What if gardening magazines were written like fantasy novels?
The day was hot. Sun glared from a bleached sky, and heat shimmered off the soil.
Robinne squinted into the sun, eyeing her enemies, calculating the risks. They were arrayed in their thousands—rank upon rank of weeds as far as the eye could see. Their green shoots groped for the sky, smothering her unwary crops. She knew their roots ran deep.
This would be no mere skirmish, no quick-strike street fight. This would be a war beyond reckoning.
Sweat beaded on Robinne’s brow as she considered her strategy. She pulled on her gloves and patted the secateurs hanging at her side for reassurance. She could do this. She had to do this. She was the garden’s only hope.
Robinne drew out her weeding tool, Weedlebuzzer—an ancient weapon, handed down through generations of warrior gardeners. The weeding tool thrummed in her hand, eager to get to work. Robinne smiled grimly, opened the gate, and stepped into the garden.