(Robert Louis Stevenson Trail, Mt. St. Helena, Sept. 2012)
Twas simply the gnome, peeking out from the dark crevice of a mossy rock, who had caused the comical ruckus in its entirety. Certainly the poor, unfortunate belching frog had come along at the most opportune moment and should be awarded his due for participation in the scheme, but the master plan was the gnome's alone and the results had been priceless. That would teach those silly humans for a while. His laughter echoed on, still disguised by the residual effect of so high-pitched a shriek, it made him fall into yet another bout of humorous aside.
Even so, he could never understand the brain within such professedly intellectual, self-assured creatures. Every day, it was one fool or another, slinging a backpack in silly shoes made precisely for "hiking." Hiking?! A recreational venture he understood to be a form of weekend diversion generally done simply for the lauding of it later to their own communities. Again, his shoulders threatened to convulse as he thought of how Clif bars, water bottles, and the buffoonery of their posture, all took a turn in the air from the rollicking results of his little ditty.
Did the humans really dare to think that they could traipse through his terrain without some kind of set-down for the allowance of their often irritating trespass? With just a hint of residual mirth, he shoved off from the cold stone, one more simple bounce from his shoulders and a self-satisfied smile teasing the ends of his whiskers.
Truth be told, Master Gnome Kittayous Disastrous (as he was known in those parts) would have done much more but for the distraction of two tiny faeries, tittering in delight across the dense foliage, ready to rout him out in an equally mischievous game. He retreated farther on a sigh... still remembering the singular sounds of the men, their clumsy footprints squashing perfectly beautiful leaves into the dense, rich, damp and earthy soil.
He should have deserved a moment or two of more fun. Those seemingly pesky, but often more delightful girly things, with iridescent sparkling wings and high-arched brows, always wanted to compete. But for them, he would have done more; still, his eyes glittered with appreciation and admiration for their tactics, noting even further that all was fair within the ancient rules of this mountain home.
With that, the gnome melted into the darkness, the whisper of his felt boots sliding into the deep, his ever-impish presence simply nothing more than the mirage of the sun, glinting off the damp and dewy lichen that grew upon towering conifers and fallen logs alike...
- Living Joy - This Carman Girl
Note: This girl might blog about joy, or spew thoughts from a soapbox of opinion, but her childish imagination is still alive and well. I credit my mom, Elen McConnell Wright, for any, and every, foray into imagination. During the years we were home-schooled (in my youth), each morning, my mother would leaf through a book of paintings, pick one, discuss the artist, and then ask us to write an essay or story surrounding the piece. It's because of this that my eyes soak up the scenery, and my heart beats so surely with what it is to seek, know, and enjoy -- More. Smiles...
Twas simply the gnome, peeking out from the dark crevice of a mossy rock, who had caused the comical ruckus in its entirety. Certainly the poor, unfortunate belching frog had come along at the most opportune moment and should be awarded his due for participation in the scheme, but the master plan was the gnome's alone and the results had been priceless. That would teach those silly humans for a while. His laughter echoed on, still disguised by the residual effect of so high-pitched a shriek, it made him fall into yet another bout of humorous aside.
Even so, he could never understand the brain within such professedly intellectual, self-assured creatures. Every day, it was one fool or another, slinging a backpack in silly shoes made precisely for "hiking." Hiking?! A recreational venture he understood to be a form of weekend diversion generally done simply for the lauding of it later to their own communities. Again, his shoulders threatened to convulse as he thought of how Clif bars, water bottles, and the buffoonery of their posture, all took a turn in the air from the rollicking results of his little ditty.
Did the humans really dare to think that they could traipse through his terrain without some kind of set-down for the allowance of their often irritating trespass? With just a hint of residual mirth, he shoved off from the cold stone, one more simple bounce from his shoulders and a self-satisfied smile teasing the ends of his whiskers.
Truth be told, Master Gnome Kittayous Disastrous (as he was known in those parts) would have done much more but for the distraction of two tiny faeries, tittering in delight across the dense foliage, ready to rout him out in an equally mischievous game. He retreated farther on a sigh... still remembering the singular sounds of the men, their clumsy footprints squashing perfectly beautiful leaves into the dense, rich, damp and earthy soil.
He should have deserved a moment or two of more fun. Those seemingly pesky, but often more delightful girly things, with iridescent sparkling wings and high-arched brows, always wanted to compete. But for them, he would have done more; still, his eyes glittered with appreciation and admiration for their tactics, noting even further that all was fair within the ancient rules of this mountain home.
With that, the gnome melted into the darkness, the whisper of his felt boots sliding into the deep, his ever-impish presence simply nothing more than the mirage of the sun, glinting off the damp and dewy lichen that grew upon towering conifers and fallen logs alike...
- Living Joy - This Carman Girl
Note: This girl might blog about joy, or spew thoughts from a soapbox of opinion, but her childish imagination is still alive and well. I credit my mom, Elen McConnell Wright, for any, and every, foray into imagination. During the years we were home-schooled (in my youth), each morning, my mother would leaf through a book of paintings, pick one, discuss the artist, and then ask us to write an essay or story surrounding the piece. It's because of this that my eyes soak up the scenery, and my heart beats so surely with what it is to seek, know, and enjoy -- More. Smiles...
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