One of the twelve facts is that dermestids get lonely. In this story, the only human characters that meaningfully touch the narrator’s life are her mother and the corpse, and I had the sense she was projecting her own loneliness onto the insects. Was this your intent?
Absolutely. The narrator inhabits a world caught between her own fascination with death and a society repulsed by it. The horror in this story lies not in graphic rot or violence, but in isolation: a longing to be part of something that is fundamentally unknowable, and accessible only through relinquishing your actual self.
I’m curious about the termite detour that the narrator took in her relationship with the dermestid. What were you hoping readers would take away from the contrast in her experience with these two different insects?
The simple answer here is depressing realism. The narrator is driven to pursue her passion, but often our passions and the mundane need to make a living refuse to align. The termite lab is a space for dreams just fallen short. It’s close to the mark but still misses the heart, resulting in continued unbelonging even on the cusp of what she seeks. I’m also made happy by any implicit metaphors about trees, heartwood, and the precipitous place of humans in nature!
The first mentions of the narrator’s experience of hunger—the growling stomach at graduation, her mouth watering in the clearing where the body was first found—only happen after she sees a human corpse. I wondered if this was meant to mirror the cannibalistic tendencies of the dermestid, consumption as connection?
Yes! Her life is on a firm trajectory, bringing her closer and closer to the dermestids until she feels that she can even understand their language—in a way she never properly knew humanity. The dermestids stand in for home: both her beginning and end.
Do you have any future work that readers can look forward to? Where can we find more of your work?
All my fiction is linked on my website at mariscapichette.com. For readers who enjoyed the dark nature aspects of this story, I encourage you to check out my 2025 eco-horror novella, Every Dark Cloud!
As for more short fiction, my diet horror story—featuring 3D-printed food and Alice in Wonderland surreality—is forthcoming in February 2026 in Dark Matter INK’s Little Red Flags anthology. Pre-orders are open here: bit.ly/4qcgzs4.
