Day 27 Writing Short Stories

Home

I never meant to go back home. The road was to take me farther away from it, let me enjoy all the strangeness there was out there. But you go home when a raccoon shaman tells you to. Not because you have taken enough mushrooms and crawled enough gutters to think it’s a good idea to go back home. No. You go back because you have learned that when a raccoon tells you to do something, you do it, or else there is a dragon shit to pay.

Usually returns are about, you know, having found oneself and being a better version of oneself, but that’s not me. I’m not the best version of myself. I think I was better before I left for the wide world, with all the temptations and, you know, what. I never used to eat mushrooms or find loose company to keep me warm at night. I was a good kid who dreamed big dreams. Now there are no dreams. Just one city after another, and one den from another to keep me fed and warm.

I would be doing just that if it weren’t for the little black furry hands grasping my face and looking deep into my eyes and telling me to go home.

The road wiggles in front of me. The dust is creeping between my toes and my buttocks. The sweat dripping down to meet it makes me remember why I hate the countryside. The little corn fields and beetroots growing next to me make shivers travel up my spine. The shaman didn’t tell me why I had to return. But I fucking dragon shit hope it’s not for the fields and becoming a farmer. I’m now a city boy. And city boys don’t dig in the mud.

I can see the town sneaking closer to me. My feet get sluggish, and the small stretch of the road stretches longer and longer, until I cannot prolong what I am meant to do.

I can smell all the pies and the greasy, hearty food in the air I dreamed on the road, but now, while it salivates my mouth, my mind curses my fate. I keep thinking how to escape, but the bastard of a shaman didn’t tell me how long I would have to stay. The raccoon said I would know, in a tone, that if I came back to the city, begging for a gig from him as I had done for several years, I would have helluva a beating. And mind you, raccoons can beat you senseless. They might seem cute and all wise with their mystic robes and little black eyes, but they are not cute if they don’t want to be.

The first house hit me in my gut like the punches I had gotten used to taking for the shaman, yet without the glee I used to get from a good brawl. This one rendered me agitated and numb, especially as I saw the first familiar face from my childhood. It was the boy I used to make fun of. He had grown big and strong. The kind of strong that got regular exercise and remembered to be home at supper time. I was gangly compared to him, and I was a big man for the den to hire me to help them. But anyone was big compared to the raccoons.

I bite my lip and wave my hand in a greeting as he clocks me.

Shit, shit, shit, I think while he contemplates what to do, and then the big man is on me, taking me in a bear hug, letting out a long growl.

“We thought you were dead!” he bellows cheerfully.

“Hey, guys, Gavin has come home!” he shouts from the top of his lungs as soon as he drops me back on the ground.

I want to disappear there and then. I have come back home.

—

I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get anything written today, but then little by little the story evolved. I didn’t quite get to the part with all the action that the genre was supposed to be. Honesty, I don’t know why the raccoon shaman sent Gavin back home. I know that it is not for any lessons. While individual destinies are important, they don’t concern the shamans and their kind. They have bigger fish to fry.

The story was to be written in comic style. The narrative was about the voyage and return. I decided to address it to aid me in writing the story, and it fits perfectly into the story. The story was to be written in first-person perspective, and it was to be action-oriented, as I stated earlier.

My morning felt sticky. I found it hard to write. I just got a paragraph down in my current book. I keep thinking about my sci-fi story, and I’m wondering whether the ending and my conclusion make sense. I have been reading a book about morals, and it has several paragraphs on rebellions. Yesterday, I spoke with my husband about the suffragettes and how it actually unfolded in Britain. It was not the cute version we get in the movies. There were bombings, prison sentences, and torture. It made me wonder what is actually needed for a society to change, what it needs for us to get our lives back from the big techs, the executives, and the rich, shaping our society towards something that leaves no room for mere mortals and the basic needs of connection, cooperation, and being loved. There’s no clear solution, maybe civil disobedience, refusing to participate, and getting informed about how things work is the way, but who knows? Or maybe taking back agency of our own lives is enough.

I wish I could revise my work again, but I need to let it go. My editor contacted me yesterday and said she would be done with the work soon. The cover artist will start her work soon.

Let it go.

Thank you for reading! Have a day of returns and voyages ❤