Camp Cute, Creepy and (quite conveniently) Remote

June 5, 2013
Eeriesoil, New York
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Dearest Yvette,

I am delighted to learn that although your reacquaintance with Marla got off to a bloody start, things are flowing warmly now. My prying into your affairs no longer shames or pains me. Not just because I know you are pleased with the results, but because I am thrilled to be at camp.

Do not tell Mama about this, but Camp Cute, Creepy and (quite conveniently) Remote turned out to be more adventure than punishment. This fact, and not displeasure, is the reason behind the short thank you note I sent to Mama after receiving her gifts. The day before I wrote home, I had been busy entertaining a peculiar visitor. No one Mama would approve of, I assure you.

The bliss began at night.

My cottage mate, Roseblood, and I were meeting with another camper in an old shack behind camp property. We were trying to convince Clare—a darling girl who takes environmentally friendly to heart, to scalp, and to other people’s garments—that mayhap she should relocate some of the fabric-eating worms that reside in her hair to the shack. Roseblood and I do not mind the worms, not the tiniest of bits. But the Camp Mistress rages like an unhealthy maniac whenever dear Clare’s creepy crawlers eat the drapery.

I was telling Clare that her ravenous friends would be happiest in musty darkness, when a lady in denim trousers, a tight top, and a red scarf tied over her eyes materialized into existence.

We smiled at her.

She backed away from us, saying, “Call me stupid and strangle me with my own veil.”

I never call anyone stupid without proper proof, so I chose to widen my smile and introduce myself instead. “I am Drusilla.” After pointing out that my armless situation would make strangulation a rather challenging affair, I offered to find a way to choke her to death if that would make her happy.

The lady said no word.

In a bout of kindness that charmed us all, Clare told the lady in denim, “If breathing is a problem for you, I could ask my friends to deflesh your nose and throat. Then your face would match Skully’s face, and Roseblood’s dolly has no need for air. She does feel lonely sometimes.”

“It would be no bother,” Roseblood said to the lady, most likely seeing the same apprehension I had noticed on her face. “Mistress Claudia, our camp mistress, said that the main mission of every girl who steps, slithers or is banished into Camp Cute, Creepy and (quite conveniently) Remote is the spreading of glee and gloom. We are very serious about joy-giving gloomy glee.”

The lady remained quiet.

I was gliding towards her, wondering if a gentle bite would urge her to speak, when one of Mistress Claudia’s familiar shrieks shook the shack, and inspired the lady to leap for the door.

I got between the lady and the exit before she could leave the shack. She panicked. I grinned. My friendly show of fangs did nothing to ease her terror. I opted for conversation. “Made vampires awake screaming with pain and desperation,” I said. “You can relax, Miss…?”

“Red”, she said, “my name is Red.”

I promised Miss Red that Mistress Claudia would be her usual sweet self after she remembered that she was not asphyxiating. I explained that nothing… well, nothing other than the “K song” ever gets Mistress Claudia that upset. “Do not fret”, I said. “We are safe… while indoors.”

Yvette, I am not sure why I even mentioned the “K song”. But I swear to you, sister, it seemed that it was the only thing Miss Red heard me say. She began to interrogate me about the title. I told her that it was not a song by The Fugees, Aaron Tippin, or by Florence + The Machine. I showed her that even the thought of the song had poor Clare trembling out of her skin.

“We never speak the title,” I said. “The history of Camp Cute, Creepy and (quite conveniently) Remote says the ‘K song’ was often sung around campfires and at the beach, but I refuse to—”

“Kumbaya?” Miss Red said.

The accursed word was a whisper, Yvette. But all the signs showed that Mistress Claudia had heard it. Miss Red began to fade out of our reality. Clare’s worms stiffened, fell out of her hair, and vanished before landing on wet dirt. Roseblood’s fangs grew, cutting through her lower lip.

I was so distracted by the crimson dripping down Roseblood’s chin, that I did not realize that Miss Red had left the shack. Not until I heard the screams.

They were glorious screams, Yvette. I wonder if Miss Red is a famous soprano or an unknown town crier. We have neither computers nor personal telephones at camp that could satisfy our curiosity. Would you please try to find out for me? Roseblood asked Mistress Claudia during our last Art of Biting lesson. But the moment she said Miss Red’s name, the camp mistress’ pupils darkened, the left side of her face began to twitch, and Roseblood’s dolly burst into flames.

Do give my love to Marla and to Cordelia. I shall write to Mama tomorrow night. I promise to be gentle when reminding our mother that, although she birthed me, every one of my actions is not a reaction to her latest spell of madness.

Yours in blood and thought,
Drusilla Amarantha Tepes, the Only

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the wee notes…
– The 1st letter: A Date for the Vampire’s Day Soirée.
– Some of the details of this letter were first shared in the last 2 installments of my Red Veiled web serial, where they are told from the point of view of Red. What happens to Red outside the shack is not really part of Drusilla’s story. But… if you are dying to know why Mistress Claudia cringes at the mere mention of Red’s name, visit my Web Serials page and read “Camp Cute, Creepy and (quite conveniently) Remote”, from Red’s POV, and “Unveiled”.
Town crier… an officer of the court who makes public pronouncements; they can also be used to offer information (in rather vociferous manner) in the streets.
– The 3rd of letter: A Hauntingly Mad Tea Party.

painting of Roseblood, by Shelle Kennedy
Drusilla dolly, by Groovy Gothic
superb photographic skills, by moi *giggles*

No, Wild Sister

Newspeak from 1984:
Prolefeed… steady stream of mindless entertainment to distract and occupy the masses.
Crimethink… the Newspeak word for thoughtcrime (thoughts that are unorthodox, or are outside the official government platform). In the appendix [of 1984] is noted that the entire United States Declaration of Independence would be translated into the word crimethink.
Bellyfeel… a blind, enthusiastic acceptance of an idea.
Alternative facts… a phrase used by a Counselor to a US president during a Meet the Press interview, in which said counselor defended the White House Press Secretary’s false statement about the attendance at the 45th presidential inauguration.

“No, Wild Sister”

No, wild sister, Big Brother
inspires no
hate. It’s just Crimethink and caution;
otherwise I, too, would be sucking
in his Prolefeed and choking.

No, wild sister, Big Brother
inspires no
hopelessness. It’s his Alternative Facts
surreality that puts my gut on alert,
that turns Bellyfeel into retch.

No, wild sister, Big Brother
inspires not.

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a wee note…
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Flash 55 Plus). For the optional extra part of this challenge, Kerry chose George Orwell’s 1984. She said her choice was made easy by following the headlines: Classical Novel “1984” Sales Are Up in The Age Of “Alternative Facts”.
– Linked to Poets United (Poetry Pantry, 339).

detail from “Golden Eyes”, by Michelle Kennedy
(Because I can never resist an opportunity to show off Shelle’s art.
And, of course, because there is something fiery and promising
in the subject’s expression
and I am certain that fiery promises must be shared. Really.)

Love Is Made of Wild Daisies

pre-Witches in Fiction Giveaway, 5: Painting, Notebook and Pen, sponsored by SunshineShelle 

She dresses in moonlight and night breeze, is thankful for what she can give, and for the smiles the giving breeds. She has little money but feels hugely rich, sharing laughter, hopes and ideas… plus the wonders her brush caresses into being. She thanks Nature for cheery frogs and curious cats, for children who enjoy being one with all things, for stones with meanings that last. In her jolliest dreams, the world isn’t rotting… its health isn’t something one must buy with cash.

she cares not for gold—
love is made of wild daisies
crowning a child’s brow

healing-by-sunshineshelle-1“Healing”, by Shelle Kennedy

healing-by-sunshineshelle-2

healing-by-sunshineshelle-3

a wee note on healing…
– A beloved friend told me that in order “to make the world ‘less rotten’, we need to give what we really want ourselves, not something we don’t desire or have need of.” My friend is wise—giving useful things is rather nice… but giving things we love births pure magic.

to enter this giveaway (the mandatory entry)
– Leave me a comment telling me what comes to mind when you look at Shelle’s painting.

for extra entries…
– 1st extra: Write a witchy tale (31 words of fewer)… include the words: healing and giving.
– 2nd extra: Share this giveaway (on Facebook or Instagram or Twitter…) and tag me.
– 3rd extra: Name the monkey in the third picture, and tell me why you gave him said name.

1 day until Witches in Fiction 2016: Spelling Healing into a Rotting World. Have you joined?

Giveaway Rules, details and stuff…
* I need to be able to contact the winner. If you don’t have a website or social media profile, through which we can interact, please add your email to your comment. If your name comes up, and I have no way of contacting you, I’ll choose another name.
* To my Canadian Luvs, before you can claim your prize, I must challenge your math skills by asking you a very obscure question, such as… what’s 13 + .5? Yeah, as obscure as the law
* This giveaway ends on October 24th, 2016, at 10:13 pm, EDT. The winner will be selected using Random.org, and her or his name will be shared on October 25th.
* This giveaway is open to worldwide, excluding any place where prohibited by law.