Giddily hopping amongst the sparkling bovids, his belled clogs jingling with every hop, the gnome donned a golden cape and an orange conical cap and pulled a tin of kerosene from his pocket.  This kerosene he proceeded to pour in a line across a small stretch of land.  Nodding contentedly, the sprightly fellow kicked his now empty tin aside, and pulled out some flint and steel.  His golden cape glittered in the candlelight.  For a moment, all was calm.

The gnome tensed, his head snapping to the left.  A pack of antelope roared toward him, like shooting stars cutting across the plains.  Frantically he cast his flint to steel, again and again, hoping for a spark.  The antelope arrived.  No spark.  Under his breath in his high-pitched tone, the gnome incanted spells as if in a trance.

The last of the antelope herd approached.  And suddenly!  A spark —

Roiling flame engulfed the straggling ruminant!  Blood-curdling shrieks of pain echoed across the grey savannah.  The gnome backflipped and did a jig, as gnomes are wont to do, and watched the sparkling and now flaming antelope gallop to the horizon.

With some difficulty, Galashnikov pried the loupe out of Ovitch’s nose, and it made a popping sound.  POP!

“I have just had a vision for an epic tale!” exclaimed the poet.