After reading The Red Tree twice earlier this month, I discovered that its author, Caitlin Kiernan, is to blame for a particularly memorable bit of fictional splatter, "Season of the Broken Dolls," that I read online a few years ago and then forgot all the salient details of, except for that it was about living art made out of undone and rearranged people.

Anyway, purely by chance, while looking into the rest of Kiernan’s oeuvre, I found out that she wrote "Season," and I knew then that it was the story that I’d remembered for quite a while. I even found a copy of it online, so here it is in its memorable, disgusting glory, memorialized for future use. It will never get away from me again.