft women, bend their knees and light, like candles, to light the dark of their loneliness.

Lydia fled to camp.
Having lived with lost boys, the boys became a surrogate family and she became wild and her hair grew long, the hair of her vaginal regions was long and glossy, unkempt, matted, it hung its own beard between her legs. She fornicated, feral like a weasel, a rat: a wild and ruddy thing, pleasing in ecstacy as she was weary and dull next day.
She had thick and dirty ankles.
She turned into a bear.
Rar rar RAR!

posted and written by Caroline Picard

This continues from the piece posted yesterday about Private Investigators.

The Therapist I.

Obligatory interviews with the visiting therapist were no better.

It was one thing to have a death in the camp—a death in summer’s family—quite another to entertain interlopers from elsewhere, adults who came into their community to observe the behavior of respective camp inhabitants—many of whom were still convinced that Barry had not died at all.

The therapist—a middle-sized woman with gold jewelry and modest glasses and brown floofy hair—it was always down and set, mysteriously, in the exact same position, trimmed like a topiary, to create an oval of bushy brown that perfectly framed her very central, round face. She looked kind and smelled clean, she had no polish on her nails and always wore khaki, or white, shorts with the shirt tucked in, the waist just below her ample chest, tied with a thick belt. She wore ankle socks and Keds. She had pink cheeks.
She looked like a mother, someone said. But that’s just to trick you, someone else replied (at the campfire after Boggis and Bunts had left already, swilling hip flasks). She met kids in the cafeteria when the cafeteria was closed. When the cafeteria was closed it smelled something like old eggs and fresh-baking cookies and red peppers. Perhaps a dash of dish soap. Her perfume mingled and melded with everything, and within a short time, her scent seemed to distill the other smells, to overcome them such that by the end of her workday, just before supper, the cafeteria didn’t smell like any of the other things at all. It smelled simply of her—a sweet, clean smell. After a week her scent was oppressive, depressing, such that the campers avoided the dining hall at all cost.