Blue Wolfe and Friends presents: Camp Here and There.
Episode Forty-Six: Falling Through the Papers
[CLOCK TICKS]
[CLICK]
SYDNEY
The ceiling creaks like someone’s in the walls.
A beetle drowned last night inside my cup.
I watched it spin. I didn’t fish it up.
The tea was fine. A little bitter, sure.
But life is full of flavors we endure.
The bedsheets smelled like lemon-scented smoke.
I think I’m real today. Or close. I hope.
Good morning, campers! Rise and eat and shine—
unless you’re made of wax or pickling brine.
In which case, please remain indoors to steam.
You’re very moist, and breakfast is a team.
Today’s first meal is Matthew’s grand debut:
a savory-sweet reduction stew of glue—
but edible glue, mind you, don’t be mean.
It’s thick with beans and topped with tangerine.
A scone he baked in hollow garden shoes
was served with rhubarb loam and powdered ooze.
The tea is steeped in moss, with hints of plum.
It makes your lips go numb. I like it. Yum!
There’s toast, of course. Each slice is shaped like moons.
The butter’s sculpted into tiny runes.
The jam is dark, reflective, vaguely wet.
It whispered something once. I don’t regret.
And if you’re feeling brave or still asleep,
try Matthew’s chive surprise—it smells like deep.
That’s all he said. Just “deep.” I didn’t ask.
It’s purple, though. And served in a thermos flask.
Now campers, check your cabins for surprise.
There’s nothing in the walls. Except for eyes.
Ignore them. Close your blinds. Pretend they’re stars.
And brush your teeth before they crash like Mars.
[PAPERS RUSTLING]
Your counselors today will lead you through
a series of events we mostly knew.
Please do not feed the raccoons bread or names.
They do recall your lies. They will play games.
The lake is dark, and breathing as it should.
The forest’s moved two inches where it stood.
The sun is late, but that’s its choice to pace.
The moon will cover for it, just in case.
[THE DOOR OPENS GENTLY. JEDIDIAH SPEAKS FROM OFF-MIC.]
JEDIDIAH
Hey… morning, love. You’re up before the bell.
You feeling alright? You don’t look too well.
It’s barely six. Or later. Maybe eight?
The sun forgot to show. Or showed up late.
You left our lamp on low. The air felt wrong.
The sky was dark, like nighttime stretched too long.
I thought you’d gone outside. Your side was bare.
The bed was cold. I didn’t hear you there.
I put the kettle on. It’s steeping slow—
the floral tea you always choose to grow.
You like it, even when you’re feeling low.
It smells like something soft and freshly dried.
The kind of tea you like when you’ve just cried.
It’s on the desk. Still warm. I’ll leave it here.
You’re trembling just a bit. Or is that fear?
Why are you up? You dreaming something bad?
SYDNEY
You’re rhyming.
JEDIDIAH
What?
SYDNEY
All of it. You just had.
That wasn’t how you speak. Not then. Not now.
You said the time. It rhymed. The steam, the cup—
you never talk like that. That’s not made up.
JEDIDIAH
Oh. Huh. I didn’t mean… I didn’t try.
I guess the words just came. I don’t know why.
SYDNEY
That’s what I said. That’s exactly my thought.
It’s like the rhymes are given, not self-taught.
They’re leaking out. Like I’ve been wound too tight—
and every line must march into the night.
JEDIDIAH
I thought I dreamt it. But I guess not quite.
The ticking sang to me last night. In spite
of reason, rhyme, or grammar, it performed.
It called me “Master Clocksmith.” I was warned.
SYDNEY
This better not be caused by any gears.
If this is one of yours, I’ll scream for years.
JEDIDIAH
I fixed one clock. That’s all. Just changed a spring.
It shouldn’t make our mouths do anything.
SYDNEY
Then something strange is messing with our lines.
My voice feels like it’s speaking just for rhymes.
Like I’m a little plaything made to speak—
and all my words must loop and click and squeak.
It isn’t just the rhyming that feels wrong.
It’s how I’m carried through each line, like song.
I try to talk, but everything aligns.
It’s not my voice. Just rhythm in the lines.
JEDIDIAH
You’re not alone in that. It’s odd, but true.
I don’t know what to say—but neither do you.
SYDNEY
Fair point. Well, I suppose I’ll keep the beat.
I am the nurse. And mealtime must repeat.
Dear campers, do remember shoes today.
Unless your feet are hooves. In that case—neigh!
The soup is not a bath. The bath’s not soup.
We learned this lesson from the citrus group.
Please stretch before you juggle frogs or lift.
And pack a snack if time begins to shift.
The trees have settled. Mostly. Just don’t gawk.
We lost a counselor last they tried to talk.
The sun is late again, but that’s no crime.
I think we’ve earned a breakfast out of time.
Enjoy your meal. Be kind. Don’t trust the jam.
And let me know if you still speak iamb.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[CLOCK TICKS]
ADAM
Good lunch, my rousing rebels, wild and free!
The bell has rung! Or will! Tward’s maybe three!
Time’s just a wiggly worm with legs and shoes,
and I have never asked it for the news.
You’ve made it to the halfway point, hooray!
The sun forgot to climb, but eat, I say!
A demon can’t be bound by ticking clocks—
but oh! The rhyme today! It singes socks!
I feel like paper caught inside a tune.
I feel like teeth that clack beneath the moon.
I feel like hunger dressed in satin gloves—
which is to say: I’m filled with so much love!
Now, campers, let us speak of lunch, divine.
Today’s repast is dressed in salted brine,
then boiled in a broth of bark and brass,
then spanked with thyme and kissed with broken glass!
We’re serving skewers strung with lizard meat—
but ethical lizards, without deceit.
They danced into the flames with joyful cries.
Their last words were: “We volunteer!” (No lies.)
There’s tongue with pickled rosebuds steeped in gin.
The gin is fake. But oh, the buzz within!
A salad made of shredded tax receipts
(our counselor Marie says paper eats).
And trail mix! Oh, I must wax sweet on that—
a blend of hope and raisins, lightly flat.
Each nut a prayer. Each dried fruit sings its past.
I’ve crushed crumbs into spheres, and rolled them fast!
Now close your eyes, and let the flavor bite.
Don’t chew—just let it haunt you through the night.
[RUSTLING BAG]
Mmmm. It does coat the tongue like a velvet sin.
A snack to become, not just to take in.
It tastes like truth, if truth were slightly sour—
like someone’s grief, distilled into a flower.
The pudding’s green and whispering your name.
Don’t answer back. That’s part of Matthew’s game.
(I borrowed him from Here & There. Don’t snitch.)
He calls it “blissful void,” and serves it rich.
And now, a thought: Isn’t speech so divine?
We’re all just puppets dancing line by line!
The rhymes, my friends, the rhymes—they hold me tight!
They dress my brain in silk and squeeze it right!
I’ve always wanted songs inside my head.
Now every syllable is neatly fed
into a perfect rhythm, born to bloom.
It’s like my mouth’s a theater, not a tomb!
[ADAM CACKLES]
Oh, forgive me! I’m getting far too loud.
But poetry makes devils rather proud.
I saw a squirrel today recite a sonnet.
Then burst into a flame with sparks upon it!
Janie says the deer have unionized.
No more backflips. No more shapely thighs.
I do think she’s lying, if I may say.
I believe there are no deer, to this day.
The trees outside have canceled every leaf.
We cheer them on, of course, in silent grief.
Marie made masks of boiled beetle wings.
They flap if you say embarrassing things.
She’s wearing five. They’ve formed a tiny choir.
The top one hums in F and smells like fire.
Mavis scribbles in her green-bound textbook.
She never looks up, always on the hook.
Her pen moves fast, as if it has a mind—
the paper’s full of words she can’t unwind.
Now listen close, and hear the lunch report:
All cannibalism’s banned. At least in sport.
If you must bite a bunkmate, leave a note.
And do not chew their shoes, or steal their coat.
If someone weeps in your plate, just smile.
Their grief adds salt. Be gracious. Stay a while.
Our rules are simple: eat, then thank the void.
Never eat the pasta Matthew’s enjoyed.
Oh, rhyme, you wicked gift, you velvet chain!
You wrap around my ribs and tickle pain.
You make me sing what once I’d only think.
You make my blood feel slightly pink.
There’s nothing like a curse that tastes like song.
There’s nothing wrong with being slightly wrong.
So let the stanzas carry us away—
a feast of food, and rhythm, and decay!
And if you see the sky begin to twitch,
just nod politely, just ask it to switch.
The clouds are acting shy today, that’s all.
We think they’re nervous for the late-night ball.
So eat, my darlings. Lap up every word.
Let cadence guide your knives like sacred birds.
The meal is yours, if you can chew in time.
The sauce is haunted. Isn’t that sublime?
[TAMBOURINE]
Remember this: no forks inside the lake.
No spoons in hats. No eating what you fake.
Thank you for dining under heaven’s curse!
We’ll see you soon. For better… or for worse.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[CLOCK TICKING]
SYDNEY
It’s lunchtime, so I guess I’ll talk again.
There’s food. There’s plates. There’s campers. There are men
who serve the food with ladles made from wren.
They work for camp. They creak like wooden strings.
They move too smooth. They’re not entirely things.
The kitchen smells like copper and perfume.
The biscuits look like bones we dug from gloom.
There’s something steaming gently in a shell.
It’s meant to nourish you. It’s hard to tell.
Matthew made a stew with eyes inside.
They’re pickled, yes, but mostly there for pride.
The salad tried to scream, but changed its mind.
There’s bread, I think. It’s wet. Or just unkind.
You’re meant to eat. You’re meant to sit. Obey.
That wasn’t mine. I didn’t want to say—
I mean, it’s true, but not the way I meant.
The rhyme just twists the thought. It pays the rent.
I think I’m hungry. Maybe. Not for food.
For quiet. For stillness. Some different mood.
I want to make a sound that doesn’t swing.
I want to cough and not cry out in string.
[A PAUSE]
I walked into the freezer just to breathe.
Cold as ice. I was only there to grieve.
I held an ice cube like a desperate plea
and whispered, “Please, just let me talk like me.”
But no, the meter holds. It wants me whole.
It carves a channel through my throat and soul.
It forms my lungs into a songbird’s cage.
It wraps my wrists in velvet, calls it stage.
You all should eat. You’re meant to sit and dine.
I’m here to guide you through this meal. It’s fine.
It’s rules. It’s safety. Forms and structured play.
And paperwork in drawers that never fray.
[DRAWER OPENS]
I dreamed I stabbed a mirror with my name.
It bled out hemolymph. That just felt the same.
The voice that reads my file wore my face.
It laughed, then gave my pulse a second place.
I looked inside the glass to see myself,
but found instead a tangle, something else—
the colors bled. The shapes began to dance.
They twisted like a fevered, haunted trance.
No face, no body, only shifting hue—
a whirl of red, and green, and black, and blue.
The centipedes, they crawled across the pane,
they slithered through the colors, spread their stain.
I couldn’t see me, couldn’t find my form,
just writhing things, a trudging, inching swarm.
I saw a painting once, in someone’s room,
the strokes were fierce, like fire, brimstone, doom.
There were no edges, no lines to define,
just flashes, jagged, swirling out of time.
The red was harsh and ripped the canvas wide,
the black just melted, dripped, and slipped inside.
It churned and moved, a mess that couldn’t stop,
and for a moment, I just couldn’t drop…
I shouldn’t say that here. It’s not the time.
But what is time, if every breath must rhyme?
If everything I feel gets filed in beats—
then what’s the point of hands, of mouth, or sheets?
I lied this morning. Said I felt near real.
But something’s just a line with cooked-up zeal.
I feel like furniture that used to dream.
I feel like toast that missed its butter theme.
[LAUGH]
I wish the rhyme would end. I want to say
a wrong word. Just one vowel out of play.
I tried this earlier. I bit my tongue.
It bled in couplets. Nothing changed. I sung.
I’m sure it’s temporary. Most things are.
Except, of course, the light inside the jar
that blinks when Lucille knows I’m out of line.
That’s just a metaphor. I think it’s fine.
She’s probably not listening. Not right now.
Her gaze is like a tethered, bleeding plow.
It tears the ground, then asks why nothing grew.
She says she trusts me. So do walls. That’s new.
And Jed—I mean, he cares, he really does.
He checks my pulse like someone checks for bugs.
He helps me, sure, but only when I break.
And never when I’m real. For realness’ sake.
But he’s not why I’m saying all of this.
I’m just tired. And rhyming. And I miss—
when words were weird instead of clearly bound.
I miss the freedom just to make a sound.
The peas are fine. The biscuits taste like soap.
The soup is breathing gently. Please just cope.
You’ll make it through. I always do. I think.
I never sink too far before I blink.
The pudding’s pink. The carrots hum in C.
Please chew in rhythm. Do not look at me.
Enjoy your lunch. Pretend the words are yours.
And don’t ask why the ceiling now has doors.
[A LONG PAUSE]
[A SHAKY BREATH]
I found a centipede one night in there,
it crawled across the sink, without a care.
I watched it twist and curl, its legs a storm,
and thought, “How strange, to see such life perform.”
I trapped it in a jar, I sealed it tight,
its tiny limbs, they squirmed beneath the light.
I placed it in my bathroom, where it’d stay,
a specimen for something far away.
I took my needles, thread, and trembling hands,
and watched it stiffen like it understands.
I stitched its legs to pose, then sewed its eyes,
and whispered, “Now you’ll live, but not in lies.”
I stuffed its body full, a thing of clay,
and left it on my shelf, where it would stay—
a thousand legs that never moved again,
lay still and gone in the bathroom’s dark den.
I think I see them crawl, or something moves…
Yes, yes, they’re there, like centipedes, in grooves.
Their bodies twist like knotted threads, they slink—
they slide beneath the cracks; they start to think.
I can’t escape them. They’ll crawl under me.
Beneath my skin, they twist and writhe with glee.
They want to crawl inside me. Crawl. They do.
They creep into my mind. They feel like glue.
Please—I—am I—am I still talking? Say
these words! But no, I hear them scrape away.
My breath’s a blister. They burst out the seam!
I feel them squirm beneath my tongue and scream.
The kitchen’s not a kitchen. Not a space.
It’s moving. Shifting. Pressing on my face.
The walls have hearts now. The floor just sighs.
I feel them crawl. I feel their hundred eyes.
No! No more, no more of them!
They crawl inside, beneath my skin, they feed.
My blood’s a writhing mass of centipede,
they coil and twist inside my veins with greed.
Each crack’s a hole, each hole a place to bleed
No! No more, no more of them!
They’re crawling under flesh, wriggling in phlegm.
I bend to them. I bend and crawl, I fall,
and every crevice… has its call.
No more! No more! They hiss inside my chest.
I can’t breathe. No air. I cannot rest.
There are no walls now—there’s no floor, no roof.
Just centipedes. Their legs, their gnashing tooth.
The soup is cold now. The salt is bitter.
The peas are wretched. The carrots jitter.
I’m choking on a word I cannot speak.
The walls are laughing, I can hear them creak.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[CLOCK TICKING]
SYDNEY
Here we are again, the table set for feast,
but what is feasting when it starves the beast?
The meat is tender, soaked in rich sauce,
but why does every bite feel like a loss?
The bread is warm, but I can’t taste the salt.
The apples gleam, but there’s still no result.
I sit, I chew, I swallow—but I wait.
I long to feel the food, to feel it great.
The soup is thick, but still it fails to nourish,
a bite that fills the void but cannot flourish.
I wonder now, as I ingest the lies—
what’s left to feed me when I cannot rise?
The meat is fine—its texture, rich and bold,
but what’s the use if hunger’s growing cold?
The salad crunches, yet it doesn’t fill
the space I long to taste, to know, to will.
Each bite I take feels empty in my chest—
and still, I chew, though I don’t feel my best.
The rhymes they come, they rise, they twist, they curl,
but what’s a rhyme when nothing calms the hurl?
Am I not worth the taste of things to come?
Or am I just a mouth, a dress, a drum?
What’s left of me, not you? Who owns this play—
the one who feeds or one who begs to stay?
[PAUSE]
I wait to feel—what is it—more, I crave?
But when the meal is served, I feel its grave.
I long for sustenance, for something rich,
but all I taste is something dark—the itch.
I’ve had my fill, yet hunger’s left to roam—
what good is food if nothing feels like home?
[SYDNEY SHIFTS IN HIS SEAT, UNEASY.]
I love you, dear. You’ve fed me all these years,
and still, I find I can’t quite quell my fears.
You’ve fed me meals and made me whole again,
what’s the price of food when it’s your amen?
I’ve never asked to live this empty way,
but I was made for this, I guess, to stay.
The clock is ticking still, the rhyme persists,
but do I need it? What would I resist?
Would it be better to just turn away,
or live forever in the same old play?
[DOOR OPENS]
[FOOTSTEPS]
JEDIDIAH
Love, I’ve fixed it. The clock, it’s not broken now.
I twisted wires, I set the gears to how
they should have been, but hadn’t been before.
I tightened springs, I oiled the parts—once more,
[CLOCK WINDS AND TICKS]
the pendulum swings in a gentle arc,
and now the rhymes will fall. They’ll fade. They’ll mark.
The gears were stuck, the timing gone astray.
I had to twist the pieces into play.
The minute hand was jammed—it couldn’t move,
and so the rhymes would shift, they’d twist, they’d prove
their grip. But now, with each turn of the wheel,
you’ll find the rhyme no longer has appeal.
SYDNEY
The clock—it’s fixed? The ticking fades away,
and now the words, they slip. They start to sway.
The rhymes die off, they’re tired, they break, they fall,
and silence fills the space—I’m left with all.
What’s left to say when nothing calls my name?
What’s left to take when hunger’s just a flame?
I feel the air. It shifts, it breathes—I see.
I feel my body, I am not free.
The meal is done, but there’s no taste inside—
just empty plates, and empty hands to guide.
The clock is fixed, the rhyme has lost its sting,
but what’s a world when nothing means a thing?
JEDIDIAH
You can stop that now.
SYDNEY
Oh, yeah, that last one was just me! [HE LAUGHS] Pretty cool, right?
JEDIDIAH
[AMUSED] Oh! Well done.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
JEDIDIAH
—I’m just saying, that’s why I’m afraid of owl feathers.
SYDNEY
[LAUGHING] That is far from the weirdest thing to happen in the forest!
JEDIDIAH
I–Hey, I answered the question!
SYDNEY
Okay, let’s play a different game.
JEDIDIAH
Okay.
SYDNEY
Hmm. How about I quiz you on some geographical knowledge, mm? For your maps.
JEDIDIAH
Uhm—
SYDNEY
Let’s start with a classic. What’s the highest point on Earth?
JEDIDIAH
Hm. Mount Everest.
SYDNEY
Wrong. It’s the Peak of Moonless Night. You know, the one that appears when the stars get confused.
JEDIDIAH
Is that so?
SYDNEY
Yeah. It’s only visible on odd-numbered Wednesdays. It’s the tallest point, if you measure it by how
deep the shadows get. [SHUFFLING] Riiight here.
JEDIDIAH
Wait—hold on. [SHUFFLING] If that’s where the highest point is… what about the lowest?
SYDNEY
Oh, that’s easy. The Displaced Abyss.
JEDIDIAH
The—
SYDNEY
Just look for the sea that rises when you’re not looking.
JEDIDIAH
Of course.
[WRITING NOISES]
SYDNEY
Everyone knows that.
JEDIDIAH
Uh huh.
SYDNEY
It’s the only ocean that’s constantly rising, but no one knows exactly where it is, because it’s always
behind you. It looms up all imposing, but when you turn around—boom—it’s not there.
JEDIDIAH
So it follows you?
SYDNEY
Ehh… not really? It’s more like a mirror.
JEDIDIAH
Sure.
SYDNEY
You get it.
JEDIDIAH
Yeah, totally. Can you draw where it is for me here?
SYDNEY
No. I can’t, because it’s always behind you. Didn’t you hear me?
JEDIDIAH
Ah. Sorry, Sydney.
SYDNEY
I don’t understand why you keep this up, to be honest.
JEDIDIAH
Knowledge for knowledge’s sake?
SYDNEY
You just can’t chart everything. Rivers flow backwards, trees swap places, and the sun? Don’t get me
started on the sun.
JEDIDIAH
I thought this was your idea.
SYDNEY
I’m making a point to you. You venture out every year on your little excursions, drawing all those
circles and triangles—like if you draw enough of them, one day they’ll all make sense. But it’s never
going to make sense, Jeddie.
JEDIDIAH
I have to try.
[SILENCE]
SYDNEY
You know, I don’t get it. But in some ways I respect that you keep trying.
JEDIDIAH
It’s something to do.
SYDNEY
Not sure how you do it. I’d go mad if I had to draw lines that don’t go anywhere.
JEDIDIAH
Eh, it keeps me busy.
SYDNEY
Well. As long as you don’t try to make sense of everything, you’ll be fine.
JEDIDIAH
[CHUFF] You’re one to talk.
SYDNEY
Fair. But I’ve learned to accept that sometimes, things just are the way they are.
JEDIDIAH
I’ll take your word for it. [HE BREATHES] But tell me more about Italy—
[CLICK]
With original music composed by Will Wood and produced by Jonathon Maisto.
Additional music composed by Kyle Gabler and Another You.
Dialogue editing by Beetlesprite
Sound design by Blue Wolfe and Another You.
Featuring several audio bites from Looplicator.
And a special thanks to Patrons for making this possible!
Special thanks to Cactus the Elijah Fanboy and Kai
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Thank you for listening to Camp Here & There! And remember: It follows the fourth without leading, echoes in every end, and hides between echo’s twin.