Posted by Gardening | Posted in Garden Statues and Yard Art | Posted on 04-02-2012
Tags: garden gnome sprite
 MILITARY CAMOUFLAGE GARDEN GNOME SPRITE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS NEW US $17.99 
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 Garden Gnome on Toad House Toadhouse Red Hat Sprite US $18.99
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 12 Garden Gnome w Geese Ducks Medium Resin Sprite US $22.99
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 Gnome w Garden Hoe Red Hat Lawn and Garden Sprite US $24.99
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 Gnome w Ax Mushroom Red Hat Garden Gnome Sprite US $31.99
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 Gnome w Shovel Mushrooms Red Hat Garden Gnome Sprite US $24.99
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 Garden Gnome Sprite with Squirrel on Mushroom at Gate US $27.99
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 Gnome with Flower Pots Spade at Garden Gate Sprite US $27.99
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 Garden Gnome Sawing a Stump Lawn Garden Sprite US $22.99
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 Gnome w Brown Sack Small 6 1 2 Garden Sprite Red Hat US $10.99
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 Garden Gnome Chopping Wood w Ax Lawn Garden Sprite US $22.99
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 Solar Gnome hugging Mushroom Red Hat Garden Sprite US $27.99
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 15 Garden Gnome on Mushroom w Snail Large Sprite US $31.99
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 GRANDPA Garden GNOME Trolls Sprites Fantasy Statue Yard US $25.95
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What type of character would you categorize this as?
Im developing a story based on a character similar to this:
http://cghub.com/files/Image/005001-006000/5141/868_large.jpg
I want to do some research on this type of creature (gnome, elf, sprite?) but I don't know what it is exactly. Searching for gnome just brings up garden gnomes and the roaming gnome.
If someone with knowledge of mythological creatures could help me out that would be awesome.
I would have said woodland sprite (just my opinion)...and hes got brownies! Wheres this from? Its like the story the borrowers, tiny people who live in your house and collect things.....
edit* after some reading alot of the names are interchangable it depends on his "personality" and country of origin. A puck is a troublemaker, a brownie is good natured and helpful, a pixie is cheerful but likes to trick travelers, fairys have wings, gnomes are guarding mines of treasure, some are deformed, dwarfish, earthspirt......then there's imps, leprechaun (Irish elf), nixies, fays, trolls, goblins, gremlins, hobgoblin......I mean this guy could be a kobold!
Coffin Road: A Mortality Tale for Children
The Tale had been passed down for ages and would be passed down for ages to come. So long as there was a wedewyre and wedes to live in it, it would pass. Each generation, of course, had added something. Each had taken something away. But the general impulse remained: Three went out in search of the Sound--Seeker, Teller, and Winder (though they weren't called that then). Only Teller returned, living long enough, just, to tell the Tale.
It is generally agreed that the Tale is not a happy one. It is also generally agreed that it is the only tale to tell. The wedes believe this for two reasons: Because no one came back to live as they did before, they see it as a tale of defeat, and of death (and since wedes die as do every living thing, this is of considerable interest). But because Seeker found the source of the Sound and Teller found his way home, they see it also as a tale of life, and inspiration. Most importantly, since no one actually saw Winder die, only vanish, they see it as a tale of victory.
Who heard the Sound first, no one can say. My shaper told me, when I was young, that the Sound had not always existed. That the wedewyre sprawled much as it does now, but that the stalks were shorter and the sky bigger, and the only sound, mostly, was that of the wind rushing through grass. Then one day someone heard it--like a whisper, they said, not the wind but on the wind; a sound from somewhere else, from beyond the grass. Soon another heard it, and another, until at last everyone heard it, or nearly so.
And so an assembly was called. Everyone was invited, even the wanderers who were constantly straying from the village, needing to be rescued--among them the one called Seeker--and the truants and cheaters and law-breakers--among them the one called Winder. And it was decided that a party should go, to try to find the source of the Sound, and to determine if it represented a threat.
One volunteered immediately--Seeker, of course, who above all else wanted to seek; it didn't matter to her what she found. But no one else stepped forward.
And so two were drafted: Winder, who fled, weaving through the crowd--but was tripped and piled upon; and Teller, a timid (some say cowardly) shaper; whose mate and newborn cried as he stepped out. But on this as in all things the wedes' logic was simple: if in fact they found the source of the Sound and it represented a threat, they would need a fighter of some order, a runner and a bounder, a cheater, to frustrate it. So also if they found the Sound, whatever its nature, they would need to be informed. For that they needed a shaper, one who was certain to return, or die trying, for love of his children.
And so they went out, Seeker, Teller, and Winder.
But it was no easy road.
The wedewyre, it turned out, was bigger than anyone had imagined. On and on they marched, day and night, through its grasses: fighting chimeras, suffering the heat, turning upon each other when things looked the bleakest, while every day the Sound grew louder, the wedewyre grew farther away, and the ground began to vibrate, as though giants lay ahead.
So harsh was the haul, and so long, that Seeker finally gave out, falling upon her reedy knees in the shadow of some foothills, saying, No more, no more. I have done my best.
The stalks blew all around as Winder laid her back--how thin she was by then!--her little face shriveled from the drought and her arms and legs attenuated, like blades of grass. She apologized. Not for failing to see the Sound but for failing to see them, her traveling companions, before the Sound had come so close. For accusing Winder, as was fashionable, of mischief for mischief's sake--as if he was the way he was only in reaction to everyone else, and so not entirely living. And for believing, as was also fashionable, that Teller's devotion to his newborn was disingenuous--that it was, somehow, only a ruse to avoid more serious and possibly dangerous work. And they apologized to her, for different but identical reasons.
Then she died, seeking something in their eyes (finding it, I believe, because Teller said she smiled), and they buried her body; though, when Winder paused at the crest of the hills, he saw that the red ants had already exhumed it--exhumed it and were tearing it to pieces; pieces they carried into the shadows.
Look, cried Teller. It is the Sound!
He had to cry because the Sound was now deafening.
Winder turned around.
They collapsed, there at the crest of the hills, not because they were done and all used up--though they were--but because neither could grasp what they saw. And what they saw--even now, generations later--is a matter of debate.
Some say it was like the stream, on the banks of which wedes had built their nests for as long as anyone could remember. Others agree only in part--it was like that only different, they say, because it was so vast, and because it extended from horizon to horizon, like the sky. Still others talk of the racing giants, and the rolling mountains. But on one thing every account agrees: both Teller and Winder went a little mad at the sight, and each responded according to their nature. Winder by bounding down the slopes and over the barrier--a barrier taller than all the houses in the wedewyre even if they were piled one upon the other--by breaking into an insane dash right across the great transom, running like a fool, winding between the thundering giants, dodging their feet, rolling beneath their underbellies, until he vanished in the fumy haze.
Teller looked and looked to see if he might materialize on the other side, and maybe he did, maybe he did, but then something reasserted itself (some say it was cowardice but I believe it was love for his family), and he went bounding back the way they had come; winding through the red ants, braving and evading their pincers, running back to live with his family--so he had hoped--but really only to tell the Tale, a tale which would become everyone's, a tale about dying but about victory too.
(c) 2008 by Wayne K. Spitzer
About the Author
Wayne Spitzer is an author, filmmaker, and teacher of writing from the Pacific Northwest. His genre work includes an SF/horror novel, Flashback (Books in Motion/Classic Ventures, 1993), the movies Shadows in the Garden (Indie-Flix, 2007) and Monstersdotcom (Brimstone LLC, 2003), and numerous low-budget television programs and ad spots. His non-genre work has appeared in Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History, subTerrain, Micro-film: The Magazine of Personal Cinema in Action, and Generation X National Journal. Wayne teaches creative writing at Airway Heights Corrections Center and Corbin Art Center in Spokane, Washington.
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