Grandma Elsie, a woman whose patience was thinner than her already-threadbare knitting needles, decided she needed a hobby. Gardening, she’d declared, was the key to unlocking her inner zen. The problem? Grandma Elsie’s garden was about the size of a postage stamp, nestled between a grumpy gnome and a particularly aggressive rose bush.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, wrestling with a particularly stubborn carrot the size of her pinky finger. “I’ve been at this for an hour, and all I’ve achieved is a sore thumb and a bruised ego.”
Her grandson, Timmy, a whirlwind of ten-year-old energy, burst onto the scene, a mud-caked grin plastered across his face. “Nana! Look what I found!” he yelled, holding up a wriggling earthworm longer than his forearm.
Grandma Elsie squinted. “Timmy, put that…thing…down. It’s terrifying.”
“But Nana,” Timmy insisted, “it’s a super-worm! It’ll help your garden grow!” He proceeded to delicately place the colossal worm into the tiny carrot patch. The earth trembled.
The next morning, Grandma Elsie gasped. Her postage-stamp garden had exploded. Giant carrots, zucchini the size of small cars, and tomatoes that looked suspiciously like basketballs sprawled across the lawn. Even the grumpy gnome looked impressed, though he still refused to smile.
“Timmy,” Grandma Elsie said, her voice a mixture of awe and terror. “I think…I think your super-worm might have super-powers.”
Timmy beamed. “Yep! I named him Kevin.”
Grandma Elsie stared at the monstrous vegetables. “Well, Kevin,” she sighed, “at least now I have enough food to last until the apocalypse. Or at least until the next time the rose bush decides to attack.” She paused, then added with a mischievous glint in her eye, “Though I think I’ll stick to knitting for my sanity.”
