Tiny Kingdoms by Janet Joyce Holden

This is all out war, and instinctively you hide among friends. Your strategy is insignificance, until the big push when you reach out and raise your arms in greater numbers, hoping to be acknowledged and given strength by a more benevolent force. It is a gesture that becomes your undoing, for now you are too large to ignore and I crush you.

You are safe at night, and during the day you have discovered the means to hide. Within these constraints you flourish. You toy with my magnanimity; your appearance and manner beguiles me until I consider reaching for an acceptable compromise. But we are unable to communicate, to discuss terms, and when your behavior becomes indefensible I have no other recourse but to put an end to your tricky little games. You think you are safe, that I cannot touch you. But like the rest of us you are a slave to the rigors of hunger and thirst, and it just so happens I have left sustenance at your door.

I find your body and legs agreeable, but I dislike your hands and face and so I chop them off. I bind alien parts to your embittered, ugly stumps and I watch as, finally, you accept them for your own, for what else is there to do? And when you have done everything I asked, when you have danced in the light wearing such a glorious, pretty dress? I don the armor of a ruthless monarch; I wield his blade and I cut off your head.

I desire what you have, but we are forever at odds. You and your blind proliferation, while I wish to thin out the herd. I pinch you; I poke and I cut. I leave you dying of thirst because I have come to realize it is during the subsequent, cruel struggle for survival, that you are at your best.

Ours is a battle of dimension. I offer you two planes of existence. Alas, you perpetually seek a third and the fight becomes constant. It is a battle you always lose; your blades are no match for mine, and yet you keep on coming, whittling my courage, honing my despair while aesthetics, the ringmaster in this endless circus, goads us into a desperate, bloody dance.

You are stronger than you look, and there’s a moment in the beginning when you slide forth and offer me beautiful gifts. But you forget I am wise to you. I enjoy the flirtation; your clothes, the smell of you, but in the end I cut you down like the rest.

I know what I do. I am not deaf or without some manner of compassion, and there are days when I hear you cry  – Who are you? Ruthless autocrat! Serial killer, jailer, torturer, murderer and slayer of our children! Yes, it’s true, and were I to exhibit such traits elsewhere I would be soundly punished. Alas, in this tiny kingdom there are no rules but my own and I wield them with impunity. I must, for the alternative is chaos, anarchy, and some of you would never, ever see the light of day.

You asked me who I am. I am the gardener.