Young Writers Society

A winter’s moon shone down on the forest, hiding those who wished to be hidden and lighting up the clearings; illuminating the gnomes as they danced merrily. Three dwarves moved through the shadows, their hairy feet snapping twigs and crunching leaves. Each carried a ‘weapon’; a large oak stick, a thorny twig and a sharp rock.
The first dwarf, Dakrot, raised the oak stick and hissed, “I can hear them, Moshrump; over there. We’ll have revenge now!”
The second dwarf, Budswop, chuckled, and looked at Moshrump, surprised by his lack of reaction. Moshrump clenched the rock tighter, beads of sweat trickling down his fore-head. He wondered how they had come to this; dwarves sneaking through the night, armed and lusting for the fight.

It had been Harvest-Time, and Moshrump had awoken early from excitement. He and his brothers ran down the hill and into the fields, smiling (a rare occurrence) at the dwarves already up and working. But as they came nearer to their fields, they slowed down and squinted, and slowly the smiles faded from their faces.
“…” Moshrump cried, his mouth hanging open.
“It might not be as bad as it looks.” Budswop ventured, his voice wobbling, stepping forwards to inspect the damage. The field was bare; every last vegetable gone.
“My garlic!” Dakrot roared,
“My onions!” Budswop sniffed,
“My mushrooms…” Moshrump murmured, a lone tear slowly traversing his rough cheek, then soaked up by his earth-coloured beard.
Dakrot bent down, foraging in the earth for the Something that he had glimpsed. He held it up for the others to see: a pointy red hat with a tinkling bell, a lone mushroom wrapped cosily inside it.
“Them pesky Gnomes!” Moshrump glowered.

It had taken half a year to plan it, but now it was the night; the night of the Gnomes New Year Celebrations, the night on which they made merriest.
The Gnomes had taken their Harvest Time. Now they would take the Gnome’s New Year.
They arrived at the clearing, taking care not to alert the gnomes to their presence. They circled it carefully, searching for one thing: The Table of The Feast.
“There it is!” whispered Dakrot, “Beneath that cedar tree!”
The table was piled high with blackberries, bill-berries, cherries and wild strawberries; roasted chestnuts, walnuts, almonds and hazelnuts. In pride of place stood a rich, luscious mound of fruit-cake, decorated with frosting and flowers.
Moshrump’s mouth watered (they hadn’t eaten properly since that fateful harvest) but, as he reached out for a fistful of walnuts, something stopped him. Something rather like guilt. A saying that his dear old mother (a fat bearded dwarf with an enormous nose and a hard fist) had so often told him came back to him now: ‘Two Wrongs Don’t Make A Right’.
But it was too late, for his brothers were already stuffing themselves; discarding what they didn’t want on the ground and trampling it. Moshrump sighed and joined them, though the food tasted like mud in his mouth.