by Bill Tiepelman
Moonshroom Mischief: A Gnomeโs Night Out
There are few things in life Clyde the Gnome loved more than a bottle of Shroomy Moonshine. Tonight, he had several. The potent brew, made from God-knows-what fungi and who-knows-where ingredients, was a staple in Clyde's life, especially during these lonely, booze-fueled treks into the woods. The night was cool, the moon hung low, and Clyde was ready for trouble. His vision was already swimming, but it didn't stop him from popping open another bottle with a loud crack, spilling a bit of the liquid gold onto his dirt-covered boots. "Ah, who needs fancy boots anyway," Clyde muttered, waving his bottle dismissively at his own feet as he tilted his head back and took a long gulp. The stars above spun lazily, almost as if they were having a private joke at his expense. "To the Woods, Letโs Go Ride!" "To the woods!" he slurred triumphantly, raising his bottle in the air like some deranged conqueror. "Letโs go ride!" Ride what? He had no idea. But it didnโt matter. His alcohol-soaked brain was convinced that something, anything, was waiting out there for him to tame. Maybe a squirrel, maybe a badger. Maybe even a tree stump if it came down to it. Tonight, he was on a mission. He stumbled forward, swaying between trees, his oversized red hat flopping around like a flag in the wind. The forest floor was a mix of fallen leaves, mushrooms, and roots waiting to trip him up. Clyde had no concern for any of that though. No, he was lost in a world of his ownโwhere everything was a little too bright, a little too blurry, and everything definitely felt funnier than it actually was. His boots thudded against the forest floor, scuffed and worn from countless nights of gnome-sized debauchery. The soles were so thin that each step felt like a direct conversation with the earth. "Damn dirt," he growled, shaking his foot out as if that would get rid of the clumps of mud building up around his toes. His foot caught on a large mushroom, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt. The Fall For a moment, all was quiet. Clydeโs face was planted firmly in the ground, his bottle rolled off to the side, now just a sad casualty of his inebriation. And thenโlaughter. Deep, booming, gnomish laughter echoed through the trees. Clyde rolled over, wiping the dirt from his bushy white beard, his eyes wide and glistening with mischief. "Ha! Tripped on a shroom! Ainโt that poetic!" he bellowed into the night. The forest remained silent, indifferent to his mirth. But Clyde didnโt need anyone to appreciate his joke. He laughed harder, clutching his sides as he lay flat on his back, staring up at the moon. His hat had fallen off somewhere in his tumble, but he wasnโt in the mood to look for it. Hats were overrated anyway. "Natureโs my friend...and dessert!" he giggled to himself, reaching out and grabbing a handful of nearby mushrooms. He sniffed one suspiciously, squinting at it under the dim light. Then, with a shrug, he popped it into his mouth. "Tastes like dirt. But dirtโs good! Good for the soul, right?" he mumbled between mouthfuls. A Gnomeโs Late-Night Philosophy Eventually, Clyde picked himself up and continued his aimless journey through the woods. His bottle of Shroomy was half-empty now, but the night was young, and he still had plenty of stumbling left to do. His steps were more staggered than before, though, as if the forest floor had suddenly turned into a trampoline designed to make fools out of the drunken and clumsy. At some pointโmaybe minutes later, maybe hoursโClyde plopped himself down on a fallen log. His tiny gnome legs dangled off the edge, boots caked in mud, his pants torn at the knees from yet another fall he didnโt remember. But Clyde didnโt care. He sat there, swinging his legs like a child, staring into the gloom of the woods, where the trees loomed like giant shadows. He took another swig of his Shroomy Moonshine, the liquid burning its way down his throat, and sighed deeply. "Yโknowโฆ," he started, talking to no one in particular, "life ainโt so bad when ya got a bottle of this stuff, some good ol' mushrooms underfoot, and the whole forest to yourself." He paused, burping loudly. "Except for the damn squirrels. Theyโre little shits." As the night wore on, Clydeโs drunken musings grew more philosophicalโor at least, what he thought was philosophical. "Maybe the trees are alive," he whispered conspiratorially, eyes darting to the nearest oak. "Maybe theyโre listening. Maybe theyโre just waiting to get revenge on us gnomes for all the times weโve pissed on 'em." He blinked slowly, swaying in his seat. "But...eh. Who cares? A tree canโt hold a grudge... right?" The Final Stumble After another hourโor was it two?โClyde had enough. He stood up shakily, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His bottle was empty, his body aching from all the falls he could vaguely recall. The forest, once his playground, now seemed like a giant, looming creature ready to swallow him whole. But Clyde was undeterred. With one last, triumphant yell, he declared, "The woods may have won this round, but Iโll be back! You canโt keep a gnome down!" Then, without much ceremony, he promptly tripped over another mushroom and collapsed into a heap. And there he stayed, fast asleep, snoring loudly, a content smile on his dirt-smeared face. The bottle of Shroomy Moonshine lay beside him, and the forest, indifferent as always, carried on around him. ย ย There once was a gnome named Clyde, Who drank โtil his eyes opened wide. With Shroomy in hand, He could barely stand, But yelled, "To the woods! Letโs go ride!" ย His boots were all scuffed from the dirt, And his brain was too fogged to assert. He tripped on a shroom, Then laughed in the gloom, Saying, โNatureโs my friendโฆ and dessert!โ ย ย ย ย If you're interested in prints, art downloads, or licensing options for this image, you can find more details at archive.unfocussed.com. ย
