Ok, I wasn’t going to say anything, but now must. Some might think that I’m a conspiracy theorist, but I’m not. Nor am I looney. At least, I don’t think I am--a conspiracy theorist, that is. Just bear with me and make your own decision.
The other day, I was minding my own business out in my yard like I always do, like anyone does--and everyone should do--mind their own business. Anyway, I was out in the yard (I said that already, didn’t I?) watching my grass turn brown as it always does when Summer gives way to Fall. I was thinking about how my neighbor across the street sowed Winter grass seed into his yard and how it always stays green. And I was thinking about how quickly all the leaves in my little tree seemed to fall off so quickly, all at once.
So I hear this crunching sound, of someone walking up behind me. “The little girl from next door must be coming over to say ‘hello’” I thought to myself. I tried to come up with some fun way to greet her when suddenly the crunching noise stopped and a tiny, sound came to my ears, like someone was talking through ceramic.
“Ahem. A-hem!” came the voice. I turned, but no one was there.
“Hey!” a voice called through pottery. Then I felt it. A sharp pain in my toe.
“Ow!” I exclaimed. As I brought my foot up reflexively, I saw him. Right down there. At my feet. Having driven his little tiny mining pick through my shoe, he glared at me. “Got your attention now, have I?”
“Uhhh, yes . . . “ I cautiously answered, staring at the garden gnome.
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| My Visitor |
“Good. ‘Cause I gotta tell you about what’s REALLY going on around here,” he piped matter-of-factly.
Ok. My attention was arrested. Manacled. Shackled. Fettered and bound to this pot-bellied, er, pot that stood before me. “Does that pointy hat ever come off?” I wondered to myself. “What do they look like . . ?”
“Hey!” he shouted. I jumped.
“You listening?” Pointing his mining pick at me. I nodded, feeling threatened.
“Good. ‘Cause it’s time someone knew.” He stepped toward me, looking to his right, then to his left--as if watching for spies.
“C’mere,” he gestured, whispering. “Get lower. Lower.” I hunkered down, turning my head to hear his tiny voice. “I’m gonna tell you . . . “
“What?” I whispered, wide eyed. Listening. I could feel something like breath on my ear, a tiny wind, only it was cold. Instantly my ear felt shot through like a bee sting.
“Tag! You’re 'IT'!”
From my spot on the ground where I fell backwards, all I could see where little black boots running under his fat bouncing ceramic bottom as he disappeared into the bushes.
