Scapegoat - By Harrish Panicker

Written By: Harrish Panicker

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Harrish Panicker, writing under the name "Scapegoat," presents a thought-provoking short story of the same title for the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This compelling narrative delves into the intricate dynamics of blame and societal scapegoating in a small town, evoking both intrigue and reflection. As part of the competition's diverse showcase of creative talents, "Scapegoat" invites readers to explore the depths of human behavior and collective consciousness.

About the Work

In "Scapegoat," Harrish Panicker masterfully portrays a tale of a man caught in the web of societal judgment and persecution. The story unfolds with vivid imagery and a haunting atmosphere, highlighting themes of blame, justice, and isolation. The protagonist's journey is depicted with a blend of surreal and poignant elements, leaving readers to ponder the nature of scapegoating and its consequences.

Scapegoat

Original Submission by Harrish Panicker

Scapegoat.

There lived a tiny little man, that was tinier than ever in the tiny town of Tiny.

He was oh so tiny, but my oh my was he larger than ever in the townsfolk’s minds!

He puffed his mornings, hacking and coughing up the feet lodged deep in his throat. The townsfolk felt a little satisfied, knowing justice had been served, “we finally put a dent on this goat!” Nonetheless, the little man needed not the feet of those folk, for he pulled his own tongue to burn and chafe out of love.

The man understood, there must be fault to him, how else could they be possessed to feel so righteous. Thoroughly evoked to serve the right and true!

One fine day that bathed its mornings with fur and fire, fell harrowingly dry on the man. He couldn’t know but a woman had recently fallen into 4 fine pieces, chopped up for a soup! Her body became parts, and those parts became art. Art from a sick mind, a sick mind in a sick man that couldn’t be anyone else but the Goat! Oh me oh my, who else could derive such a sight! It must be the Goat, for all that is fault is born right out of the Goat!

They bathed the skies with their tiresome roars. Cries and shivers serving the Lord. Oh how could such a creature stay alive, my dear God? What lesson do you want us to perform? Oh no, dearie, this must not be the work of the Lord, for we know the devil is and was a stubborn creature, working exactingly to defile the pure.

The Goat is known for his stubble and horns, he couldn’t see them but they all could. He’d search for hours and hours for his tiny horns, but in this town of Tiny only he could be wrong!

The huffs and puffs the man forced outside of himself came to pass, instead the feet who lodged themselves in their throat found themselves on his groin. Oh no! It seems the Goat is still fine, oh dear oh my, the Lord’s justice is nigh! The man stepped and stood. He sat and kicked. The men followed through, for the Lord’s justice is nigh and its right here in their feet!

The stolen sandals, the forbidden words, the Goat was ostracized ever since he fell in love with the Curse. The Curse was a woman, before she was a witch, she was beautiful as curd, falling right within the lap of a little dove stranded within a drained desert. Nourishment for the exactly abandoned, this little dove left her once it was strong. The man was white, like a little white knight. He felt his love was true and out of purity. To love such a woman could be naught but honor! But his feet stood cold, as he saw her waver above the water.

The Curse was merely a woman, apparently not a daughter, he saw her burned at the stake, right next to the altar! His love was felt, not at all by her. The townsfolk saw his yearning eyes and felt the devil threading the veins in his mind. Oh they knew, they knew the devil had sown his strings. The Goat was born, and he was no longer a man and when you’re no longer like them, you are other.

The littlest rabbit gone, the smallest pencil missing, a daughter gone wrong and a son too quick to anger. All must be sourced from right within the Goat. Right within the realms of his pulse. The Goat’s heart beats with the blood of those he bleeds.

However. Today, those rightful feet stomp with anger. Justice beaming right out of their seams. They all rejoice, joined in fervor. The Goat can bleed despite being human no longer!

The man was left behind.

Naught was left to chance. The townsfolk watched every millimeter of his breath. They watched with anticipation, bating their breath. The second he was over, the celebrations began.

The Goat was carved out like a man, but really, the horns and stubble disappeared along with his head. They brought a pitchfork and a shovel. Just two could bother. Somehow his head came out quicker, a thread stubbornly resisting between the head and body, but they felt it good enough. The townsfolk painted the streets with the Goat’s throat. A little red thread painting the roads! They dragged and dragged, until the whole town could see the husk of the man they believed him to be. Oh my dear you must make sure to drain him, we mustn’t see his life-force return.

The red roads split him so expansively apart, whoever he was, wasn’t any one thing anymore.

The very next moment, a child was born. This child was born out of wedlock, and without consent. The mother who was a daughter, became a body, food for the worms. In the coming days, every day became like every other. A woman would fall into the laps of the worms, surely exploding out a child before she was burned.

The Curse! The Curse! She has returned! In service to her husband, she calls upon the Morning Star. We have erred. We have been so sorely mistaken! The spread of the Goat has impregnated the witch! Oh me oh my, we’ve midwifed the devil!

They prayed and prayed, burning the top layers of soil. Some of the houses fell down into rubble. Before the women could disappear, they’ve burned it all, but it was for naught, for the women died some more.

The children were shot, hung by their feet. The men felt they were the Devil’s mere meat, but it wasn’t long before there was nothing left but men,

and the men starting falling, but there were no longer any children.

Alas. There was one fine gentleman. He was the only one who stood. He was deaf, blind and mute.

So, it didn’t really matter, because he didn’t know.

He didn’t know that he was all that was left, and that he was the biggest among the small. For he’s all that’s left of Tiny, even if he’s small.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates the art of storytelling and poetic expression on an international stage. This prestigious event brings together writers and poets from around the world, offering a platform to share their unique voices and perspectives. Participants contribute to a rich tapestry of creativity, showcasing a wide array of themes, styles, and narratives.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Harrish Panicker for sharing "Scapegoat" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This captivating short story provides a profound exploration of societal themes, enriching the competition with its depth and narrative power. We appreciate Harrish's contribution and look forward to witnessing more of their creative endeavors.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.