Heck Hath Gnome Fury

(Preamble: This is the first creative writing I've done in...wow...years. I actually meant to submit this story to last week's contest, but ran out of time, somewhat ironically, as I was distracted with yard work. As our little porcelain fella works at night--possibly exclusively, though I did not feel it necessary to specify for certain--I felt it was appropriate to submit this story here. Hopefully I didn't leave in any glaring mistakes and someone out there enjoys reading it, maybe even has a few laughs. Grow gardens, not hate. ~ Mark)

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I've been in this garden longer than I can remember. Longer than the strawberry patch. Longer than the dog. Maybe even longer than the walnut tree. I can remember the first pitter patter of little steps on the deck. Heck...I can remember when that deck was built! I witnessed countless birthday parties and barbeques, water gun fights and games of hide and seek. I even got to watch as those pitter patters grew up and had pitter patters of their own.

I was the first ornament placed in the garden after the house was built. Through snow and wind and rain I sat on my pedestal watching over the tulips like a true warden, protecting the garden from squirrel raids and bird attacks. Sun up, sun down, facing bugs, hose blasts to the face. It didn't matter. I was their guy. I had pride. I had purpose.

And then it happened.

One day, unceremoniously, I was on watch on a cold afternoon in early spring, when I found myself being hoisted off my pedestal and carried across the lawn, up the slight hill near the back of the property, and...whoosh! Through the air I flew, landing on a patch of moss, cracking a little hole in my hat. I sat there beside a dented lid to an old rain barrel and a cracked watering can like just another forgotten ornament with chipped paint and a stupid hat. Can you believe it? Me! The warden of the garden! Tossed aside like yesterday's news!

One night during a terrible rainstorm, water poured in through the crack in my hat, pooling above my eyebrows, until I felt like a teacup filled with rage, sloshing with spite. It was then that I got my first glance of that thing. The rain pooled in the dented rain barrel lid, just enough to catch the garden's shape upside down. That's when I saw it. Perched on my pedestal, glinting like a smug egg.

I didn't even notice it at first. Just a gleam between the thyme and the sprinkler. But once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it. In my spot atop the pedestal was a strange-looking, glassy, chrome ball. An odd looking thing. To think, me, the warden of the garden, replaced by a smooth-faced "modern art orb" from a big box store. All minimalist chrome and absolutely no personality. I hated it. And worst of all, in the orb's smug shiny reflection, I saw myself.

I vowed revenge. Against that old man for tossing me back here and cracking my hat. Against the family for replacing me. Against that awful gaudy orb for...existing...and that evening I did something that I don't suppose a gnome had ever done before, or since. I prayed. I prayed for the power to get my revenge. Not to destroy or to murder. No. I'm far too petty for that. I wanted slow revenge. The kind that will truly make them pay. And just as I vowed quietly but firmly to ruin at least one hydrangea by dawn...the lightning struck.

With a bang, lightning struck an old elm tree sitting nearby, flowing through its branches and arcing down to my hat, like Michelangelo's Creation of Adam, the spark coursed through my porcelain body and filled me with a strange sensation. Life. With little time for introspection, I went immediately to work--time to ruin someone's begonias.

I went tirelessly to work that first night, causing slightly inconvenient chaos in the garden. With a mischievous wave of my hand, I bid good evening to the begonias before I stopped. No. It wasn't their fault that I'd been shunned. I settled with moving a couple solar lights a few inches to the left and uncoiling the hose, causing a terrible trip hazard. I went to "sleep" just as twilight broke, giggling quietly as the old man cursed his "rotten grandkids" for leaving his hose out while huffing and puffing, trotting out in his bunny slippers and pink housecoat.

The following night, I was determined to top it. I started by sneaking into the kitchen through the doggy door and grabbing some stale bread out of the garbage can, before throwing it all on the deck for the raccoons. The old man was cursing again the next morning, when he found the absolute mess they made on the back deck. Serves him right.

I spent the next few nights causing havoc for that poor old man. The third night, I whispered nonsense through an open bedroom window to an Alexa on the nightstand, causing confusion. I waited until the old man fell asleep again to ask it to play Hocus Pocus by Focus at maximum volume...at 3am. I almost felt bad.

The fourth night was my finest work yet. I swapped all of the old man's plant markers. Mint became basil. Carrots became beets. Culinary confusion ensued. I also convinced a couple of squirrels to plant chesnuts in the old man's gutters. That one won't pay off for a while, but I'm still chuckling about it.

It rained again on the fifth night. I left muddy footprints all over his kitchen.

On the sixth night, I found the doggy door locked, so I unplugged the fountain pump just enough to make it gurgle incessantly. That was also the first night I truly got angry. After I tilted the sprinkler, so it sprayed through the open window into the living room, I spent the rest of the night mustering all my strength to push that stupid orb off the pedestal and into the pond.

One night, I came to an ethical conclusion. So far, the old man had been flustered and confused, convinced his grandkids had been playing a prank on him. It was time to up the stakes...but how far should I go. I hesitated before switching the labels on his weed killer and plant food bottles in the shed.

The next night, I decided to up the ante. I managed to wiggle open the loose gate latch so the family dog can sneak out--just for a bit. Enough to cause panic.

The next morning, I woke to a scream. The old man's youngest grandson...a toddler, had managed to sneak out through the gate and wander into the road, before his mother ran after him, grabbing him in the nick of time. This wasn't funny. It wasn't clever. I wanted attention, not trauma. I crawled back behind the shed that evening and did another thing I'd never done before. I wept.

For the first time, I'd felt as if I didn't deserve my pedestal, and that my spot behind the shed beside the cracked watering can was where I belonged. I stayed behind the shed as spring turned to summer. I felt terrible—but the full weight of my actions didn’t hit until I finally peeked out

The gutters had overgrown with weeds and chestnut seedlings.

The tomatoes looked sick. Their leaves were yellowing, and the old man sat looking over them scratching his head. The man, sounding defeated, muttered out loud to himself, "I don't know what I'm doing wrong." That hit me harder than any lightning bolt.

The dog sat in the yard, quiet, chained to a leash. Once free to roam the garden, the old man must have started putting him on a tether, worried he'll escape through the wonky gate. The dog now sat on the tether looking confused and a little depressed. I imagined he felt the same way I did when I first found myself behind that shed. That hurt.

The orb was... gone. Not replaced. Not moved. Gone. The pedestal sat empty. No triumphant gnome. No flashy gawdy orb. Just...nothing. Like they gave up decorating altogether. I hadn't won. I'd erased something.

And the worst sight. The absolute worst sight that had ever befalled my eyes sat leaning against the house beside the back door. A for sale sign. The chaos, the stress, it had been too much. The poor old man didn't deserve this, and it was up to him to fix it.

I spent that night switching back the labels on the weed killer and plant food. This was no easy endeavour. I managed to sneak into the greenhouse and climb onto the shelf using a rake as a ladder, nearly knocking over a paint can in the process. On my way down, I fell and got stuck Winnie the Pooh style, upside down in a watering can briefly, but managed to free myself. How humiliating!

With some time to spare, I grabbed a nail file from the shed and climbed onto an upside-down flower pot to clip the yellowed leaves. Just as I finished, the pot fell, and—splat! I landed right into a pile of “compost” courtesy of the dog. I limped back, muttering, “Wish I had time to hose myself off. Yuck!"

The second night, I shimmied up the downspout with twine and a spoon tucked into my belt, like a secret agent gnome, and started clearing out the eavestroughs myself! This was a little scary, I'll admit. After all, I'm made of porcelain and not at all acrobatic. Twice I nearly fell into the petunias, but it was the right thing to do.

The third night, I fixed the gate. This was...frustrating. I first tried to jam a twig into the latch to hold it closed, but it snapped. Working with a smattering of discarded items from behind the shed and the contents of some old boxes in the shed, I then tried to tie it with some leftover Christmas tinsel, but managed to get myself tangled in it like a festive hostage. How Christmasy.

Finally, with a piece of old scrap baling wire I salvaged from behind the shed, I managed to fix the latch. In my own strange way, I felt happy for the wire, being able to serve its purpose again after many winters in the scrap pile. Forgotten. One man's treasure, I said, as I snickered, pulling tinsel out of both my cracks.

I even freed the dog. Loosened the stake with a rock, easy enough, until the leash wrapped around my ankles, and when it took off, I got dragged across the lawn like a garden sled. “Just once,” I muttered, “I’d like a montage, not a pratfall.”

As a final gesture, I swept the deck with a broken fern frond and made a heart from rose petals. The wind scattered them. “Fine. Nature’s a critic,” I sighed, watering the daisies. “It’s the thought that counts."

By the end of the week, the tomatoes perked up, the garden bloomed again, the dog and the child roamed leash-free, and the old man even whistled happily as he trimmed the hedges. The garden recovered. And I? I stayed hidden. I didn't want the credit. I just wanted the garden to feel like a happy place again.

Then, one morning, something unexpected happened.

I felt myself being lifted. Gently, this time. Not tossed, not hurled, just lifted.

He turned me in his hands for a moment, before examining my cracked hat. Then, with a pensive "Hmm..." he carried me somewhere and set me down. Not on my pedestal, no. Right in the strawberry patch, nestled between the bird feeders and the bird bath, where the sunlight hits first in the morning. I was no longer the warden of the garden, but I was home.

As for the orb? Well, it disappeared for a while.

Some say it rolled into the pond, sunk to the bottom to annoy some very judgemental koi. Others claim it's in the garage now, contemplating its own revenge amongst the Christmas decorations and half-used cans of deck stain.

But the other day, I could swear I saw a glint in the side mirror of a large delivery van parked in the drive, right near the front walkway, tucked between two tall, very modern looking planters. Under an art deco trellis sitting there was something round, smooth, reflective, and suspiciously orb-shaped.

It didn't look smug where it was. Just polished. Regal, even. Perhaps it found a better home, more suited to its Scandinavian minimistic sensibilities. Somewhere symmetrical with clean, straight lines and tasteful dyed mulch.

And you know what? Good for it.

We're not so different, really... except I have charm, character, and actual eyebrows.

But if it ever tried to sneak back onto my pedestal again? Let's just say, I've got a garden hose and I'm not afraid to use it.