The Garden Gnome

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

A garden gnome tries to protect what he loves while learning to deal with loss.

In the middle of a garden, a gnome guarded the many flowers that inhabited it. He stood a full three feet tall, five feet if you counted his hat, and wore a simple tunic, the color autumn leaves, with wine red pants. The garden rested in the depression between three mountains giving it the size and shape of a large arena and consisted of random patterns of roses, tulips, and lilies of varying colors across lush grass like rainbow sprinkles scattered across pistachio ice cream. Everyday the gnome walked the garden tending to the flowers, scaring off pests, and plucking weeds. When his daily tasks were completed, he would retreat to his shed which resembled a tiny cottage and make a nice vegetable stew seasoned with fresh peppers and rosemary that he harvested from his garden within the garden. 

It had been six years since the day the master had entrusted the garden's care to the gnome. Since then, he did not let a single flower die, nor allow it to be consumed by any pest. In the field, he would often reminisce at how terrible he was at his responsibilities when the master first took him in. A faint smile would form under his bushy beard as he watered the flowers; remembering the days when he would be scolded for trampling over a flower or neglecting to care for others. Then, his smile would fade as the gnome would remember that it had been two years since he had last seen the master. Still, he tended to the garden and maintained everything as pristine as the day the master disappeared.

Patrolling down a zig zagging path, avoiding thorns along the way, he noticed a particular patch of white roses one day that was in dire need of drink. He grabbed a nearby watering can, one he had strategically placed a couple days ago, and began showering the roses causing tiny rainbows as the warm sunlight filtered through the spattering water. When satisfied, he gave a nod of approval before setting the watering can down. He scratched his head in puzzlement as he had not seen flowers in this state for a long time. He had not been neglecting any of the patches and he stuck to his tightly crafted watering schedule, so the flowers should have been fine. He glanced about the flowers searching for others that may be in a similar condition. His eyes widened and he felt a chill run down his spine upon his discovery in an adjacent patch. Purple and blue tulips lie uprooted at the base of a mound of dirt surrounding a large hole.

"Oh no no no no no!" the gnome thought out loud as he rushed toward the patch.

Upon reaching the hole he began to cover it while attempting to replant the tulips. He felt a small sense of relief that it sort of resembled what it once looked like. The soil was slightly sunken and there was now a large circle of brown amongst green of the grass, and he noticed that some of the flowers were missing. But at least the remaining tulips were replanted. The gnome began to scan the surrounding patches, searching for any signs of the creature responsible. 

"Can you not do that?" said a deep rough voice from behind him.

The gnome spun around to see an abnormally large mole, almost the size of the gnome, protruding from the hole that was just filled. It was covered in inky black fuzz and had massive paddle shaped feet, the size of the gnome’s head, each possessing five long claws like large kitchen knives. If not for the little bright pink nose on the end of its snout, the gnome might have thought he was staring at a monster.

“I need to keep the dirt out, you see.”

The gnome grabbed a nearby gardening shovel and wielded it as if gripping a mighty sword.

“You are trespassing in this garden. Please leave.”

The mole stared at him for a brief moment before replying.

“And what are you going to do with that?”

“I will do what I must.”

 

The mole nodded and turned toward the other patches of flowers.

 

“This is a lovely garden. Plenty of space.”

 

“If it is space or food that you are looking for, you will find plenty away from here.”

 

“One better than here?”

 

“There are better places, I am sure.”

 

“Do you travel often?”

 

“Please leave. I will not ask again.”

 

“How can you be sure that there are better places if you have not seen them?”

 

“That is not the point.”

 

“Then please; point me in the right direction to somewhere better.” the mole chuckled.

 

The gnome charged toward the mole, swinging his shovel around and screaming; attempting to scare it off. After it dove back underground, he spent the better part of the day running between flower patches searching for traces of the creature. With each hole the gnome found he shoveled in the surrounding dirt and replanted what uprooted flowers remained before resuming his search.

As the sun fell, the gnome dragged his feet, slowly climbing one of the slanted sides of the garden. His shoulders sank as his arms limply dangled at his sides and he held his shovel loosely held between his finger and thumb. When he reached the edge of the garden, he turned to face the rest and felt a slight pang in his chest at the sight. Numerous spots of brown stained the blanket of vibrant colors and trails of trampled flowers or grass snaked through the garden; reflecting paths he took to chase the mole. He imagined the scolding he would receive if the master were to suddenly appear. Exhausted, the gnome fell onto his back and watched as the warm tangerine red dusk meld into a violet and black sky.

The next morning, the gnome woke to a dry heat. Without a cloud in the sky, the harsh rays of the sun pierced through the blades of grass as if trying to wake him up. Still comfortable with arms and legs sprawled out, he remained on his back for a moment before he rubbed the rest of the sleep from his eyes and sat up; wiping the sweat from his forehead. As he glanced about the garden, he quickly donned a pained expression as he was reminded of the previous day’s event.

“You’ve made a mess.” 

The gnome quickly turned to the source of the voice to find the mole protruding from the ground a few feet away. As quickly as he could, he grabbed his shovel and dashed toward the creature. As it dove back into its tunnel the gnome thrusted his arm into the ground feeling for an opportunity to grab the mole. When he could not feel anything he began to dig.

“You’re welcome by the way.” said the mole’s voice from behind. 

The gnome sighed and turned to see the mole poking out from another hole. 

“Do you know how much pain you would be in if I bit you?”

“You are quite a generous creature then.” replied the gnome in mock appreciation. 

“I wish I could say the same.” 

“Will you please go away?” 

“Am I that much of a headache for you?”

“Not once have I allowed any pest to ruin this garden. I will not start now." 

“That would explain why this place is so beautiful.” 

“Yes. And your tunnels and digging are ruining it.”

“I believe your shovel’s done more damage than my digging.” 

“My shovel is what created this garden.”

“And it's also digging a bigger hole than my claws.” 

“Have you shown up just to mock me?”

“No. I’m here to tell you that you might have bigger problems.” said the mole, gesturing with his snout in a direction. 

The gnome turned to see two strangers, a man with hazelnut hair in a cream colored tunic with black trousers and a pale woman in a dark walnut dress laced with white frills, walking through the garden as if inspecting the flowers. The gnome’s eyebrows wrinkled, sweat began to run down his forehead, and his breathing quickened. He turned back toward the mole expecting answers, but instead found an empty mound of dirt. He gulped and took a few slow breaths. He grabbed his shovel and slowly began to crawl through the flowers in the direction of the intruders.

“I still can’t believe this place has any flowers. I was expecting a giant lot with a bunch of dead shrubbery.” said the man. 

“Did your grandfather have any hired hands?” asked the woman. 

“Not that I’m aware of. Also, I remember this place being bigger.” 

The woman let out a small gasp. 

“Oh! Why don’t we take some?” 

“I think we have enough plants as it is dear.” 

“No, not for us. It could be a gift for the Wimbletons later. You know, try to butter them up?” the woman said with a smile. 

“Well why didn’t we just gather some of the ones at home?”

“First, no. Second, look at these. They’re perfect and it’s not like there’s anyone around anymore to notice.” 

“Hey.” 

“I’m sorry hun. But you know what I mean.”

The gnome’s head tilted to the side and his eyes narrowed at the mention of the word ‘grandfather’. His eyes darted toward the ground and then back at the man as he began to tap his thumb against the handle of his shovel. The man glanced about the field pondering the woman’s words and within the brief moment that neither of them spoke the gnome stepped out from the flowers. 

“You are related to the master of this garden?” 

The man and woman quickly turned to the source of the voice, their eyes widened in the discovery that they were not alone. 

“And who am I speaking to?” said the man. 

“I am the caretaker of this garden.” 

“It’s not often you see a gnome working in a garden for a human.” 

“It is also uncommon for humans to help gnomes. Now please, where is the master?” 

“Can I at least have your name first?” 

“No.”

“Ok. My name is Darrel, this is my wife Jessibel.” 

“These flowers are beautiful.” said Jessibel, “It must be hard caring for a garden this large alone.” 

“When one loves what they do they find ways to make it work.” replied the gnome. 

“Would you mind if we took some? They would help for some business that we have later.” 

“If you will not tell me where the master is, then I will ask you to leave.” said the gnome as he held his shovel in front of him once again, preparing himself to chase them off.

“Hey.” Darrel said in a calmer voice, “We don’t want any trouble. We just never heard of a gnome working for my grandfather is all.” 

“So your grandfather is the master of this garden?” 

“That’s right.” 

“Your grandfather charged me with the care of this garden nearly eight years ago.” 

“Then why haven’t we heard about you?” 

“Why do I have no knowledge of you?” the gnome retorted. 

The two looked at each other before Darrel crossed his arms and spoke again. 

“I guess the old man had some secrets huh?” 

The gnome did not respond. 

“My grandfather, your master, passed away about two years ago.” 

“Passed away?” 

“He died.” 

“I see.” said the gnome as his eyes fell toward the ground; his shovel slowly lowered to his side. 

He was not shocked at this news. Rather, what surprised him was how unsurprised he was since he knew that something had to have happened causing the master’s absence. Still, death did not make sense to him. He could remember walking alongside the old man; smiling as they decided what new combination of flowers to plant next. He remembered the day they ran through the entire garden spreading bug repellent they had hastily crafted together from a mix of herbs, and the curses the master shouted all day after falling into a bush of not yet de-thorned roses. Each time the old man seemed full of life. 

“How?” 

“Heart attack.” replied Darrel, “Happened the day after my son’s birthday.” 

“My condolences.” said the gnome. 

“Thank you.” 

“Was he buried?”

 

“Other side of the town.”

 

After a brief silence the gnome nodded and began to head for the entrance to the garden.

 

“We can take you there if you’d like?” said Jessibel

 

The gnome stopped.

 

“Jess, what are you…”

 

“He’s been here all this time and didn’t even know about your grandfather’s passing. Have some pity for him.”

 

Darrel let out a sigh.

 

“We won’t be able to take you all the way to the cemetery.”

 

“At the very least we can take you to the center market. It’s just a quick walk from there.” Jessibel added.

 

The gnome did not say anything.

 

“Or if you prefer to go alone that’s fine as well.”

 

“six” replied the gnome.

 

“What?” said Darrel.

 

“You may take six stems. I believe that will be enough for a decent sized arrangement. In exchange for the escort to town.”

 

“That’s not very much.”

 

“What he means to say is thank you.” Jessibel said, placing a hand on Darrel’s arm, “We kindly accept.”

 

The gnome watched as the two carefully inspected the flowers while silently arguing. After what felt like hours, the two had come to an agreement and even asked the gnome for his opinion. He could not understand why they felt the need to explain their decision process, so he nodded and agreed with everything they said in hopes that they would soon leave.

 

After exiting the garden, the gnome followed them to a large rustic wooden wagon with a loosely packed array of crates which they rode to town. When they arrived, the sight of tall rectangle buildings with sharply slanted roofs and neatly placed stone roads greeted them. They proceeded further into town, winding around buildings and exchanging greetings with others, until eventually they arrived at a bustling cross street surrounded by various shops of wares, clothes, jewelry, and the like. The gnome scrunched his face at the taste of sweat in the air as a scattering of people rushed through the streets carrying large boxes or bags. After slowly moving through the crowd, the wagon halted next to a much fatter building with the words 'Wimbleton’s General Goods' written in ornate letters above the entrance.

 

"Alright. This is as far we go." Darrel said.

 

He then pointed toward a path branching away from the market.

 

“Keep going straight that way and you’ll eventually reach the cemetery. Look for the headstone with bronze letters.”

 

“Thank you.” replied the gnome before he hopped off the wagon.

 

“Take care.” Jessibel said with a smile.

 

The gnome nodded once and began to walk in the direction Darrel pointed before stopping after a couple steps. For the first time since caring for the garden, it occurred to him that he did not know the master’s name. After pausing, he turned back toward the two who began unloading the crates and heading into the store.

 

“Could you tell me his name?” the gnome shouted at them.

 

“What?” replied Darrel.

 

The gnome stared at them.

 

“You spent years together and you didn’t even know his name?”

 

“I never needed to know.”

 

The two looked at each other before looking back toward the gnome.

 

“Valentine Watt”

 

The gnome nodded once again and proceeded up the path passing an assortment of houses; some seemingly abandoned. Occasionally humans stared at him in passing and a few times small groups of town gnomes called out to him offering assistance. A part of him wanted to interact with them as he had not seen another gnome in years, but the deceit that leaked from their smiles signaled him to keep moving. By the time he arrived at the cemetery the sun had already begun to set.

 

The trees were sparse, but stood proudly over the land. Hydrangea, a blue flower that grew in a bush like formations, dotted the cemetery and headstones were neatly aligned in rows. The further into the cemetery he went, he noticed them become more decorated; some carrying small statues of angels while others had elements of bronze or gold added to the lettering. It was after passing a small pond that he found what he was searching for. It was cleanly carved. The surface was smooth to the touch. Two engraved angels adorned each side and the letters were written in a dull bronze.

 

“Vallentine Watt departed this life on the eighth day of the third summer month in the ninety-eighth year of his age.”

 

He did not say anything. He did not utter prayers, nor ask questions, nor recite any speech. Instead, he tried to wipe the smudges off of the bronze letters with his thumb. Despite the elegance the bronze added to the head stone, the lack of shine in the sunset light bothered him and he wanted to try to polish it a little. When his thumb became too dirty, he decided that some water would help. He retrieved some water from the pond, poured it over the headstone and continued to rub at the letters using his hat this time instead of his thumb or fingers. When a slightly brighter shine became apparent, he adorned his now dirty wet hat and began to pluck several hydrangeas from a nearby bush and placed them atop the grave.

 

“Oi” said a voice from behind him.

 

He spun around to see a large man covered in armor. 

 

“You going to pay for those?”

 

“Pay?”

 

“Those flowers belong to the cemetery.”

 

“I thought they were for the graves.”

 

“You see any other graves with blue flowers on them?”

 

The gnome glanced about and noticed that none of the graves indeed did not have any blue flowers on them.

 

“No.”

 

“No.” the guard repeated.

 

“I have no money.”

 

“Then I need those back.”

 

After a pause, the gnome spoke up again.

 

“Hydrangeas.”

 

“What?”

 

“That is the name of the flowers.”

 

“I didn’t ask for the name.”

 

“These flowers grow quickly during the summer. Within a couple of weeks, more will bloom and it will look like I took none.”

 

“If I allowed everyone to pick them this entire place would be bare.”

 

The guard stuck out his hand expectantly. The gnome quietly collected the flowers and handed them over.

 

“Strange for a gnome to visit a human cemetery.”

 

“I owe a great deal to this man.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I had nowhere to go and he took me in.”

 

The guard grunted. 

 

“We close the gates just after sundown. Make sure you are out before then.”

 

The gnome nodded and the guard walked away. In front of the grave, alone with no flowers nor relatives and a dirty hat, the gnome sat in silence. Eventually, the sound of muffled footsteps and conversation broke him out of his stupor. He turned to see people making their way to the cemetery gates, some staring at him in passing. Recognizing that the time had come for the cemetery to close its gates, the gnome took one final glance at the grave before following the people out.

He barely remembered his walk back to the garden. Or the branching paths leading out of the town. Or the darkened road barely lit by soft moonlight. It was only when he arrived at the gates that marked the entrance of the garden did realize how far he walked. The cold night air had numbed his legs, blisters had developed on his heels and he could feel a sharp pain in the soles of his feet. Still, he pressed on through the garden, following the familiar paths eventually reaching his shed. Before entering, he stood in the doorway glancing about the room. He looked at the scattered and disorganized books on the shelves and tables, then at the pot in the lifeless fireplace, and then at the bed. Despite the fatigue, he felt like he needed to do something. So he started a fire. He was not hungry, but decided to make a stew anyway. When his belly was full he sat in front of the fireplace and stared at the fire until sleep took him. 

The next morning, he woke up later than usual. The slim beams of light piercing through the cracks in his shed told him that it was already past noon. Somehow, he felt more tired than he did before he went to sleep, but he forced himself out of bed. Despite his still aching feet and heavy eyes, he went to make his rounds in the garden as he usually did. 

Days passed. With each new mound of dirt he found, sometimes in the same spot as the previous day, he grew increasingly frustrated. Sometimes he could see the mole pop out from the ground, gather some flowers, and dive back underground. He thought about giving chase, but felt too tired to do so. Often he found it hard to sleep and would stay up late watching the fire because he knew that he would find more holes in the ground to cover with more uprooted flowers the next day. The more tired the gnome became the less flowers he was able to tend to. Eventually, the flowers began to wither, weeds began to sprout, and the grass turned brown.

One day, he found a hole near a rose patch and pricked his thumb trying to replant the roses. He set his shovel down, removed the thorn, and pressed on further down the path. When he reached the next hole, he realized he had forgotten his shovel, so he used his hands to cover the hole. After patting down the dirt, he walked back up the path where he found his shovel next to the hole by the roses he had filled. Except it had been dug up again. So he filled it in again, walked back down the path, and found that the hole he had just filled earlier had also been dug up again. He gritted his teeth as he began to fill it in again.

“You haven’t been watering the flowers properly.”

The gnome’s eyebrows immediately furrowed upon hearing the familiar voice and he continued to cover the hole.

“Just yesterday I found three sets of roses that are starting to dry up.” the mole continued.

“And why do you care about that?"

“Well I sure as hell can’t water the flowers for you.” the mole retorted, waving his paddle like paws, “ All I can do is get rid of the bugs.” 

“What bugs?”

“Exactly! You’re welcome!”

The gnome let out a sigh of frustration. He finished replanting a tulip, stood, and turned toward the mole.

"Why have you stopped caring for the garden?" asked the mole.

"I am caring for the garden."

"You’re not exactly doing a great job."

"And I suppose you think your digging or you stealing flowers is helping?"

“A few here and there doesn't hurt.”

“Yes, stealing flowers that you did not plant nor care for is perfectly fine.” the gnome said sarcastically. 

“You don't own this garden.”

“No. I was charged as the caretaker. And you are a pest.”

There was a slight twitch in the mole' snout before he spoke again.

“Tell me. A week ago you left with the people. Since then, you’ve stopped caring for the garden. Why?” 

“What must I do to make you leave?” 

“Did you find out something you didn’t want to hear?” 

“Is it food? If so, I’ll get you all the food you want."

“Did you see something that you didn't want to see?”

The gnome gritted his teeth harder and his knuckles turned white while gripping his shovel. 

“Flowers?” the gnome spat. “I have seen you taking some and dragging them into your tunnels. I will give you whatever you want if you will just leave.”

“Did you find out that you were doing something pointless?” 

The gnome screamed as he dashed toward the mole; his face red, eyes nearly bulging, and veins visible on his forehead. The mole dove underground and the gnome began frantically digging; occasionally shoving in his arm as if punching the earth attempting to grab the creature. When that failed, he rushed to his shed and began digging through all of his gardening equipment. He tossed aside old rusted tools and bags of seeds until he found a few clay jugs and pots containing different colored liquids and dried plants; spare components from when he would craft pesticides. He made as much as he could and began pouring them down every hole he came across in the garden. Over the next few days, the flowers faded to sickly shades of their former colors and patches of grass soon turned into empty patches of dirt.

 

When he still saw the mole emerge from the ground seemingly unaffected from the poison, he decided that he needed to take more drastic measures. He began to collect bundles of the dried grass and weeds and stuffed them into every hole in the ground he could. When he finished, he rushed to his shed and collected some flint and steel. Then he began walking through the paths lighting each hole that he had stuffed. The fires caught. And slowly, the gnome watched with wide eyes as the small embers he lit grew into an inferno and seemingly swallowed the garden whole. The fire burned late into the night and the gnome sat near his shed watching as the last of the fire left behind a wasteland of black and ash. Miraculously, a few patches of tulips survived, but even those were scarred by the flames. His eyelids grew heavy and his head nodded as he fought against sleep, trying to ensure that the mole was dead. Just as his vision faded to black, the mole emerged from the ground.

The next morning, he jolted up from his sleep and glanced about the garden. After a few seconds, entered his shed and gathered a few thin lines of rope he had among the equipment, ripped some pieces off from an extra tunic, and did what he could to craft a functional sling. When he finished, he gathered what rocks he could find outside and waited for the mole to appear. Hours passed and still there was no sign of the mole, so he decided to practice using the sling. He aimed at his shed and at random spots on the ground missing by wide margins the first couple times, but by the time the sun dipped below the mountains he had improved. As he was about to sling another rock, some movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. The mole emerged from the ground a few yards away, seemingly glancing over what used to be the garden. The gnome grabbed a rock and slowly made his way toward the mole, preparing the sling. When he was just a few yards away, he slung the rock as hard as he could and it struck the mole across the head. The gnome jumped for joy and let out a cry of victory upon striking his target. For a moment, he thought he managed to kill the mole until he saw it weakly crawl back into the ground. He grabbed his shovel, rushed over to the spot, and began to dig as quickly as he could without stopping. He dug well into the night until he uncovered a small underground pocket. In it, was a bed of flower petals from all the missing flowers. Atop them was the mole barely breathing and bloody. But what surprised the gnome was that next to the mole was the body of a slightly smaller mole.

“What is this?” 

“I suppose you'll be taking your flowers back.” 

The gnome moved closer. As he reached out toward the smaller body, the mole quickly shot forward and scratched the gnome.

“You touch her and I’ll gut you before my last breath.”

“If you wanted flowers for something like this I would have helped.” 

“And have you try to remove her from your garden too? I don't think so.” 

“Who is she? And I was trying to chase you out of the garden. Not hunt you.” 

“Maybe focus on more scaring and less killing then.” 

“I did not mean to... ” 

“To use poison.” the mole interrupted, “to burn my tunnels, to strike me?”

“I just wanted you to leave.” 

“Well you won’t have to worry about that anymore.”

There was a moment of silence between them. 

“Maybe I can find something to help.” said the gnome. 

“And what would I do if you helped me.” 

“Survive.” 

“And go to the better place that you couldn't point out? I’m old. I’m tired. And she would’ve loved this place." Said the mole as he faced the smaller body.

“Even now?”

“Hmm?” 

“All this?” the gnome gestured to the surrounding area. “burnt weeds. Ash.” 

The mole let out a chuckle. 

"Funny. All I see and smell right now are flowers." 

"You did not tell me who she was."

The mole did not respond. 

When the gnome turned his head, he saw the mole lying motionless on the bed of flower petals; his head atop the body of the other mole. The gnome sat there for a few minutes, staring across the destroyed garden before he picked up the two bodies and carried it to one of the two remaining patches of flowers near his shed. He dug a pit in the middle of the patch, placed the bodies in it and promptly buried them; replanting the flowers on top. He did not know why he did it. He just felt like doing it. Afterwards, he entered his home, laid down in his bed, and stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

The next morning, he packed what gardening tools he could in a sack. Upon exiting his shed, he looked at the last two patches of flowers. Then he looked at where the bodies of the moles were. He stared at the grave for a few seconds, saying nothing, before he adjusted his pack and made his way out of the garden toward the town. 

When he arrived, he had completely forgotten the roads and the layout to the town, so he asked around for directions to the general store. Some people ignored him while others tricked him, giving him directions leading him in circles or to a random spot in town. After finally getting the correct directions from someone kind enough to not lie, he found himself approaching a familiar busy cross section. He entered the general store and spoke to the clerk. After a brief discussion on available work, he received directions leading toward the outskirts on the other side of town. He followed the roads he was told until he arrived at a small house that resembled more of large cottage in an open field just outside the town. He approached the front door and knocked.

When the door opened, the gnome saw Darrel standing on the other side, surprise evident on his face.

“I am skilled in gardening. I can make sure that your garden is quite fruitful all year.”

After a moment, Darrel invited him in where Jessibel also greeted the gnome in surprise. They talked about the work that needed to be done and mentioned that they had little money to pay him. When the gnome said that all he needed was a shed large enough to accommodate his size, Darrel made an offer to provide some pay and allow the gnome to stay in their shed to which the gnome readily agreed. Darrel  began to show him toward the back of the cottage when, passing through a short hallway, a picture caught the gnome’s eye. It was a picture of an old man, his former master, holding a large fish. The gnome looked at for a second before picking up.

“May I have this?” asked the gnome.

Darrel turned back and looked at the picture and then at the gnome. 

“Are you sure?”

The gnome nodded.

Darrel then proceeded to show the gnome the back field where all of the fruits, vegetables, and flowers were. Once that was finished, Darrel led the gnome to a shed much larger than the one he had stayed in before and just a few yards away from the cottage.

“Hey.” Darrel said.

The gnome turned to Darrel.

“Thank you for helping us. Honestly it was starting to get a bit overwhelming with just me and Jess.”

The gnome nodded and turned back toward the shed.

“Alright, I leave you to it. Make yourself comfortable and if you have any questions or anything feel free to…you know…talk to us.”

“Thank you.” the gnome replied before entering the shed.

When inside, he placed his things against the wall and found a small shelf to place the picture of his previous master. He then made his way to the garden where he began to examine and water some of the plants. When he examined some strawberry bushes that seemed ripe for picking, he plucked one and took a bite. As he chewed on the sweet fruit, he could feel a tear run down his cheek.


Submitted: December 02, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Eddieson Burkhalter. All rights reserved.

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LE. Berry

What a wonderfully descriptive piece Eddieson!

Wed, December 2nd, 2020 9:59pm

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