Neil Gaiman, in his master study class said that you should keep a compost book–a book of ideas, starts of stories. And while this log would most likely be undeveloped, it would provide you with material for future stories when you or it had matured.
This story, “Homearama” was in my compost book, actually the very last page of the book. I jotted down the words last summer when I saw a brochure on a new development in my hometown. The image was captivating in its starkness. I haven’t changed a single word from the original. I hope you enjoy it.
She is a white fox now and hidden from view. It’s hard to see her, especially on misty, foggy days. But she’s there, white, silver, vixen and wise. She knows all the tricks, old and newly invented; so beware when she slips across the corner of your vision. She’s up to something, to be sure.
In yonder year she was red and blazed like the sun. A shot, a comet, a blast of color she was, slipping in and out of the hen house, under the fence, through the hedge, into the woods. Her long legs admired, the swish of her tail–envied. Her head held high, she pranced about, skipping across the brook, into the stream, swimming, bounding into the river–currents ignored–she emerged–on top–always.
She is all this, still. She’s bold, she’s bright but ignored. You’ve been warned. If you see her, you might not, you probably won’t but she’s stirring the pot, she making things happen, she’s molding you and you have no clue.