The Gnomelin
There is a very decidedly aggressive gremlin of a gnome that sits on my shoulder. Occasionally, he reaches up and dangles on my earlobe, and other times, plants himself down on his little gremlin trousers, and speaks of worlds I don’t know. He is loud, and he often talks at times that would otherwise be better enjoyed in silence, but I pity him, for he is stuck, and I am not. He is ever to remain, by curse or careful action (can they not be the same?) on my shoulder, blathering about what tales of whims or woes come to his lips. And I, the closest ear to hear a creature so smol, am by that same action and through its consequence, made to hear him, if not listen. In the times I do, (for there is many a time I don’t) he speaks of worlds vast and far from our own. Close and just underfoot, likely and altogether uncouth. Elaborate and winding, calloused and true, clear and clever, stagnant and dead. He has lived a long life, he says, and therefore knows many more. Alas, he doesn’t stop talking, so I oft go without listening, or take rest before he tires of his newest tirade. I ask if, for in some cases I wish to learn of his journeys before sleep or duty takes me, if his stories can be riveting AND concise. Can they not be the same? He disagrees.