Home is where the scandal is

I arrive to tell stories in my hometown pro bono as part of the local homecoming festival.
 But nobody has come home for the festival, except me.

 Those who never left are too busy watching ads on TV to turn up to hear me tell stories about them, lightly disguised.
 The keyholder is nowhere to be seen though I strike the wooden door with my balled fist many times. 
 I wait outside the door wondering whether I should leave town again, and soon. I could always make a call to the organisers tomorrow and assure them I would be available at no cost in the future to tell no stories to no one outside a locked hall.

 But then, a few people wander along and when the crowd waiting outside has swollen to three, including me, the keyholder leans out the top window and says she will be down now.

 Seven seats fill up inside and I tell stories from here there and everywhere to my audience.

 When the town gossip takes a seat she makes mental note as I tell a spare scurrilous tale adapted from 1001 Arabian Nights and bowlderised for local telling.
 She goes away convinced she has heard the truth about her neighbours, which in a way she has --- though not in the way she thinks.
 I finish, I accept the plaudits and go to where I live now.
 Home may be home forever; but it is a hard place to play, without screaming.
storytelling here