by Fleur Lind
“Are you serious?” I gawp, wide-eyed at the sight before me.
“You are kidding me, right?!” My expression is forlorn as I feel my owner’s firm grip as she clenches my lever and adjusts the height of my blades.
She must be reading my mind as I scream through the dull roar of my idling engine.
“It’s grown a bit.” she says calmly as she acknowledges the growth of the job at hand.
“A BIT?!” I wail, “It’s a jungle out there!”
She takes control and revs me up to full throttle, lowering my blades which are ready but totally unwilling to meet the freshly grown grass that has surged ahead from it’s very neatly cut crop of just a week ago. What is she feeding it to make it grow so fast?
I feel completely helpless as my blades lower without my consent, onto the cool green grass. It’s quite spongy like a carpet, but that doesn’t inspire me to want to slice through it any more than want to drink home-brand engine oil. That stuff always gives me a bad aftertaste, not to mention plenty of gas. It’s very embarrassing as I cough and blow rude noises from my engine. The neighbours who are also out mowing, look on and wonder what my problem is. I reside in a valley, so the noise carries for miles. When I have to drink the budget brand, I am the talk of the tool sheds far and wide.
I roar into full acceleration which should give me a feeling of exhilaration and power, dominance, and superiority… but it doesn’t. Not at all. My wheels begin to move, and my pace picks up as I launch face first into the thick of it. Chomping and slicing, mulching, and spitting out the green bilge into my catcher.
I live in southeast Queensland, in a small but comfortable, dark blue coloursteel garden shed with the whipper-snipper who’s affectionately known as ‘Slick’. We also bunk in with the weed spray, car wash, compost, assorted buckets, wheelbarrow, garden implements, and rose food. We all get along well; Slick and I often compare notes on our nemesis – the lawn.
Of course, the reason for the lawn’s ridiculous growth is obvious, and this reason is another of my pet hates – Storm season.
My owner doesn’t like the blinding lightning or the deafening thunder either; it always makes her jump, but she really likes the rain. She has seen too many droughts, as have I, where I am dealing with spindly, dead grass on a dustbowl of earth. I mow the ‘lawn’, only to disappear in a cloud of brown dust.
When it storms, as it is termed, I slink down and push myself back as far against the shed wall as I can go. My handle is folded down over my body but offers little comfort or protection from the wild weather outside. The rain comes down in torrents and lashes the exterior of our shed with a vengeance. The thunder with its deafening cracks that sound as if the earth is about to break in two, and the lightning with its forked bolts of light, filling the sky with a blinding flash.
As the wild weather rages, the grass is burping with utter contentment as it drinks in the deluge. My fears of the storm then turn to dread as I think of the task ahead when I’m summoned to mow the grass again.
I am a lawnmower, and I’m looking for a new job! The ride-on mowers can have it, they can keep the glory of a pristine lawn in park-like grounds. I am but a small humble mower, being landed with big jobs. Slick told me a mower is still needed at the Bowls Club. I might apply. I’m all for less stress, short grass, and high scores!
About the author
Fleur is a Kiwi, living in SE Queensland. She enjoys the challenge and possibilities of short stories. She is a member of the local writer's group and contributes shorties to the weekly paper. For more of Fleur's work: fleursfabulousfables.wordpress.com
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