[Critique Group 1] reminder pieces are due tomorrow

[Leonard Tuchyner]

Hi  Group1,

Submissions are due tomorrow. Mine is below.


Swamp Gnome

 

I like to think of myself as a world traveler. I nevertravel first class, but get to where I’m going any way I can. Sometimes basedon the luck of the outstretched thumb, sometimes in an open box car, andsometimes on the soles of my feet. Those soles are clad in plastic, cardboardor anything I can find to cushion the skin from pebbles and tarmac. I’mtraditionally known as a hobo. 

I’ve seen most everything there is to be seen. One day I wastaking a snooze in a narrow alleyway behind some garbage cans, when a shortlittle fellow sat down beside me. By short, I mean less than 3 feet high. Hewas dressed rather smartly in brown and green. His shoes were pointed and sowas his hat, though it could have used some starch.

“Mind if I sit down beside ye, brother?” he asked.

He had an unusual accent which I could not quite place.

“Do you mind if I ask where you hail from?” I inquired.

“Oh, I’m from here. In fact, I’m one of its oldest citizens.”

“Is that so? How old would that be?”

“About 1,234 years. But it might be off a few years. I nevergot used to this newfangled calendar. We didn’t used to use them, you know.”

“That’s very interesting. I’ve met a lot of people, but nonequite as old as you say you are. You’re pretty short by modern standards. Isthat normal for you?” I inquired. I was skeptical about what he told me. Hemust have been either intellectually challenged or flat-out lying.

“It’s not unusual at all. I know I appear to be human to ye,but it is merely coincidence.”

“So… you’re not really human,” I said, having a hard timenot to have a derisive tone in my voice.

“Nope” 

“Then what in the world are you?” I demanded.

“I’m a swamp gnome,” he said with a straight voice.

I just stared at him. He stared right back. I was really ata loss for words. But there was something about him that said ‘gnome.’

After several minutes of silence, I finally found my voice.Again. “What the hell are you doing in the nation’s capital? There’s no swamp here.”

“Back in the day, when I was born a swamp gnome and giventhis parcel of ground, it was a swamp. This place was full of life. Every sortof living thing lived here. There were cypress trees, swamp flowers, andvegetation of bountiful varieties. There were animals from the very small to almostgigantic. The sounds were varied and delightful. Ah, those were the days.”

“But that was a long time ago. There isn’t any kind of swamphere today,” I protested.

“Ye know, that’s absolutely true. It’s nice to meet someonewho realizes that. I thought I saw something in ye when I saw ye settling downfor a nap. But ye are not really alive.”

“I have a problem in thinking as myself as not alive,” Iprotested.

“No, no, I don’t mean literally. Ye are absolutely alive, morethan most around here. But your kind of life is absolutely insignificant. Eversince they decided to drain my swamp, there has been total chaos. I still see theswamp, though.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, being a swamp gnome, I can still see the spirit ofthe swamp here. I see it as clear as day. It is the actual reality. Oh, it’sall covered up with concrete and tarmac, but it’s still here. In fact, itsreality is greater than what I see. In fact, I have to do some rather difficultmagical incantations to see your reality. In a blinking of my eye, I can returnto the real reality.”

I was getting a little nervous talking to this fellow. Ibegan to feel my solidity dissolving and a swamp replacing my existence. Ishook my head vigorously to rid myself of the illusion.

“Stop it!” I cried. “You’re driving me out of my mind. For aminute there, I thought I saw a cypress tree. “

“It doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “Oh, ye are real enoughin an alternative universe. Just not here. Yet, our worlds are vying forsupremacy. Some of your people are aware of that.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Haven’t ye heard them chanting, “Drain the swamp. Drain theswamp? If they were secure in their own reality, would they be chanting to dosomething that has already be done? Or, I should say, may happen?”

“But what about Central Park. Isn’t that alive?” I pointedout.

“Yes. But Central Park is just reality trying to break throughthis false, competing universe. It’s not really a swamp, but it is closer tobeing alive.”

“I’m sorry, this is too ridiculous. I must have drunksomething toxic. Never can tell what’s in your drink these days,” I protested.

“Don’t fret, Ye are as sane and clear-minded as I am. Inoted that you are the kind of creature that isn’t at home in a world likethis. Ye haven’t adapted to being an ordinary human. Have ye?”

“That’s beside the point. It is what it is, and there is nodenying that. Besides, I’m content enough.”

“Ye want to be living in a beautiful swamp more than ye wantto stay here. Admit it.”

“I admit nothing.”

“Close your eyes. Listen to the swamp,” he intoned.

As he intoned the phrase over and over again. “Listen to theswamp; Listen to the swamp….” I found myself becoming drowsy. Then I felt as ifI were coming out of a dream. When I opened my eyes, my beautiful swamp laybefore me. I was sitting on a lily pad. Herbie, the swamp gnome, sat on thewater next to me.

“Wow, I just had the most horrible dream. I dreamed I wassomething called a human, and that my world had been transformed   into something called a city. It washorrible.”

“It’s all right. With a little luck, that will neverhappen,” he assured me.

I flicked my tongue and caught a fly, as it buzzed past.“That was yummy,” I said.

“Have a good day, Froggie.” And he disappeared, no doubtattending to business.

 




 
 
Leonard I. Tuchyner, Author
 
https://www.dldbooks.com/tuchyner/

 
  
 
 

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