I stood on my lawn at dawn, the grass cool under my feet, placing a jolly gnome by my daisies, its blue hat tilted and its grin mischievous. I’m Sarah, and my yard is my joy, but that gnome ignited a feud with my neighbor, Tom, a cranky man obsessed with perfect shrubs. As I admired my gnome, Tom’s door creaked. “Sarah, what’s that?” he barked, his tone sharp. “A gnome, Tom. Adorable, isn’t it?” I said, smiling. He scowled, stepping closer. “They’re bad omens,” he said. “I’ve studied them.”
“Studied gnomes?” I teased. “Garden grudge sites?” He didn’t crack a smile. “Leave it there, and trouble’s coming,” he warned, retreating inside. I patted my gnome, saying, “You’re staying.” The next morning, a strange scent—like burnt herbs and vinegar—filled my house. Outside, Tom’s yard was lined with lanterns spewing smoke my way. “What’s this?” I yelled. He appeared, proud. “Cleansing lanterns,” he said. “They ward off evil.” I coughed. “You’re choking me!” He grinned. “Wind’s your problem.”
Fired up, I drove to the nursery, grabbing ten gnomes—big, small, one with a tiny lantern. I set them around my first gnome, a whimsical crew. Tom saw them, spilled his coffee, and glared. Our battle was on. My gnomes brightened my yard, but a loud knock came. A woman in a suit, holding a clipboard, said, “HOA inspection. Complaint filed.” I muttered, “Tom.” She inspected my yard, noting my gnomes and wind chimes. “Non-compliant,” she said, giving me a list—remove decor, repaint, quiet chimes. Tom watched, smirking, as my spirits sank.
That night, I moved my gnomes to the backyard, their smiles dim under stars. I felt beaten. Next morning, I set up my ladder to fix the trim, muttering about rules. Tom approached, holding paint and brushes, his face sheepish. “I overdid it,” he said. I snapped, “No kidding,” but softened. “What’s the paint?” I asked. “Gray, for your house,” he said. I nodded. “You’re climbing.” We painted, chuckling when Tom splattered his shirt. He shared, “My sister died last year. It’s too quiet.” I said, “My gnomes make this home mine.”
The house looked fresh by dusk. “Hate my gnomes?” I asked. Tom smiled. “They’re okay.” I held my first gnome. “Can he return?” Tom nodded. “One’s fine.” We placed it by the daisies, its grin peaceful. “Dinner?” Tom asked, nervous. “Sure,” I said, “no smoke.” He laughed, and the tension eased. My gnome war with Tom showed us that friendship, like paint, needs layers to shine.
