Number Cruncher

It is not true that all information is equal. Some data are more precious than others. Most people can't see it. Most gods can't see it, either. In fact, about the only one who does see it is the wizened little gnome who proposed it, whose demesne is spreadsheets. You won't have seen him working, but you may have experienced the aftereffects. He plucks out the special numbers, the entries that have whatever esoteric qualities he prizes today, and replaces them with numbers he considers banal and uninteresting.

Whether they are right or not is immaterial.

At least to him.

The Little People

The vacuum cleaner emitted muted roars as she pushed it to and fro across the carpet, leaving tracks in the fabric. Every now and then it crackled, sucking up some previously invisible dirt. She shoved the cleaner as far under the bed as it could reach.

Thump.

The engine squealed, and she flicked the off switch with a sigh and a muttered profanity. She lay the machine down and prodded at the obstruction.

A tiny armchair fell to the carpet. It was mangled and crushed, but clearly recognizable. She touched the vacuum cleaner's brush, and her fingers came away red...

Hunting for Sport

"Got a new one, eh?"

Robert angled the wheelbarrow just right in the stiff gnome's hands, then stepped back to survey his work. He nodded. "Finally gave up on the traps and went out like my grandfather did. Club and net. Traditional, like."

Todd plucked his pipe out of his mouth and scratched at his nose with the stem. "Looks a bit peaky, though. They're best in the fall, when their little bellies are round."

Robert gritted his teeth. He glanced at Todd's yard, where half a dozen store-bought plumpers stood with jaunty, frozen smiles. "At least I earned mine."