I woke up one morning to find some guy wearing trainers, sweatpants and a basketball singlet as well as a pink Fedora standing in my garden looking at the carrots.

I was about to go for a run so I wasn't the peak of fashion myself, but I still wondered why this guy was wearing a pink fedora with sweatpants and even more so I was wondering why the hell he was in my garden.

So I walked outside and lifted my chin in greeting, 'Hey buddy how's it going?’

The guy looked at me with this almost lucid grin. I tried to think of where I'd seen him before

He pointed to the garden. 'Nice day for it.'

I nodded slowly, 'You mean nice day for standing in random people's gardens? Or just a nice day in general? Or... do you mean a nice day for wearing a pink fedora?'

The guy laughed, 'I meant nice day for having a garden. You've done well, most people here don't bother - for the most part we have everything we need.'

I shrugged, 'Just a hobby I guess, plus, I like food.'

The guy gave another warm, easy laugh, 'Well, my name's Clive, I'm part of the Little Writers Gardening Collective, a group of people like you and me who are interested in gardens. We go over to each other's backyards and we give each other a hand.' He nodded towards a knot of weeds that had formed between my tomatoes, 'Sometimes working with other people makes the job easier.'

I grabbed one of the weeds and tried to rip it out of the ground, 'Clive I think you've misjudged me, I am very much not a people person.' I grunted, strained and then gave up on the weed.

Clive crouched, twisted the weed four and a half times then gave a sharp jerk upward - the entire thing came out of the ground with a soft POP.

He took the pink fedora off his head and held it up. 'I’m not much of a people person either. That's why I wear this thing. People see it combined with the sweatpants and they run for the hills.’

I smiled, 'Alright Clive. That weedpulling was impressive and you’re at least slightly self-aware. I'm going to go for a run, have a shower, doubt my writing abilities for five hours while I crank out four chapters, and then I'm free. You want to discuss pink fedoras? I'm all for it, but if you want to talk gardens I guess that's okay as well.'

Clive tipped his pink fedora, 'I'll see you here at six.'

I watched him stroll off. Why was I being so friendly to Clive? you might ask. Why wasn't I ripping him to shreds for his fedora the way I usually would with Alex's ties?

Well... the thing about being a writer and only writing stories is that you're pouring your whole being into that act of creation and any time you slack off, can't think of the next sentence or leave an unfixable plot hole you feel like an ultimate piece of shit.

If writing is the only thing you're doing, then your whole personality and sense of self-worth depend on it.

The week before I met Clive I'd decided that I needed some sort of a hobby to counteract writing. Running was good, apart from the fact I wasn't that great at running, I couldn't run very far without getting puffed, and my legs kept hurting.

So on the bad days, when I couldn't write there was a 100 percent chance I'd also be a terrible runner. There was no way to gain some sense of self-worth from all that.

Instead, I decided gardening would be my hobby-thing. I loved the neat little rows of carrots and lettuce and I figured I could hang with this weird fedora guy Clive for a little bit, see if I could learn anything from him and if I didn't, I'd tell him exactly where to stick it.

****

True to his word. Clive showed up at 6pm that evening. This time he wasn't wearing a pink fedora and he looked about 100 times more reliable.

Turns out Clive was a science fiction writer. He never came to parties, which is probably why I’d never met him. He didn't go to cafes that often either. In fact, the more I asked about him, the more boring the guy seemed. All he was interested in were writing and gardening. He seemed to spend every spare moment hanging out with the Little Writers Gardening Collective. In some ways, the guy reminded me a bit of Victor, the sort of nobody who inhabits very little space, doesn't criticize Crusher Media and just wants to live a very small life.

We walked over to his house and he showed me a new tablet he’d bought. The tablet itself wasn’t anything special – it looked about the same age as my first one, only a little more expensive.

But – when he powered it on the home screen was chokka full of apps. Minecraft, messenger, Fortnite, Otter, Snapchat, YouTube. It was a goldmine of all the apps I’d taken for granted when I was on the outside.

‘How’d you get this?’ I said.

‘My friend Q got it for me.’ He gave this weird stare when he said that – like he had something in his eye.

‘Cool. Reckon he could get one for me?’

‘Maybe.’ Clive said, ‘I’ll ask him the next time I see him.’

‘You play Minecraft much? That was a favourite of mine. Too bad we can’t get it in here.’

Clive laughed, ‘I think it was a favourite of everyone. And no – not as much as I’d like... I get too busy.’

Clive’s ‘busy’ that day consisted of putting mulch from his compost heap under his beans. The compost stank, but not as bad as my stainless steel bucket used to – in fact after a while the compost almost started to smell sweet.

After that we kicked back on his deck with some ice-cold homemade lemonade he’d scored from one of the guys in the Little Writers Gardening Collective.

‘This is it Eli,’ he gave a sigh, ‘This is what life’s about.’

I nodded, ‘Yeah... I guess.’

He raised an eyebrow, ‘Life’s good in here isn’t it? Write a chapter or two a day, grow some vegetables, you know your neighbours, everyone’s pretty nice...’

I shrugged, ‘No... they’re not nice.’

Clive raised an eyebrow, ‘You don’t love it here?’

‘I do... and I don’t at the same time. The village is bloody nice, an almost perfect society. But always when I’m lying awake at night i think about everything that its built on. All those writers in the dorms beneath us. Scratching away at earning enough to eat.’

Clive nodded slowly, ‘Maybe you’re right.’ He pointed out beyond the village where a wall of black clouds was rolling towards us, ‘Good for the garden.’

I sniffed, ‘Feels like its been months since we had rain.’

****

It didn't’ rain often in The Village – but that night it bucketed down. I found myself staring out the window in reverence as rain pelted against the windows.

I woke to a thunder crash so loud it sounded like someone was kicking my door in. Then I realised that the sound was someone kicking my door in and I quickly got out of bed.

There, in my living room were three thugs dressed in ugly maroon sweaters.

The one closest to me was wearing a purple balaclava and carrying a small towel in his hands. Behind him was a woman wearing a bunny balaclava and a guy wearing a fox balaclava.

Purple-head rushed up to me and pushed the cloth into my face. The thing smelt like almonds. I choked, tried to push him away, but my arms were growing weak. My vision blurred, then shut off as I passed into unconsciousness.