A Backpack, A Briefcase, and a Watermelon
The gremlins have returned.
From where, I know not, and, perhaps more significantly, for why, I know not.
I know only that they have returned, sniggering, chuckling, sometimes even giggling, wreaking havoc upon every last damn bit of machinery that is supposed to keep this farm the green and verdent utopia I know it can be.
If not for the god damn gremlins.
They make metal rust, they make rubber crack, they make gasoline not combust and they make electricity not flow. They make weedeaters not eat weeds, lawn mowers not mow lawns, chain saws not saw, they even 'cause Stratocruisers to plummet from the heavens. They knocked the van out of commission last week, when all I wanted to do was drive home from market. Sniggering somewhere in the steel frame of our sad little vehicle, they made the engine sputter when we turned on the headlights, made the warning lights go on when we turned off the headlights, made the van creak and groan when it had to go uphill, and left us, lost, cold and destitute in the parking lot of our local coffee house, just before midnight.
We thought about hitching, we thought about just walking, we thought about trying to find a phone somewhere. We brought with us all that we deemed necessary, reflecting that our choice of belongings would initiate conversation with any potential saviour.
But we made it home, we did, home to a collection of broken machinery and a gremlin's playground.
They don't bother me.
I laugh right back at them.
From where, I know not, and, perhaps more significantly, for why, I know not.
I know only that they have returned, sniggering, chuckling, sometimes even giggling, wreaking havoc upon every last damn bit of machinery that is supposed to keep this farm the green and verdent utopia I know it can be.
If not for the god damn gremlins.
They make metal rust, they make rubber crack, they make gasoline not combust and they make electricity not flow. They make weedeaters not eat weeds, lawn mowers not mow lawns, chain saws not saw, they even 'cause Stratocruisers to plummet from the heavens. They knocked the van out of commission last week, when all I wanted to do was drive home from market. Sniggering somewhere in the steel frame of our sad little vehicle, they made the engine sputter when we turned on the headlights, made the warning lights go on when we turned off the headlights, made the van creak and groan when it had to go uphill, and left us, lost, cold and destitute in the parking lot of our local coffee house, just before midnight.
We thought about hitching, we thought about just walking, we thought about trying to find a phone somewhere. We brought with us all that we deemed necessary, reflecting that our choice of belongings would initiate conversation with any potential saviour.
But we made it home, we did, home to a collection of broken machinery and a gremlin's playground.
They don't bother me.
I laugh right back at them.
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