Living on the Lawn

All was quiet in the Chapman’s front yard. The birds hadn’t started chirping, nor the dogs barking; movement was scarce. The morning dew glistened atop the strands of grass without disturbance from feet or paws. Random lawn ornaments were strewn haphazardly across the yard – flamingos, bird baths and feeders, statues, but most of all, gnomes. Mrs. Chapman had a strange obsession with peculiar garden gnomes which she could only satisfy by placing about ten on her lawn. Each was different – “their own personality,” she said. She was right; however, her perception only brushed the surface of reality.

On the left side of the lawn, something began to stir. It was no mouse although it made no sound. It was no bird although it was light and colorful. Instead, one of Mrs. Chapman’s precious gnomes was digging in the dirt. His bright green hat flopped to one side, only staying atop his head by his big ears. His maroon jacket hung loose on his frame, accompanied by a small spade and pail. The black trousers he wore were becoming covered in mud as he hunted for worms – his least favorite grub – to give to the birds when they woke. Gnomes are early risers, you see, as they must be ready for a nap by the time humans wake. This means that all of their gallivanting must happen between nightfall and two hours after sunrise, when the earliest of people begin to awake. So on this early mid-March morning, Peter began his morning hunt.

Although he hated worms more than any other garden dwelling organism, he loved the birds that washed themselves in the bird bath on the south side of the lawn. Every morning, Peter would get up before the others to find worms for the lovely birds. He would find five wriggly, squishy red worms and scoop them up with his spade. Then he plucked the writhing strings out of the dirt and placed them into his copper pail. Stumbling across the lawn, Peter trekked across the lengthy cobblestone pathway to the stepping stones. After bidding the flamingos a good morning, he placed the pail high above his head on the ornately designed stone pulpit. He then climbed, steadily up the curvaceous trunk of the granite mass. When he could finally hoist himself on top of the gargantuan platform he reached for his pail and walk across the platform towards the bird bath. Placing the worms slowly in the shallow swimming hole, Peter gazed around the yard. Clubs, balls and toys constantly littered the yard, but something was out of place.

There was a long, slender stick lying on the ground by the porch – its rounded top curved to create force and intimidation. The sun glistened off the head, sending bright flashes at Peter’s eyes. Scared by the new object, Peter hurried back down the platform and over to the gnome-huts he had built for the clan. Rousing them all with frantic energy, he called a meeting to adjourn in ten minutes. His fellow gnomes gathered around him at the flamingo sanctuary, nestled in a tight circle to keep their voices low.

Peter pondered about how to explain his findings of the morning. His mouth opened and closed, then opened once more before words came out. “You see, I called the meeting because I have found something that could be potentially harmful to our community. This morning when I was giving the birds their morning worms, I gazed across the lawn and found something very unexpected.” Mutters began stirring around the group – whispered words echoing in the relative silence. “A new beast has been added to the lawn!”

“What the hell is going on here?” inquired the eldest gnome, Garfunkel. “What beast?”

“Over there, by the porch!” a youngling squeaked. “See it? The long, shiny stick?” Heads turned and gasps were heard by the womenfolk. The men grunted and harrumphed. Children squawked and squeaked and jumped in fright.

Garfunkel pounded his hand on the ground to gain the gnomes attention. “Quiet! Quiet! Now that we’re all aware of the shiny stick in the yard, we must discuss the matter at hand. Why do you assume, Peter, that this stick could harm our community? Hmm?”

“Well, sir, I fear that this stick will serve the same purpose as the big brown bat from last year.” Another round of gasps were heard. “I fear that we will become play things once again.”

“Nonsense! Nonsense! You have no reasoning for such accusations!” barked Garfunkel. Garfunkel was in no condition to waste his energy with such bold misconceptions, let alone from Peter. As the elder, Garfunkel had a reputation to keep up – no nonsense, no fright, no unnecessary quarrels.

“But what if he’s right?” Marian, one of the womenfolk, piped up. “What if this thing really will swat away some of us, like poor Billy and Benjamin?”

Garfunkel gave her a stern look for instilling fear in his clan, but continued with his rant. “Listen here! If there is any danger, I would have come to you all with the news. But as it has been presented, there is no sure danger at all. Who knows whether the stick will beat us or brandish our bodies? No one! It is most likely just one of Mr. Chapman’s toys that he forgot to bring inside. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my morning routine. I have stretches to do, food to gather, and naps to take. I suggest you all do the same!” And with that, he stormed off to his hut on the other side of the lawn.

As the others scattered away, muttering about Peter’s nonsense, Peter sighed and took a seat next to the flamingos. He put his head in his hands, took a deep breath, and began to think. Why would Garfunkel react that way? Why would he just dismiss Peter to make him look like a fool? He was only trying to help the clan be precautious in case something out of the ordinary happened. The day passed, but Peter did not move. Just before a person would pass by, each gnome would freeze in their respective positions and wait until the passerby went away. Due to the previous disruption in their schedules, the gnomes were not able to nap like they would during the day and instead, were trying to make do with the time they had.

Once, Mr. Chapman came outside and walked back and forth on the lawn while Mrs. Chapman stood behind him with a pen and paper. He was muttering and pointing at various places on the lawn while Mrs. Chapman was shaking her head every which way. Sometimes it would wag to the right and then to the left, and other times she would nod vigorously. The couple meandered around the lawn for quite some time, until Mr. Chapman looked at his watch, jumped and bid his wife goodbye while running to the car. She shook her head with frustration and began to puts around the lawn while he zoomed off.

Each gnome was perfectly still as she made her rounds. No flickering of the eyes, no movements, imitating their statue-like nature. The scene could have been mistaken for hobbits escaping from trolls – quickly, quietly, but seemingly motionless to the inattentive eye. Peter held his breath as Mrs. Chapman arrived at the flamingo sanctuary. She always seemed to ponder at the flamingos longer than anything. Perhaps she wished she could escape to the life of a lawn ornament, which would explain her odd obsession. Nevertheless, Mrs. Chapman shifted her gaze from the flamingos to Peter. Her eyebrows scrunched, making her seem like an angry monkey, as she reached out her hand to Peter. Frightened, heart beating out of his chest, Peter remained still and calm-looking at the giant hand reached towards his face. When it clamped around his head, Peter nearly screamed but realized that would cause more trouble than anything. Mrs. Chapman then turned him around in her gigantic paws and said “Now, I thought I put you by the bird bath yesterday,” as she began trotting over to the before mentioned place. She lightly set Peter down so that his feet were in the water and resumed her walk to the porch.

As she retreated inside the house, Peter sighed in relief. He could no longer believe the day he’d had and just wanted to go to sleep. As he ambled towards the gnome-huts, he passed the flamingos again. “You’ve had a rough day, kiddo,” mentioned one. He just nodded and made a slight grunt of agreement as he continued his walk. Once he got to his hut, Peter promptly laid down and attempted to get a good, long rest. He closed his eyes, hummed an old Irish tune and drifted into dreamland after an hour of tossing and turning.

In another hut nearby, Garfunkel was also resting. He was sound asleep – as he had been for hours – when his peace was disturbed. A soft swishing was lapping over his face in an irregular pattern. He would feel the soft object moving from the left side of his face to the right with a few moments separating before it would go back to its original place. Slowly fluttering his eyes open, Garfunkel was faced with a black object attached to an animal. The animal had four legs, paws, and a hefty body. Its face was turned, so he could not make out to what species the beast belonged. Trying to move quietly out of the way, Garfunkel sat up in bed, momentarily forgetting that his cot creaked worse than a crow. This startled both Garfunkel and the beast, who then turned to look at him with wide eyes. Their faces seemed to match with fear and surprise, until the dog, whom Garfunkel recognized as the Rottweiler from next door. Once the dog had regained its senses, it immediately scraped up Garfunkel by the midsection. The dogs fangs were threatening to puncture Garfunkel’s sides as the dog shook its head from side to side, causing Garfunkel to become dizzy from the suddenly crooked view of the world. The dog then proceeded to trot back to his yard and start a game of fetch with himself. He’d toss Garfunkel about twenty meters, cracking limbs upon landing, and chase after it. The dog repeated this process until Garfunkel was nearly shredded, but then deciding that digging was a more entertaining past time, left Garfunkel to bleed what little plaster was inside of him.

Once the sun set and the gnomes regained their consciousness, chaos broke out. There was a mass search for Garfunkel, led by Marian, which lasted for hours. The gnomes night vision was helpful in times like these, when terror struck through the clan. Peter was searching the northern side of the lawn when he happened upon a crack in the fence. Peering through, he saw an unbelievable sight. Gasping with shock, Peter called to the rest of the clan – screaming that he had found Garfunkel. The others rushed over and cries were heard throughout the crowd. Some began to weep, others had no emotion or could not register the state that Garfunkel had been left in. One child even began to climb through the hole in order to get a better look. Almost instantaneously, an elder grabbed the child and reprimanded them for attempting to step off the lawn. It was forsaken, you see, to leave the bushy green grass that was their home. It had been that way since any could remember, and none were about to try otherwise.

A sense of mourning swept over the group as realization set in – their leader had been ruthlessly demolished. This could mean that they were in jeopardy of being wiped out for good, which was enough to put all the gnomes into a frantic frenzy. The younglings were sitting on the ground with sad expressions while the elder gnomes were attempting to create a plan. Eventually, it was decided that each should pair up with another and be extra cautious once day break came. The gnomes then followed the plan by picking pairs and returning to their huts. No morning worms today, Peter thought. He was very distraught by the happenings of the evening and could not wait to get to the safety of his house. He had paired up with a younger gnome by the name of Molly, who adorned a brown hat and floral dress. She didn’t speak much, but instead kept to herself on the other side of the hut. Peter gave up on conversation after several failed attempts to get a word out of the girl and began to document the day’s occurrences.

Time passed and the sun began to rise. It was Saturday morning, which meant that the gnomes went into hiding while the neighbor boy mowed the lawn. Each had their respective spaces; some by the flamingos, others by the huts, and some strewn about in order to appear inanimate while the boy trimmed the lawn’s hair. Peter and Molly took their place at in front of the huts, shaded by a calla lily bush. The boy strolled up the driveway with an archaic lawn mower; headphones in, sleepy eyes, and attention lacking. As he pulled the ignition, the gnomes could sense a danger in his tired state. Beginning with the outer edges, the boy strolled along behind the mower not caring about the even lines Mr. Chapman so desired. Instead, he was tapping his fingers along to the beat from his headphones and vaguely concentrating on the task at hand. At first, he was quite precise but as he continued, his lines began to drift into dangerous territory. He was approaching the gnomes by the flamingos at a rapid speed – too fast for the gnomes to stealthily escape. Looking left, the boy saw a friend and waved. Only seconds later, a crunch was heard under the hood of the lawn mower. The boy assumed it was just a branch and continued until he heard two similar crunches and the lawn mower gurgled to a stop. Cursing, the boy walked to the front of the mower and as his eyes widened realization struck the others. The branches he had passed over were not branches at all. Instead, it was three of the gnomes stationed at the flamingo sanctuary. The boy frantically tried to get the pieces out from the claws of the mower in hopes of salvaging, but there was no hope. He had killed the gnomes without any thought. The boy then packed up his lawn mower, retreated off the lawn hurriedly and avoided the stares from the neighbors. He ran with the mower back to his house and disappeared out of sight.

Peter and Molly were stunned. Neither could comprehend what had just taken place. Not only had their leader been deconstructed earlier that day, but now a group of their beloved gnomes had been demolished by a teenage boy! What was becoming of them? The impending doom of the group was growing greater as more than half of their clan had been murdered in the past few hours. Peter’s brain began a frantic search for possible solutions but none came up. These freak accidents were unconnected and unsolvable. He could not do anything about it and that was the worst part. Peter felt hopeless and as the group’s motivator, he could not convey any thoughts without feeling more and more responsible. Had he brought this upon the group by fearing the shiny stick? He shook his head – thoughts like this would not get him anywhere. He beckoned Molly and retreated to his hut, sure that he would be safe for at least some time. They hugged each other once they were alone, not sure if the simple embrace was enough to symbolize their suffering. They wished for the best for the rest of the group, but could only hope at this point. What weird death trap would pop up now?

Once Peter felt safe enough, he left Molly saying that he needed to be alone for some time. She nodded, not feeling the need to respond, and he traipsed towards the bird bath. Not only did he love the birds here, but he also loved to sit and think on the wonderful platform by the bath. It was his safe space – nobody ever disturbed him here. After a while, though, his thoughts were interrupted by the clash of the screen door. Peter knew this clash – it symbolized Mr. Chapman’s return to the lawn. Around this time of year, Mr. Chapman took up the habit of striking balls across the lawn. The gnomes attempted to stay out of harm’s way, but it was never completely possible. Molly had been meandering in the garden when Mr. Chapman discovered that his shiny stick was lying on the ground. He grunted, picked it up, and looked for something in his bag. When he came up empty, the frustration was etched on his face. He was looking for a tee but did not have one. Peter recognized this situation, similar to that of Billy and Benjamin from last year. Mr. Chapman would not halt his golf for a mere tee – he would just use something similar: something with a pointy top and a flat bottom that could be inverted easily and stuck into the ground.

So Mr. Chapman paced the lawn in search of this object, stopping by Molly’s place in the garden. She had long frozen in hopes to hide herself, but was frightened when Mr. Chapman reached down his grotesque, lion sized hand to grab her. She held her breathe as he carried her across the lawn and inconsiderately placed her hat-down in the ground. Her drawers kept her lady-parts covered, but she was clearly embarrassed as he placed a ball on the bottom of her feet. Teeing up, he made sure that his swing was perfect as he launched the ball towards the pond. The first shot did not go very near any of the gnomes, nor did the second or third, but the fourth came awfully close to Marian. Marina, Peter, and Molly were the only remaining gnomes from the Chapman’s lawn and to protect their kind any death would be an atrocity. The next ball flew over the fence as did the sixth. The seventh, however lucky a number it should have been, marked the first of the deathly golf club. Mr. Chapman hit the ball at a perfect angle, making the ball fly with an apparent rainbow shape towards the pond again. Instead of landing in the pond however, it forcefully collided with Marian’s chest and pushed her into the deep pond. She sputtered and splayed her limbs in attempt to salvage her body, but it was too late. The water was invading her tiny mouth with no remorse. She coughed and choked as the water trickled down her plaster throat, causing her to suffocate and drown.

From the perch, Peter’s eyes grew wider than ever before. Molly, although upside down, shared the same expression as Peter. Pure shock and disbelief was etched on their faces, but Mr. Chapman paid no attention. He kept swinging his club, hitting balls in all directions. A few calm minutes passed before the next lethal sphere launched into the air. This time, it was a direct shot. Instead of an arc the ball made a direct and powerful line towards Peter. Unable to move because of Mr. Chapman’s watchful eye, Peter saw the ball coming straight at him and shut his eyes. If this was to be his end, he was ready. He had seen enough suffering in the past day that if it were food, it could serve an army. Sure enough, the ball came straight for Peter and collided with his head, knocking it straight off almost instantaneously. In his last seconds, he heard Mr. Chapman curse before blacked out.

Molly was mortified. Now the only one left, the Chapman gnome’s existence lied solely on her, yet she had no control over Mr. Chapman’s faulty swing. As he got bored, his swing began to become less sturdy and secure. Instead, it was now shaky and had come close to hitting Molly instead of the ball several times. It was not until Mrs. Chapman distracted him during a swing that the shiny stick and Molly actually made contact. Knocking the wind out of her and rupturing her body in two, plaster and dust formed a cloud around her severed body. She accepted the defeat she could not control. Her agony was echoed by Mrs. Chapman’s scolding as she had told Mr. Chapman many times that he should not play golf with her prized possessions. Molly’s last thoughts were of Peter – the gnome she secretly loved and how she regretted her inability to express it. It was too late for her, though, as the Chapman gnomes had officially been deceased. None could have seen it coming two days prior, but the events had become a story that would go down in gnome history for ages.