《Bring Out Your Dead》


 Resentfully Dead

    The recently dead are always resentfully dead. The long dead never quit longing for more death.


    I should have learned those lessons a lot faster, but summoning the dead can get massively addictive. Especially, if you¡¯re someone like me who can¡¯t say no to ice cream.


    From the get go I knew it was dodgy to spy on shades, let alone pry open their portals and conjure their lost souls. None of which stopped me from calling up Great Caesar¡¯s Ghost and his long-dead legions to try to save my friends and, in the process, make a supernatural mess of things


    Syl held me entirely to blame.


    TimTim said it wasn¡¯t my fault. Entirely.


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    Qpid withheld comment.


    Hell tried to cut my throat. Though not entirely.


    And, honestly, I¡¯m the least qualified to tell how this all went down because I¡¯m far from linear. You need no further proof of my narrative failings than I¡¯ve already spoiled the climactic surprise of summoning Julius Caesar and his army and spilled the beans about Hell carving the rangy scar on my neck that my parents will ever refer to as ¡°my really bad day with a can opener.¡±


    Yup. I¡¯m inept and unreliable as a narrator, and on the far side of bland as a person. Total milktoast. Absolute plain vanilla. Even worse: I think I¡¯m clever.


    So, trust me, I won¡¯t blame you if you shut me down now and go find something else to while away your day. In spite of all that I kinda like myself. I¡¯m a contented bore at heart. Which is how I ended up at (I kid you not) Happy Camp in June and almost ended the world in July.

 Imps with Pointy Sticks

    Let¡¯s get the really uncomfortable things out of the way first. I¡¯m Charlotte Skrimm, pale, pudgy, and an NPR nerd. And if you¡¯re thinking NPR is some kind of 80s boy band, it¡¯s much worse than that. National Public Radio: This American Life, All Things Considered, Fresh Air. Yup, all that and not much more.


    I spend a lot of time in my bedroom talking about ¡°big things¡± to all my NPR imaginary friends: Ira Glass, Nina Totenberg, Lakshmi Singh, Audie Cornish, Terry Gross, Michele Norris, Peter Sagal.


    No wonder my parents, both very nice, caring people--as far as educated, white, middle class adults tend to see things--decided that stretching me socially by trucking me off to Happy Camp (still not kidding) before I started high school in the fall would be a good thing.


    In all fairness, I can¡¯t fault them for failing to foresee that I would nearly destroy the world. Which I don¡¯t, at this writing, want to imply is completely saved. Not completely.


    I hope that¡¯s enough exposition for you because I want to get to the good stuff as soon as possible. Ice cream. A table full of rapidly softening tubs of vanilla ice cream with grainy chocolate sauce and sticky bowls of candy sprinkles. The memory still gives me chills. Ice cream brain freeze chills.


    That¡¯s how I literally bumped into Syl. In the midst of a brain freeze, after my second Super Sundae at the Happy Camp (believing me yet?) ice cream social, I accidentally headbutted her, so she hexed me.


    She was polite about it. Even asked my name and told me how important that was so her hex was directed at the proper offending party. My brain, being mostly frozen at that moment, thought I was making a friend, so I smiled and did as Syl asked. Another of my pathetically pedestrian tendencies: I¡¯m generally compliant.


    Not until late that night did I begin to reassess our encounter. I woke up in my bunk with a pain like little pitchforks belly stabbing me. Now, I¡¯m not a stranger to indigestion or cramps, but this was a bit more ¡°Holy guacamole!¡± than I was used to.


    I flung off my crusty Happy Camp (I think you¡¯re with me now or Stockholm Syndrome is setting in) blanket expecting to see my guts doing some TikTok flash variation of The Floss. The pain instantly vanished, and everything seemed peachy (and I¡¯m one fleshy peach) until my crusty blanket started to riffle and bulge as if little critters were now trapped under it.


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    Let¡¯s remind ourselves, for an NPR-lovin¡¯ suburban girl on her first extended time away from home in the middle of an old growth forest, it was perfectly respectable for me to harbor nightmares of otherwise benign, furry woodland creatures digging their sharp little teeth and claws into peachy old Charlotte Skrimm.


    But, it wasn¡¯t rabid chipmunks, bats, or bunnies trying to get a taste of me. (Note. This is where my reliability as a narrator puts its rusty metal to the pedal. And I won¡¯t blame the shrooms. You shouldn¡¯t either. The shrooms had nothing to do with this. They come later and are completely innocent of the charges TimTim leveled against our wondrous mycelium underlords.)


    Out from my crusty blanket stumbled three impish figures with sharp sticks. A few inches tall, they were a cross between garden gnomes and salamanders and glowed dimly like cheap cartoons, leaving a ragged blue phosphorescence as they moved. And they were marching towards my ample belly with their pointy sticks.


    If I¡¯d screamed and woken up the other Happy Campers, I wonder how differently things would have turned out. I suppose I¡¯ll have to wait for the fanfiction (unlikely!) to get that answer.


    In any case, I didn¡¯t make a peep. My mind froze again, though not with a delicious glob of ice cream satisfaction. Paradoxically, this brain freeze crystallized into icy clarity around the hex Syl had put on me when we bonked heads: Make the dum dum pay in her tum tum.


    I haven¡¯t told you nearly enough about Syl yet. That¡¯s coming. At this point, I didn¡¯t even know her name, so I don¡¯t want to give you a poor impression of her hexing skills. They are really quite good. I know this first of her many hexes placed on me sounds rather juvenile, but let me assure you a hex¡¯s spoken words are purely stylistic.


    Qpid, for example, is a poet. His hexing is always fresh, compact and lyrical. Yet, as beautiful and terrifying-sounding as his phrasing may be, Qpid¡¯s hexes are not nearly as consistently effective as Syl¡¯s. That¡¯s because the essence of a hex is emotional. It is the feeling behind it, not the spoken words. If I¡¯d fully appreciated that, maybe, I wouldn¡¯t have put earth in such undeathly peril.


    You¡¯ve likely noticed, I posit quite a few what ifs in my storytelling (not to mention way too many parenthetical remarks). Probably not the best narrative devices, but part of why I¡¯m penning this tale is to work through some peculiar issues. Especially the preternatural and the supernatural ones.


    Syl is preternatural.


    Shades are supernatural.


    Imps with pointy sticks are just a pain.

 Down the Drain

    I¡¯m betting you¡¯re getting a bit weary of all this telling on my part. I do know better. After all, I¡¯ve had three years of middle school writing instruction. Time for more action and, finally, a touch of dialogue. My eyes crave a few short lines when treading down a dense page.


    Even a camp noob like me knows it¡¯s not a good idea to wake your bunk roommates in the middle of the night by shouting wildly at glowing apparitions, so I whisper-hissed ¡°Stop!¡± at the advancing imps.  Undeterred, the imps still advanced, so I swiped at them, and they jabbed at my hand with their sticks.


    I scrunched back in the bunk and grabbed my lumpy pillow for a shield. Now, concealed under my pillow was a bag of gummy bears. Of my many weaknesses, gummy bears are monumental, and though I shouldn¡¯t be proud of that, my sweet tooth did save me some belly pokes. The imps¡¯ reaction to my multi-colored, cellophane-packed ursine horde was startling.


    They gasped. Heavy-lidded eyes agog, semi-reptilian jaws dropped, they froze. I¡¯m not saying I understood why, but I went with it and shoved the gummy bag their way.


    What followed next was savage, so I advise any gummy-critter-loving soul to brace themselves before reading on. The imps leapt on the bag and thrust their sharp sticks helter-skelter through the plastic film, shredding the bag and spilling my rainbow bears in all their sugary plumpness around them where the three-toed fiends proceeded to feverishly skewer each and every gelatinous cub.


    The horror. The horror.


    But I couldn¡¯t look away. Not until the imps¡¯ bearlust had been spent and they collapsed amongst the riddled gummies did I finally sense someone bunkside.


    ¡°Unexpected,¡± the girl who¡¯d hexed me softly noted with the clinical detachment of a chemist.


    I wanted to knock her cold little head off. Rage. That was kind of a new thing for me. And I have to say, it was a rush--a twenty-story-tall wooden roller coaster rush. Syl definitely did that to people. At least to me, TimTim, Que and Hell. She enraged us. She thrilled us.


    ¡°You. You. You.¡± I warned with a finger of my subliminal intention to decapitate her.


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    ¡°Call me Syl.¡±


    And I did. But not until she scooped up the imps and led me outside to the main camp washroom, seemingly held together by equal parts cinder blocks, mildew, cobwebs, and musty teen angst. Inside, Syl dropped the imps in a sink, where they shielded their eyes from the seizure-inducing fluorescent lights. She unceremoniously opened the taps and washed them  down the gaping drain.


    ¡°It¡¯s like a waterslide to them,¡± she explained to my disbelieving stare.


    ¡°And what are gummy bears to your imp thingies?¡±


    ¡°Mortal enemies, evidently.¡±


    ¡°Or some kind of trigger,¡± I added, as if I had any insight into deep-seated imp trauma.


    ¡°We all have triggers,¡± Syl acknowledged. ¡°Getting headbutted is one of mine. That¡¯s why I hexed you. It¡¯s kind of a reflex.¡±


    ¡°A reflex hex.¡±


    Her lip curled. ¡°Never cared for word play, so let¡¯s just stop that before it becomes another trigger.¡±


    Unexpectedly, some latent suburban cordiality in me rose to counter Syl¡¯s implied threat. ¡°I¡¯m Charlotte.¡± I said, extending a hand.


    Syl seemed to consider both my name and my outstretched hand.


    ¡°Char. That¡¯s doable. Handshakes, hugs, that kind of thing. Off limits.¡±


    ¡°Triggers?¡±


    ¡°Cooties.¡±


    We avoided eye contact for a few moments, until being in an old, poorly lit washroom in the middle of the night, in the middle of a forest, where I had recently been attacked by imps conjured by this smallish girl named Syl, forced a certain intimacy upon us.


    I nodded to the drain Syl had flushed the imps down. ¡°So, your little minions going to be okay?¡±


    Syl shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m never sure. They kind of go their own way, until I invite them back.¡±


    ¡°Invite? That¡¯s a polite way to put it. You hexed me and they came to do your bidding. Did they really have a choice?¡±


    Syl gave me a look I was to get to know very well. Dark brow knitted, chin dipped, bright eyes questioning. A look of genuine surprise. I always figured that Syl assumed I knew nothing.  In reality she thought everyone knew as much as she did, and that we were all being as sly and protective of that knowledge as she¡¯d had to be.


    ¡°Of course they have a choice. That¡¯s the only thing the living and the dead really have in common.¡±


    Well, what do you say to that kind of jaw-dropper? Hopefully not what Charlotte Skrimm


    squeaked, which was, ¡°I gotta pee.¡±


    To her credit, Syl was gone when I exited the rust-fringed stall. When I went to rinse my hands, I heard sibilant whispers echoing from far down the drain. I backed away and hightailed it to my bunk.

 Ghost Arms

    ¡°Look, I¡¯m not some orphan who had to live in a boxcar or sleep under a staircase,¡± Syl scolded TimTim and me after the weenie roast the following night.


    And let me first protest the whole concept of a weenie roast. What a ridiculous pantomime of the primal meal: flames, smoke, spearing sticks as if we¡¯d hunted down our vacuum-sealed prey. Then there¡¯s the carcinogenic blackening of those suggestive tubules containing Jove knows what manner of Frankenfauna. It¡¯s all a bit much, which didn¡¯t stop me from downing three dogs slathered in onion relish. I own that I have an eating-control problem and a big-word fetish. NPR can only be blamed for one of those.


    At any rate, TimTim and I confronted Syl after the weenie roast, which I know leaves a gaping hole in my storyline. I¡¯m sorry for the, unreliable aka lazy narrator shortcuts, but how TimTim and I teamed up is not nearly as interesting as what Syl said when we hounded her with our questions about how she¡¯d hexed me the day before and why she¡¯d given TimTim a set of ghost arms.


    Hmmm. Ghost arms are pretty dope, so let me just quickly backtrack to them before I race to Syl¡¯s flippant suggestion that if we wanted the whys, whats and hows of hexing and summoning we could (spoiler!) open a portal to Sussex Downs and interrogate the ¡°Chanctonbury bitch of a witch¡± ourselves.


    First things first. Ghost Arms. Amazingly, after being imp-menaced and gummy bear traumatized in the middle of the night, I slept decently. So, the next morning in the camp cafeteria as I was chowing down oatmeal with way-too-much-for-my-own-good brown sugar, I couldn¡¯t use imp-induced exhaustion as an excuse for what I was seeing at the opposite end of the long table where I¡¯d parked my royal plumpness.


    A couple of fellow campers weren¡¯t quite eating their oatmeal with the same gusto I was able to muster. The thing is, they had plenty of other carb and dairy and fruit choices, but they seemed quite content catapulting their oatmeal across the table into each other¡¯s bowls.


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    Childish, wasteful, but, hey, that¡¯s pretty much how adolescents roll. Problem was the kid who I¡¯d soon know as TimTim, not because that¡¯s the name he¡¯d answered to his whole young life, but because Syl liked the sound of it. She messed with all our names as if taking control of our identities was something Syl wanted or needed. For future reference, let¡¯s just say her intentions proved neither transparent nor pure. By Jove, she made me paranoid. As if I needed more of that brand of baggage.


    So, TimTim was sitting there watching these guys fling spoonfuls of oatmeal at each other, and I was thinking that he¡¯s thinking that these guys are going to start upping the ante. And they did. They started sucking up milk with straws and shooting it at each other.


    I quickly realized this could turn into a full on food fight. Which did sound exciting, except for the childish and wasteful aspects which I mentioned earlier, plus the fact that as a fatty I was sure to be a target. In addition, much earlier that morning I¡¯d already witnessed a gummy bear massacre.


    So, I was readying to beat a fast retreat when my eyes registered an eerie blue flickering coming from TimTim. I half expected an army of imps to overrun him. Instead, two shimmering blue arms reached out from TimTim¡¯s sides and skull-slapped the dunderheads slinging oatmeal. Bap! Bap! Lightning quick. The oaf bros literally didn¡¯t know what hit them and looked furiously around. TimTim stared hard into a bowl of yogurt and everyone else at the table seemed unsure of what had happened.


    It looked like the former breakfast buds were going to come to fisticuffs (digging deep into the thesaurus now) when Slam! Slam! TimTim¡¯s ghost arms struck out and pinned their raised fists to the table. Other kids were now bailing from our table trying to avoid further spazzification.


    I was about to join the exodus when TimTim looked my way and both his ghost arms pointed at me and then to the far exit door. Definite creepshow material, but how often did I get invited anywhere. Especially from a kinda cute guy.  Even if it was a cryptic ghost arm invitation, I felt it¡¯d be rude to ignore.

 And So Grandiose Dreams Die

    Good girl that I am (despite imperiling greater humanity in the not-too-distant future), I cleared my breakfast tray and headed out the exit I¡¯d been spiritually advised to take. Outside in the brightening day, under a high canopy of evergreens that stretched down to the placid little lake where camp counselors were busy arranging canoes and paddle boards, imps and ghost arms seemed to be seriously out of place. I pinched myself. And then again for good measure. How else do you get a solid reality check?


    ¡°Mosquitoes?¡±


    TimTim was standing off to my side looking down at the lake, too.


    ¡°Ghost arms,¡± I stuttered, startled by his sudden appearance. ¡°I mean, gosh darn. Gosh darn mosquitoes.¡± I swatted belligerently at my arms to sell it.


    TimTim is tall and he looked down at me, rather sympathetically, his ghost limbs folded over his flesh and bone arms. ¡°I don¡¯t think the mosquitoes here dig ectoplasm as much as regular old plasm.¡±


    There wasn¡¯t much need to pretend after that. We started walking and talking. TimTim, whose actual name is Timothy Bayla, straight out told me that he¡¯d no real clue about what had just happened. He¡¯d reckoned the oatmeal tossing dudes were getting out of control, and as he was getting ready to leave the table, the ghost arms shot out from his sides and skullslapped the jerks.


    ¡°I could feel and see the ghost arms, but not as if I had control of them. I just felt a prickle of energy. You know, like when before lightning strikes.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been struck by lightning?¡±


    ¡°Nearly,¡± TimTim continued as if that was an everyday thing. ¡°I figured I was the source of what was happening, but then I saw you down the table looking at me, and I knew you were part of it, too.¡±


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    ¡°Because you think I look like that creepy kid in The Sixth Sense?¡± (Note: I am working on building a more positive self image.)


    TimTim regarded me like I was that creepy kid in The Sixth Sense, but shook his head. ¡°No. Because you got the same weird glow as these ghost arms around your head.¡± He rubbed one hand over a ghost forearm which, to the two of us, shimmered more brightly. ¡°Seems pretty clear no one else can see this stuff, or I think by now we¡¯d have been marched off to freak out the camp nurse.¡±


    ¡°Maybe we should be freaking out the camp nurse, or some of these too-happy camp counselors. This definitely falls into super freaky territory. Maybe one of these college-looking counselors is majoring in Scooby Doo-ism and could help us figure out what to do.¡±


    I mean, TimTim said I had an aura which sounded pretty badass, but it also meant Syl had done more to me than send imps with pointy sticks my way. Had she made me her witch bitch? Or something worse?


    I looked up at TimTim. I told you he¡¯s tall. In fact that¡¯s how Syl later told us she settled on his name because he was twice a normal Tim. His deep brown eyes questioned me from that stately height, giving him a seriousness, a gravitas, that pudgy old me could only wish for. Then his gaze suddenly softened as the corners of his mouth crinkled and broke into a wide grin. ¡°No fucking way we are letting anyone else on this magical shit! We are going to rule this place, sister.¡±


    Here¡¯s the thing. TimTim is definitely a nice guy, though apparently even really nice guys can harbor Dr. Evil ambitions. If the Marvel Universe has taught us anything, it is that with great power comes immodestly tight costumes--plus, a certain level of smug dickishness.


    But, TimTim did call me ¡±sister¡± and though it¡¯s unlikely he meant anything by it at that first meeting, I felt a siblingish twang. I¡¯m an only child. Can you tell? All on my adolescent own (except my extended NPR family.)


    Now duty bound, I explained to TimTim about how Syl had hexed me and was probably responsible for his ghost arms and that we were more than likely to become her minions and flushed down some crappy camp drain if we vexed her.


    ¡°More than likely,¡± TimTim acknowledged after considering the fantastical facts, and quickly ditching his vision of becoming God Emperor of Happy Camp for all eternity. And so grandiose dreams die.

 Not Proud of That

    That¡¯s how TimTim and I teamed up and spent the day figuring out what our next move with Syl would be.


    I¡¯m sure in most tales of this nature when teens are confronted with new powers and problems in the midst of their peers who are generally the ones who make them feel powerless and problematic in the first place, this is where I¡¯d be telling you about the popular groups and the outcasts, the elite and the misfits, the favored and the not.


    I¡¯d provide you with a heartrending scene like the canoeing competition that afternoon where TimTim and I had to put up with the relatable humiliation of being last, likely being tipped in the lake by golden-haired, bronze-muscled teen demi-snobs.


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    But, remember, Happy Camp. That kind of top shelf brand of teen snootiness was at least two time zones away. Sure, there were kids at camp that acted more privileged, looked readier for reality TV, smelled better, but I can safely say through the lens of one with many identity issues, I was really little different than anyone else. Other than the whole emanating ghostly aura thing and being an imp magnet.


    Suffice it to say that far from flailing and failing in the canoe competition, TimTim and I crushed it. We absolutely smoked the other campers. More TimTim than me with his ghost arms, but I was officially in the vessel.


    So, this isn¡¯t a revenge of the nerds tale about putting our peers in place. In fact when Syl, TimTim, Qpid, Hell and I went missing, our fellow campers rallied to find us. They did indeed. And I¡¯m very grateful, and also equally embarrassed because I almost trafficked every kid at Happy Camp into horrific undead slavery. Yeah. Not proud of that.

 Fourth of July Farts

    Okay. Deep breath. Back to the post weenie roast and our tag-team on Syl. TimTim and I had kept an eye out for her all day which hadn¡¯t really been necessary because it was way too clear she was watching us. Syl is petite and I don¡¯t mean in comparison to me. She¡¯s a waif, a tad over five feet and slender as a sapling which is not just idle figurative language.


    If she was next to a tree, Syl blended into it, like a branch or seam of bark. And that¡¯s just a sliver of her crazy tree attributes. When the Chanctonbury Witch sent us to spy on the Queen of Shades, she further pissed off Syl by calling her Sylvanya. Trees.


    Woods. Forests. I appreciate word play, even if Syl doesn¡¯t. Her response to me asking about the origin of her name, ¡°I¡¯m not some bitch elf. Grow up.¡±


    Harsh. Direct. That¡¯s Syl. And it says loads about me that I tended towards seeing her as exotic and refreshing, rather than dangerous and damaged by a past I knew nothing about. Like her being Romani. None of us are innocents. Some of us just lean on their obliviousness more than others.


    Surely, Syl had been watching us try to watch her because when we followed her away from the weenie roast, she led us to one of the empty docks. She sat on an overturned canoe and waited for us.


    I think TimTim tried to flex his ghost arms and Syl laughed. ¡°I like that, TimTim.¡±


    ¡°The name¡¯s Tim.¡±


    ¡°Not to me. Names are important. They have to work for this to work.¡± She raised her arms over her head and TimTim¡¯s ghost arms mimicked them.


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    TimTim looked my way as if to ask, ¡°You¡¯re seeing this, right?¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°See,¡± Syl said. ¡°Char gets it. We had our little misunderstanding, but that opened her up to a new understanding. Just like you,TimTim.¡±


    ¡°What does Charlotte understand now?¡±


    ¡°Char now knows the dead as well as the living have free will. We all make choices.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t choose to have crazy ghost arms.¡±


    ¡°But I chose to give them to you. Aren¡¯t you glad?¡±


    It looked like TimTim was struggling to skullslap Syl like he¡¯d seen his ghost arms do this morning, but they just shimmered icy blue at his sides.


    As small as Syl was, she never looked bigger than when she genuinely smiled. ¡°There¡¯s always more to understand, my pretties.¡±


    ¡°So, how¡¯s this hex-a-magical shit work?¡± I asked, surprising myself. ¡°Do we swear blood oaths, or help you collect eye of newt, or what?¡±


    ¡°Look, I¡¯m not some orphan who had to live in a boxcar or sleep under a staircase. I¡¯m like you, an angsty teen who got shipped off to summer camp for my own good. I just happen to have a few other skills.¡±


    She leaned a bit to one side and cut a fart that rang off the aluminum canoe and then lit up like a mini fireworks display, all in ectoplasmic blue.


    ¡°Really, I come in peace.¡± She tooted neon blue again. ¡°Really.¡±


    Talk about blowing it out your ass, but who could resist? TimTim and I started to pepper Syl with questions about hexes, imps, auras, ghost arms, ectoplasmic farts until she got into a huff and said we needed to see for ourselves.


    And that¡¯s how we met the Chanctonbury Witch and why Qpid and Hell decided to eat far from safe mushrooms with us.


    Oh my! Wouldn¡¯t that make a great Winnie-the-Pooh chapter title?

 Better Than That

    Dizzy yet? Or maybe you¡¯re used to less-than-fastidious narrators like me. Let¡¯s hope I don¡¯t totally lose you in this next part because who doesn¡¯t love to learn about mycelium and neutrinos?


    I know it may feel like I¡¯m doing a bit of bait and switch about us meeting this Chanctonbury Witch character, but if you don¡¯t get a feel for how the underverse works, then all that¡¯s coming will seem completely implausible. Remember, I¡¯m an NPR fangirl and that makes PBS a nerd-kissing cousin: NOVA, Nature, Frontline, The American Experience.


    Our world is a scientifically rational place. We just haven¡¯t fully understood how the otherworldly fits into it yet. Think yin/yang, day/night, matter/anti-matter, life/death, dead/undead, chocolate/peanut butter.


    Believe me, it¡¯s all easier when you know your shrooms which is how Syl, TimTim and I stumbled across Qpid and Hell in the forest playing chicken with butter knives they¡¯d taken and sharpened into fairly lethal playthings. And, yes, Hell almost completely cut my throat with a butter knife. But that¡¯s later when she thought I¡¯d sold Qpid to Julius Caesar¡¯s quartermaster for some horse jerky. I was starving at the time, but, come on, I¡¯m better than that. At least my mom reminds me to tell myself that three times a day.


    I¡¯m better than that. Exhale.


    I¡¯m better than that. Exhale.


    I¡¯m better than that. Gag me.


    Two days after Syl enticed us with her Chanctonbury Witch boast, she sat down with us at breakfast. TimTim and I had taken to eating together and trying to figure out if we could manipulate the ectoplasmic environment that Syl teased was at our ghostly fingertips. This often involved a lot of pensive concentration during meals which I don¡¯t blame anyone around us for confusing with extreme constipation. I can duly report that eating more fiber will not help you manipulate ghost arms or toot like the 4th of July.


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    ¡°Today will work. I found a place in the forest that is promising.¡± Syl announced when she sat down with us.


    ¡°Promising for what?¡± TimTim asked. ¡°A ritual sacrifice? Carving Char and me up to summon your demon spawn?¡±


    She leisurely spread four butter patties on her toast, which I inwardly saluted, and answered matter-of-factly, ¡°I really wish it were that easy. No. I actually need you guys. We¡¯ll need to be on our toes. Opening portals, tapping into the underverse, takes an open mind, a keen eye, and even then it¡¯s a lot of trial and error.¡±


    ¡°I thought you said you had a certain set of skills,¡± I reminded her.


    She cut her toast into wedges and nibbled each point before answering. ¡°Everyone says things, Char.¡±


    Not exactly encouraging, but she wasn¡¯t wrong about needing a keen eye. During our free time after lunch she led TimTim and me up one of the main camp trails before she veered off towards a denser stretch of forest. She picked her way in and around thickets of huckleberry and holly bushes before stopping in a grove of towering cedars with Jurassic-sized ferns.


    The grove was criss-crossed with long-fallen cedars, bearded with moss and spilling chunks of reddish wood onto the forest floor like a sequoia-sized pinata.


    ¡°I feel like I¡¯m in the world¡¯s biggest-assed bouncy house!¡± TimTim whooped, bounding around the springy woodland understory.


    ¡°Yeah, well just wait until you fall into Syl¡¯s Ball Pit of the Dead,¡± I warned him.


    ¡°You¡¯re not wrong,¡± Syl said. ¡°That¡¯s kinda what we¡¯re here to do.¡±


    TimTim quit bounding. ¡°Say what?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s more a portal than a pit, but it is like falling¡­and you do have to watch out for the dead.¡±


    I probably would¡¯ve said something snarky to Syl at this point, but a razor honed butter knife zipped in front of my face and sunk deep into a rotting stump. And then my ample rump buried itself deep in the spongy earth as I fell backward in shock.

 Qpid in a Nutshell

    ¡°Missed by a mile, you lazy hell-child,¡± a voice called from just beyond the grove.


    ¡°Maybe, maybe not,¡± came a steely reply.


    TimTim¡¯s ghost arms flared to life. Syl rolled her eyes. I wet my pants a little. Then two kids from Happy Camp (definitely living up to the name) stepped into the grove. They didn¡¯t seem surprised to see us, just a little put out.


    ¡°See where my knife went?¡± a girl who could¡¯ve passed for Malibu Barbie asked.


    ¡°It was supposed to land in me,¡± her companion clucked. ¡°She¡¯ll never become the assassin she aspires to be.¡±


    ¡°She can always be a lumberjack then,¡± TimTim motioned to the tree stump. ¡°It¡¯s in there, though you did almost cut my girl, Char.¡±


    My girl, Char. Even though I was still wetting myself a little, TimTim¡¯s words warmed me in a much better way, and emboldened me. ¡°Yeah, what in the Sam Hill is wrong with you?¡±


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    You might have noticed one of the side effects of my listening to so much NPR: I can sound like my grandparents. So, I tried to muster whatever pissed-off cred I could while pee-staining myself and raged. ¡°Who the fu-u-u-uck are you dweebs?¡±


    ¡°Fu-u-u-uck?¡± Syl snorted. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me this is your first f-bomb, Char?¡±


    Of course it was, and I gave up. ¡°Okay, I¡¯m a curse virgin. Happy, Syl? I don¡¯t get knives thrown at me everyday.¡±


    ¡°I can respect that,¡± said the knife thrower¡¯s companion who then came over and helped me to my feet. ¡°It¡¯s never good to be too loose with one¡¯s language. Meaning is malleable, precision is precious, balance is beauty. I¡¯m Qwapiwd and she¡¯s Hell. Literally and figuratively.¡±


    And that was Qpid in a nutshell. Quick. Deep. Poetic. Of course he also had bad breath and a romantic death wish, but who of us teenyboppers doesn¡¯t have issues.


    ¡°Lovely,¡± Syl remarked. ¡°More recruits.¡±


    ¡°Some kind of circle jerk about to happen?¡± Hell asked as she dug into the crumbling stump to retrieve her knife.


    ¡°You could say that,¡± Syl answered. ¡°We¡¯re about to jerk reality off. If we can find the right shrooms.¡±