A Slightly Poetic Battle - The War On Backyard Weeds

Nestled in the back of the yard, villains were afoot. Like the stench of a fart, they were slowly creeping, waiting to make their appearance. Little seedlings they were, but not for long.

Boom! Crash! The sound of thunder and lightning brought a smile to these evil entities. Now is when they would strike. Spread across the lawn by the elements, ignored by their human overlords, this is when the rebellion would begin!

The rain raged downwards, toward the cowards who waited for this moment. A good soaking, they were hoping, would do the job. It was true! Their crew, assisted by nature, sprung from dirt, making themselves known. Like mold they quickly grew, spreading before the humans knew. After the downpour, humans opened the door. They gasped.

Spread across their yard were weeds of all sorts: clovers and ferns galore. Overtaking the grass, who was doing its best, the weeds had taken over. Hearts broken, the humans returned into their cave, and the weeds rejoiced.

The next day, the sun shone like a halo on an angel's head. The weeds grew and grew, not suspecting that the humans had a plan up their sleeve too. Then, the door burst open, and it was the weeds’ turn to gasp. For there were four humans who were armed with gloves and a hoe, adorned with even a mask! Being plants, the weeds were helpless — yes, this they knew. But they would not give up without a fight, this was true.

Through the lawn the humans marched, each stopping at a corner. Even through the mask, rage glinted in their eyes as they stared at the weeds like a lion sizing up its prey. Smack, smack! The sounds of their gloves being put onto their hands were like gongs in the weeds’ ears, ones they hadn’t heard in years. Determined, the clovers grew thorns, and the weeds stretched their roots down as far as they could go, but they didn’t beat the hoe.

The humans dug and dug, the weeds fought and fought. A day passed, then two — a tireless battle between the need for a weedless yard, and survival. Some weeds resisted the humans, holding the line. Some produced seeds, dispersing them while there was time. This way, the more the humans fought, the longer it would take.

The clovers rejoiced, and the world seemed whole again. The humans gave up, setting down their gloves and hoe. No. They couldn’t take any more. Looking defeated, they returned to their shelter, a woman praying for something to help her. A day passed. Two more. The weeds were very sure. There were no signs of humans, no sign of joy. Just the clovers playing and growing in the yard, like a toy.

Then, the door shivered, like a child with no coat. The weeds looked round and round, then a note. The humans’ voices filled the air. This time, there were no gloves, no hoe. Instead, they held a bottle, with something inside it. Were the humans finally submitting to the weeds' command? Finally! The weeds hoped they weren’t bland.

Expecting a nice cooling shower, forced upon the weeds was some kind of liquid, smelling of death and destruction. Within the hour, the clovers were flippin’. Every single one was dead, not a hint! The humans had done it. They won the war. The weeds, they were no more.