-1-

The turnipishesque nose

It was a bright Monday morning, a rarity in the damp and drizzley peat bog known as “the Moos”.
“Today is my day off!”  Patrick exclaimed, leaping from his bed.
“Shut up,” said his roomate, “It’s too early.”
Patrick brushed his teeth, took a shower and packed himself a tidy lunch, which he placed in a sack and tied to the end of a stick.  He slung the stick over his shoulder and was ready to head out.
“I’m going to spend the day in the city!” he exclaimed jubilantly.
“I don’t care,” moaned his roomate.
Patrick stepped out into the crisp morning air.  A mild, yet biting breeze was blowing over and around the near-by mountains.  He pulled his jacket tight and straightened the gap between his knee-highs and his lederhosen.  Then he began the trek to the city.
The winding dirt path, muddy and pocked with wagon wheel furrows, led deep into a dark woods.
Patrick was an innocent and unwary boy and trod into the woods without trepidation.
As he walked, he observed birds flitting about in the branches above; little chickadees and raucous black crows.  He was spending so much time looking above that he nearly stumbled over an obstruction in the road.
With a start, he came to a halt and dropped his stick-lunch.
A tiny man, if you could call it that, blocked his progress.  The man stood less than two feet tall and had a giant, bulbous, veinous, red, turnipishesque nose.  The little man wore dirty white lederhosen and a filthy red jerkin.  He had a scruffy grey beard and his tiny hands were clenched into tiny fists.
“Whassa got there? Eh?” he demanded indicating the dropped lunch with a white knuckly fist.
Patrick, with open palm on chest, collected his breath.
“You gave me quite a start,” he smiled feebly.
“Quite a start?  How bout a cranberry tart?”  The little man began to lean down to grab at Patrick’s sack.  His spine was old and stiff and with one fist thrust behind his back he groaned and slowly leaned forward.

-2-
Patrick came to the realization that the little turnipishesque nosed man was reaching for his lunch (lovingly packed with a generous helping of juicy ham and heavenly pungent cheese).  With a swift swipe, Patrick rescued his lunch.
“Whassa wha wha!” the man shouted indignantly, straightening slowly and glowering at Patrick over the mound of his pustulant, sanguine, turnipishesque nose.
Patrick clung the stick tight to his body and turned a defensive shoulder in the gnome’s (as he was certain now that he was dealing with a gnome) direction.
“Away foul gnome,” he said (in the proper manner befitting the address of gnomes), “return to the foul hole from hence you came.”
The gnome stamped about in his little muddy shoes and puffed his florid, distended turnipishesque nose.
The horrific sight of the angry red nose caused Patrick to drop his lunch for a second time.  The gnome paused in disbelief.  They both gaped at the dropped lunch.  The gnome quickly thrust his fist behind his back and, moaning profusely, began the descent to the muddy path.
Collecting himself in a fit of exasperated blinks, Patrick swung down and saved his lunch right from the greedy grasp of the amply-probiscused gnome.
“Whassa wha wha!” the gnome shouted for a second time.
“I really must be going,” Patrick pleaded to no one in particular.
The gnome straightened himself painfully and glared wrathfully at Patrick.
Patrick waited patiently.

-3-

The gnome unclenched his fists.  Little, grasping, white fingers, squeezed dry of blood, curled and furled menacingly.
Patrick’s terrified eyes locked on the heinous white digits.  His eyes bulged frightfully, his lip quivered, and his knees quaked.
The gnome vibrated with repressed rage, curly hairs on his arms stood straight and his turgid, puce nose swelled to unfathomable proportions.
A quavering whimper slid from Patrick’s mouth, and like a signal from a starter’s pistol, the gnome leaped at Patrick.
The tiny, grasping hands sunk into shirt and flesh, pinching, twisting, pulling.  Patrick kicked and slapped and the two rolled about in the mud, hopelessly entwined.
The diminutive fists dug into Patrick with an agony of pain he could never have imagined.  His pitiful screams echoed through the forest.  Still the two rolled in the muddy slop of the wagon wheel ruts.  Using his superior size, Patrick rolled over the top of the gnome, pressing the vicious little man into the depth of a mud puddle.
Moments later and the pulling fists began to push and the stubby legs began to kick frenetically.
Released from his antagonist, Patrick scampered to his feet and began to run.  He ran and ran and ran all the way home and all the while the image of the corpulent nose haunted his thoughts.

-1-
 
The really smart dog

It was a clear morning, indicative of a perfect day; the rising sun, still hidden below the horizon lent coral fire to the grey clouds.

“What luck!” Patrick shouted as he clambered out of bed, “Another perfect day, and on my day off!”
“Ooooh,” moaned his roomate, “what time is it?”
“Today I’m going to town!”
His roomate snickered – a dry raspy sound that emanated from beneath rustling sheets.
“I hope there’re no gnomes out.”
Patrick did not laugh.
Patrick brushed his teeth, took a shower and packed himself a tidy lunch.  He folded the lunch into a sack and tied it to the end of a stick.  He looked at the stick pensively and then, summoning his will, he left the house in a determined hurry.
The sun was breaking over the trees and already the air was beginning to warm.  Patrick made his way down the path, into the woods, with a careful eye watching for gnomes.
But the woods were so beautiful and the distractions so prolific, he soon forgot about gnomes.  He walked and he sang and swung his arm gaily at his side.  He was so caught up in himself it was quite some time before he realized he was being followed.

-2-

A big lean hound was plodding along behind him, sniffing at the dirt of the trail.  It was this sniffing that betrayed the hound; one sniff – particularly deep and strong – inhaled a pinch of dust and caused the hound to sneeze.
The noise sent Patrick twirling with fright.  He extended his arms and legs wide and searched wildly with big round eyes.  A moment of frantic searching passed before he noticed the dirty umber dog sitting on its haunches observing him.
“Oh, heh heh, it’s just a dog.”
“Just a dog?” the dog said, with a hint of irritation.
“Oh my, a talking dog.”
“Oh my, a talking dog,” the dog mimicked sarcastically.
Patrick stared at the dog, dumbfounded.
The dog rolled its eyes.
“So,” it said, “going to town are you?”
“Ye-yes,” said Patrick.
“Me too,” said the dog, “do you mind if we walk together?”
“No, no, I mean sure, I… yes, yes walk with me.”  Patrick was worried he might have offended the dog.
“So, ah, you talk,” Patrick began, wondering what kinds of things one should discuss with a dog.
“Clearly,” said the dog.
“Ah,” Patrick began, unable to finish the thought.
“Are you going to the symphony?  That is, when you arrive in town,” the dog asked.
“I ah, not that I was planning to, ah, that is, ah, no.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” said the dog, “it’s very good.  I play the cello.”
Patrick looked at the dog.
The dog didn’t seem to notice.
“You play – ah, are you any… ahh.. hmm.  That’s nice.”
“Yes, I find it very relaxing.”
“Do you find need to relax?” Patrick asked.
“No,” said the dog, “my life is quite balanced.  I am, after all, a dog; apprehension is not in my nature.”
“No, of course not,” said Patrick.
“You did know I was a dog didn’t you?”
“Oh?” said Patrick, “really?”
The dog looked at Patrick incredulously.
“I mean, yes, of course, of course I knew,” Patrick stammered.
“Do you think I’m stupid, because I’m a dog?” asked the dog.
“No, of course not.”
“Because most dogs are stupid.”
“No, no.”
“Yes, yes they are.”
“Oh?”
“Quite.”
“Yes, of course.”
“But that’s no reason to judge me.”
“No, of course not.  I, I didn’t –“
“A prejudice is a dangerous thing… what was your name again?”
“Patrick.”
“Patrick.  Dangerous indeed,” the dog’s voice was ominous and Patrick felt his stomach tighten.  Something about how the dog spoke, didn’t bode well with him.
“Are you going to visit a café while you’re in the city?” the dog asked.
“No, no I, I wasn’t planning to.”
“A gasthouse perhaps, I know where you can get a good schnitzle,” the dog licked his lips and Patrick felt his skin crawl.  The dog smiled, long white teeth under black lips.
“No, no,” said Patrick.
“No?” asked the dog.
“I, I’ve brought my lunch.  I, I, in the bag.”
“Oh, is that what that is!” the dog said with some excitement, “I was beginning to wonder.”
“So what did you pack?  It just smells absolutely scrumptious.”
Patrick thought that was an odd word to use: scrumptious; he didn’t like how the dog said it.
“Oh, uh, heh, heh, a snitzle sandwich,”
“A snitzle sandwich!” barked the dog, little flecks of spittle bursting from his mouth, “how wonderful.”
“And, and an apple fritter.”
“An apple fritter!  I love apple fritters!” the dog’s eyes were wide and his big, black pupils were dilated and staring darkly in Patrick’s direction.  Patrick’s face looked pale reflected in the eyes.
They walked for a moment of tense silence.
“Patrick, Patrick, Patrick, Patrick…” the dog began to say softly.
Patrick had a yearning compulsion welling up in his stomach to flee, as fast as his legs would carry him.  But he didn’t run, he quivered in misery.
The dog continued, “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick…”
In a moment of action, he interrupted the dog – out of desperation, desperation to stop the repetition of his name as it passed from the rank, filthy lips of the animal,
“Would you like to try some, some of my fritter?”
“Oh, would you, oh that would be so grand,” the dog gushed, his large, toothy maw widening with glee.
They stopped and Patrick untied his sack.
The dog was fidgeting, faster and faster, his dirty paws kicking up a cloud of dust.
A mounting sense of chaos tormented Patrick, causing his fingers to fumble.  The dog whined and then thrust in its head; pushing Patrick aside, it dug its snapping teeth into the sack.  Ravenously, it tore apart the package and devoured Patrick’s lunch.
Patrick didn’t wait to see if the lunch was sufficient to quench the appetite of the beast.  He turned and ran, as fast as he could, all the way home, and all the while the image of the mad dog eyes haunted his thoughts.

-1-

The gnome police

“Oh boy!” Patrick declared, “such a wonderfully wet and cold day.  The kind that gives you such a good appreciation for a nice warm coat and hat.”
“Go to hell,” moaned his roommate.  Patrick noisily and assiduously cleared up the empty beer bottles from the dining room table and the surrounding floor.  He left the one that was in his roommate’s bed, under the covers, but only because he didn’t know it was there.
“Today,” Patrick announced, “I think I shall stroll to town, it’s ever so fun to stomp in the puddles.”
“Please, Jesus, deliver me from this agony, bestow upon me the righteous mercy of an avenging lightning bolt,” his roommate murmured, or something that sounded like that.
“You know,” Patrick said, “you wouldn’t have to be so hard on yourself if you didn’t drink so much, frankly I don’t think it’s in your best interests…”

Five minutes later Patrick was tentatively stepping into the rain, rubbing the lump on his head and taking mental note to always count beer bottles in groups of six.  The rain was quite wet, and Patrick wrinkled his face in response to its intrusion.  He made his felt hat snug on his head and, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat, proceeded down the lane.
He wasn’t bringing a lunch today, today he had a pocket full of shillings with which he would buy his ‘essen’ in the warm, dry comfort of a gasthaus in the city.
The road to town was long and dark under the overcast sky and the awning of spidery branches of the forest trees.  It was also reminiscent of things Patrick wished he could forget; intrusive dogs and cantankerous gnomes.  He tried to amuse himself by stomping in the puddles and splashing the muddy water, but apprehension weighed heavily on his spirits and the play was a mirthless endeavor.  The heavy weather quelled his optimistic outlook on the day and he began to have misgivings over setting out in the first place.  Perhaps he should have stayed at home, lay in bed, done some work.  There was always work to do, even on a day off.  But he trudged on.
The road was lonely, so very deserted.  Not a soul passed him, no carriages or travelers, merchants or children.  Patrick began to ignore the sounds of the water that fell all about him, pattering on the bare branches of the trees, running in rivulets and drops to the mossy moist ground.  He began to think of dark things, things lost in the shadow of time.

-2-

Patrick was so caught up in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the slopping sound of feet approaching on the muddy road.  They stopped, when they saw him, and waited while he drew near, head leaning forward, legs plodding heavily along.  When he was nearly upon them, Patrick broke from his reverie, noticing the small occult forms that stood in the road.  His eyes fell upon three gnomes, younger than the one who had once attacked him, and dressed in dark fatigues and black berets.  The foremost leaned on a short wooden stick, perfectly straight and polished.
“An what business are ye traveling on,” he asked, after the two parties stared at each other for an uncomfortable silence.  Patrick blinked, perhaps hoping that clearing his eyes would dismiss the diminutive problems.
“Do ye know where you’re goin?” the gnome asked, a hint of irritation entering his voice.
“Ah, yes, ah, town?” Patrick ended in a question, hoping that one of them might provide him with the right answer if the truth did not suffice.
“Ah the town,” the gnome answered and his colleagues snorted with contempt.  “Well ye see, it’s like this, the town inn’t accessible from this road unless ye willing to pay the toll.”
“Toll?”
“What, did ye not hear me well?  Or do ye jes think me voice is funny?” the gnome asked, appearing even more irritated.
“Oh no,” Patrick stammered, not sure which supposition to refute.
“So ye heard me?  If ye heard me why aren’t ye answering?  Did ‘ee answer me?” the gnome looked about in mock confusion.
“Do ye know who we are?”
“No.”
“We’re the gnome police, we keep the peace in these parts.”
“Oh, well I’m not trying to disturb the peace,” Patrick said with a smile of relief.
“Ye hear this guy?” the gnome said, chuckling to his friends, “he thinks he isn’t no disturbance.  Smart guy, ye see how big yer feet are, ye see how big and heavy ye are?”
“Ahhh…”
“Ye are a serious detriment to the, ah, serviceability of this road.”
“Oh?  Oh no.”
“Ah yes.  I hope ye have a lot of money on ye, because this is a serious offence we’re lookin at.”
Patrick’s hand instinctively went to his pocket where he kept his shillings.
“Looks like our little friend is loaded.”
“Little?” Patrick asked, momentarily taken aback by the gnome’s curious choice of verbiage.
“And what the fungus do ye mean by that?” the gnome shouted, flecking spittle on his lips.
“Oh, ah nothing,” Patrick stammered, looking for an escape route.
“He thinks he’s bigger than us, he thinks he ain't gonna pay the toll.  Grab em, boys!”
The three gnomes made quick movements for Patrick who spun about on his feet.  The mud was slick and Patrick’s legs slipped in opposite directions, dropping him painfully to the ground between splayed legs.
One of the gnomes forcibly grabbed his arm while another began pounding on his anterior regions with an oak club.  After a good drubbing, during which Patrick wailed pitifully and flailed his free arm, the three gnomes, with pudgy little fingers, lifted Patrick up and flipped him over.  Not tall enough to hold him up by his ankles, the gnomes balanced him on his face, which was plunged into the mud.  Spitting and writhing, Patrick wriggled onto his shoulders, affording him the option to breath.
One of the gnomes grabbed and pulled at his jacket while another shook at his ankles and the third shouted and chided the others.
“No, stop shaking, you’ll shake the money all over the road.  Get off the jacket.  Well then wiggle it off.  No, not you!”
Finally the gnomes managed to remove Patrick’s jacket, and hauling it a few feet away, they greedily tore at its pockets.  Patrick crawled on hands and knees; the world before him was a spinning gray mire of rain and puddle.
A gnome shrieked with glee and the sound activated some instinctive impulse deep within Patrick.  The boy staggered to his feet and ran all the way home, loping unevenly like one dizzy from spinning his body in circles.

The next morning, Patrick stayed at home.