Traveling Shovel of Death

In honor of NaNo coming up, I'm going to do something unusual for the prompt.  I did NaNo for the first time in 2008, and while I will caution anyone and everyone against thinking they're a genius and querying their NaNo novel in December, I do love the spirit of NaNo.  To me, it's all about carpe diem.  If you want to write a novel - write one!  Don't wait for someone to give you permission to, or until you "have more time".  Give yourself permission.  Make time.

(Or if it helps at all, I give you permission!!!)

Now in six years of doing NaNo, I have spent my fair share of time procrastinating in the NaNo Forums (part of the whole experience, guys, go check them out).  The "traveling shovel of death" is a kind of challenge/prompt thread where you insert the ... wait for it ... Traveling Shovel of Death ... into your novel. 

The prompt for this week:  The Traveling Shovel of Death

Enjoy!

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My response:

I meant to kill the voles. 

No, I'm serious, I was so mad at the stupid voles!  I planted strawberries two years ago, and because of bad weather, I didn't get anything that first year.  I was so excited when they sprouted up through the snow with flowers everywhere, and little green strawberries following shortly thereafter.  Just as the berries were starting to ripen, the voles hit.  They ate everything.  Ripe berries, green berries ... they even chewed on the stems, ruining whole areas of the patch.  Oh, how I hated them

Next came the cherry tomatoes.  Then my carrots and beets.  Why would they bother with the poison I laid out for them when they already had a perfect feast laid out?  They were evil, and I was done.

My raspberry patch came on in the last week of August, and I was thrilled.  Then, when I went out with a bowl to gather them, I saw it.  Little, nibbled berries all along the bottoms of the raspberry vines.  I lost it.

The shovel had been in the shed when we moved in, and it proved to be sturdy while I was putting in the garden.  I knew the head was old and heavy, and any little moles it encountered would breath their last.  Armed, I headed back to the raspberry patch.

It was dawn, and I knew the voles would be moving around, so I waited patiently, the head of the shovel growing ever heavier in my arms, but I knew the pain would be worth it.  Finally, the leaves stirred, something rustling in the shadows, just beyond my vision. 

The shovel came down hard.  My aim was true.  I felt a crunch.  Victory!  Then I moved the raspberry vine aside to survey my work.

The only thing worse than not killing a vole was realizing I'd killed my neighbor's cat.  She was a good mouser, so I can only guess she'd been lured into my yard with the same murderous thoughts towards my infestation as I had.  She hadn't had a chance against the shovel.

I threw back my head and pulled my arm back, ready to chuck the shovel over the fence, a growling yell rising in my throat.  My arm swung forward.

"Bea, is that you?  Have you seen my Princess this morning?  I notice she's been spending time in your yard lately ..."

My arm slackened and dropped, the shovel falling to the ground and barely missing my toes.  I murmured a curse, then thanked the Lord I hadn't finished my swing.  Somehow explaining to Verna that her cat was dead seemed easier than explaining to the cops why Verna was dead.  So at least there's that.