The gnome tossed down his rod. “I’m done,” he said, “with the pernicious values of a morally bankrupt middle class.”
The fish in the pond circled in an orange mood of indifference. Only one, twitched its fins. The short one. The one with a chunk from its tail.
The gnome trudged up to a front door similar to every other front door on an endless row of identical houses that people called homes.
He kicked the front door with his black boots, which in their small way, were also indistinguishable from every other gnomes’ boots.
But this didn’t stop our gnome. He was done. And when you are done, a little matter of muchness carries no weight.
He thought about pissing on the roses. But when you’re a plastic gnome, this is hard to do. Except metaphorically. And so our gnome stood before the thorny roses and pretended to piss, his little hands in the pockets of his sharp red pants, whistling a ditty.
Done, he flicked his metaphor and left.
Nobody saw him leave. A plastic gnome is of no significance. Except when he is no longer beside a backyard pond. Then the whole neighbourhood breaks its mold.