The War

It was the first of September. The battle lines were drawn. I donned my armour (gardening gloves) and drew my sword (a rake). I surveyed my territory with the keen eyes of a veteran war strategist. I assessed the formation of the enemy troops, I determined my objectives. One wrong move and the weeds would win the battle and all would be lost.

I began my offence at oh-fourteen-hundred-hours. I concentrated my assault on the South-East corner, cutting a swathe through the thicket of nettles, creeping buttercup and dandelions. The weeds fought a good fight, the nettles left me scarred and aching. I moved along the eastern front, demolishing everything that got in my way. It was a massacre of epic proportions, a trail of corpses littered behind me.

I fought a long and hard fight, I sustained multiple wounds. I was sweating, bloodied and broken by the time I made it to the North-East corner. I surveyed the battle field, drew my arm, scratched and stung, across my forehead and smiled. It was oh-seventeen-hundred-hours, battle weary and satisfied, I threw down my sword and shield and let out a victory cry loud enough to make the gods themselves tremble.

But alas, this was only beginning, the first assault of many. The battle against the eastern weeds had been won but the war was only beginning.



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