Write by the Cards: Day Nineteen

A Moment of Doubt

If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is my daily work for my Write by the Cards: 30 Day Challenge that I’m hosting. Learn more here. Scroll down to the end to see my behind-the-scenes commentary and source material.

© Woodland Wardens Oracle

The sacrifice left the character questioning if they should {draw a card}.

The Hare and the Flood

It wasn’t my fault. At least, that’s what I told myself as I clung to a half-rotted log, trying not to meet the accusatory glare of a particularly soggy fox.

Sure, maybe I’d messed with the beavers a little too hard last week. (How was I supposed to know dam jokes would offend their entire species?) And yes, the Great Spirit warned me about maintaining "cosmic harmony" or whatever. But really, was it fair to blame me for the deluge currently swallowing the earth? I’m not the guy who invented rain.

I kicked a paw at a passing chunk of driftwood. “This is excessive,” I muttered. The fox made a noise somewhere between a snarl and a sneeze.

That’s when I noticed the muskrat. Tiny thing, perched on a scrap of bark, staring at me like it knew something I didn’t.

“What are you looking at?” I snapped, though my voice cracked halfway through. The muskrat didn’t flinch. Figures.

A ripple broke across the surface of the water, and for the first time, I looked around properly. The world had gone quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—this was the sort that clung to your fur and whispered, everything is gone now.

The otter sniffled. The raven perched on my shoulder let out a low croak. Even the fox had stopped glaring, its damp tail curling over its paws like a makeshift apology.

It hit me all at once, like someone had yanked the moon into my chest. This wasn’t just a storm. This wasn’t a cosmic timeout for cracking too many jokes. This was everything, and it was my fault.

“Right,” I said, swallowing hard. “Guess we should, uh, fix this.”

The raven clicked its beak. “You should fix this,” it croaked, voice dripping with contempt.

I nodded, though I felt anything but sure. I didn’t know where to start. All I knew was that the world was sinking, and if I didn’t stop it, I’d be the only one left afloat—alone, surrounded by nothing but my bad decisions.

• • •

“Alright, brainstorm time,” I said, trying to ignore the hollow ache in my chest. “Anyone got an idea?”

The fox growled softly. The otter gave me a look so pitying I wanted to crawl under a wave and die. Only the muskrat seemed unfazed, its tiny paws gripping the bark like it was ready to fight the ocean itself.

“What about you, Tiny?” I asked, gesturing at it with a wet paw. “You’ve been giving me the stink eye for hours. Got something to say?”

The muskrat blinked. Then it stood, tail flicking like it was gearing up for a dramatic speech. Instead, it just dove—no hesitation, no explanation, no second glances. One moment it was there, and the next it was gone, a small ripple breaking the flat, endless water.

I stared after it, stunned.

“Uh. Hello?” I called to the ripples. “That’s not an answer!”

The raven on my shoulder let out a low, guttural laugh. “The muskrat knows,” it said cryptically, which was both unhelpful and exactly what I should’ve expected from a bird.

The fox, however, perked up. It leaned over the edge of the log, ears swiveling like it was waiting for something.

And so, for the first time in my life, I shut up.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. The silence stretched long enough to notice how cold the water was, how heavy the sky felt pressing down on us. For a brief, panicked moment, I thought the muskrat might be gone for good. That maybe this wasn’t just my mess to fix—it was a permanent ending.

But then, a bubble broke the surface.

The muskrat emerged, coughing and gasping, clutching something impossibly small in its paws. It heaved itself onto the bark, its tiny frame trembling, and dropped its prize in front of me: a handful of mud.

“...You’re kidding, right?” I said, staring at the damp clump of earth.

The muskrat glared at me, chest heaving.

“It’s mud,” I pointed out, because apparently no one else was going to say it. “What am I supposed to do with mud?”

The otter slapped its tail against the water, and the fox barked sharply. Even the raven tilted its head at me like I’d just missed the world’s most obvious punchline.

I let out a long sigh. “Fine. Mud. Great. Thanks, Tiny.”

I scooped it up gingerly, trying not to think about how ridiculous I looked. But as the mud settled in my paws, something strange happened. The earth was warm—not in a gross, squishy way, but like it was alive, humming with energy.

For the first time in days, I felt something other than panic: hope.

• • •

The mud was buzzing now, a low, steady vibration that tickled my paws and made my ears twitch. It was unsettling, honestly. Like holding the heart of something too big to understand, and knowing it was waiting for me—of all people—to make the next move.

The fox yipped, breaking the silence. I looked up to find every animal staring at me, their eyes expectant and tired and just a little bit... hopeful.

“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head. “This is not a ‘hero’ moment. I’m just a guy who—well, a hare, technically—who’s trying to un-screw up the world. Let’s not make a big thing out of it.”

The raven clicked its beak. “Fix it,” it croaked, and I swear, even the muskrat nodded like I owed them a miracle.

I sighed, holding the mud closer. “Alright. Let’s try not to make this worse.”

I closed my eyes, letting the warmth seep into my chest, and whispered the first words that came to mind—not the clever, sarcastic ones that usually sprang out of me like water from a busted dam, but something softer.

“Grow.”

At first, nothing happened. I opened one eye, peeking at the mud like it might start glowing or levitating or something equally dramatic.

Instead, the hum got louder. The mud warmed, stretching like dough in my paws, and suddenly it wasn’t just mud anymore. It was land—tiny hills and valleys forming in miniature, trickling between my fingers until it spilled into the water, spreading outward like roots.

“Whoa.”

The water shivered as the land began to take shape, stretching and rising with a rhythm that felt too ancient to belong to me. Trees unfurled like time-lapse flowers. Grass swept across the ground in waves. The animals watched in stunned silence as the barren nothingness gave way to something green and alive.

And then the sky changed.

The clouds shifted, parting just enough for a faint, golden light to break through—a soft glow that warmed my fur and made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t explain. I tilted my head, squinting at the horizon, and for the first time, I felt something I hadn’t realized was missing: connection.

This wasn’t just about fixing the world. This was about being part of it.

“Not bad,” I muttered, though my voice cracked. The raven clicked its beak in what I could only assume was grudging approval.

The muskrat waddled over, sniffing the edge of the new land. It gave me a single, sharp nod before scurrying off, presumably to inspect my handiwork. The fox followed, shaking water from its fur and leaving wet paw prints behind.

One by one, the animals began to move, exploring the fragile beginnings of their new home.

I stayed where I was, paws still tingling, and watched them go.

“Guess I did alright,” I said quietly, though the ache in my chest lingered. Because I knew it wasn’t over—not really. Fixing something is one thing. Keeping it whole... that’s another.

But for now, it was enough.

• • •

The animals had scattered by now, disappearing into the new horizon. I could still hear the fox yipping somewhere in the distance, its voice weaving with the rustle of growing leaves and the trickle of streams carving their way through the fresh earth.

It should’ve felt good. Triumphant, even. But I just stood there, claws curled into the soft soil, and waited for the ache in my chest to leave. Spoiler: it didn’t.

The raven stayed. Of course it did. The thing had practically made a career out of perching on my shoulder and judging me. It ruffled its feathers now, cocking its head like it was waiting for me to say something wise.

“Don’t give me that look,” I muttered. “I know. It’s my mess. I cleaned it up. Can we skip the moral-of-the-story bit?”

The raven croaked softly. Not mocking, this time. Just... patient.

I sank onto my haunches, staring out at the endless stretch of new land. It wasn’t perfect—too many jagged edges where the water still crept through, too much emptiness waiting to be filled. But it was alive, and it was enough.

“I’m not good at this,” I admitted, surprising even myself. “The whole ‘balance’ thing. Creation, destruction, whatever. It’s all too... big.”

The raven blinked, silent. The muskrat’s tiny paw prints dotted the mud near my feet, a trail leading back toward the water.

I swallowed hard. “But I guess that’s the point, isn’t it? Someone has to do it. Even if it’s just... me.”

The ache in my chest flared, sharp and sudden, and I realized what it was: grief. Not for what I’d lost, but for what I’d undone. I’d taken the world apart, piece by piece, without stopping to think about what it might cost. And now, I’d put it back together, knowing full well it would break again someday.

That was the deal, wasn’t it? The cycle. Life, death, rebirth. No shortcuts, no do-overs. Just me, stumbling my way through it, one mistake at a time.

The raven shifted, its claws digging lightly into my shoulder. I looked up, following its gaze to the sky.

The clouds were clearing, revealing something I hadn’t seen in days: stars. Hundreds of them, scattered like seeds across the velvet dark.

“Alright,” I said quietly, to the stars, the raven, the mud beneath my paws. “I’ll try to keep it together this time. No promises.”

The raven let out a single, sharp caw. Agreement, maybe. Or just acknowledgment. Either way, it spread its wings and took off, leaving me alone in the vast, unfinished quiet.

I stayed there a little longer, long enough to feel the earth settling beneath me. Long enough to hear the distant splash of a fish in one of the new rivers.

When I finally stood, my legs ached, but the weight in my chest had eased.

“Alright, world,” I said, shaking out my fur. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

And then I walked, paw prints marking the fresh earth, toward whatever came next.

Behind-the-Scenes Commentary

Full disclosure: I almost went with the infamous Br’er Rabbit story, but I grew up on that tale so it didn’t feel as “new” or “shiny” so I did what I do best — I set out to research other myths that featured a hare or rabbit and I was NOT disappointed.

I’m kind of on a role with my animals-as-tricksters vibe so when I read the Cree myth of the Hare and the Flood, I knew I’d found my next trickster to work with.

I had a lot of fun with this one because trickster energy is so infectious and humorous.

Source Material

• Woodland Wardens Oracle by Jessica Roux

• Cree Legends and Narratives from the West Coast of James Bay by C. Douglas Ellis