01 AugThe Monster in the Garden

Note: I looked forward all winter for gardening season this year only to have a million grasshoppers (pretty sure that’s not an exaggeration) come in and eat my roses, my potatoes, my zinnias, my . . . everything. I am less than benevolent when it comes to grasshoppers. My war with them led to writing this piece of fiction(?)/nonfiction(?). You be the judge.

Among grasshoppers there is a legend of a monster in the garden. To most grasshoppers this legend is akin to the human version of the monster under the bed—no one really believes it except for children, and they only on dark nights when they are alone in their rooms. It is then, after the light is turned out and the door is shut, that it seems it could be true; that it seems actually to be true.

Grasshoppers don’t have beds for monsters to hide under. Perhaps this makes them lucky. It doesn’t make them any less afraid, though. There are things in the world that hunt grasshoppers—many things—so grasshoppers live in a high state of anxiety always ready to make that sudden leap. In fact, they have a second brain dedicated to controlling those powerful back legs.

The most feared predator is the praying mantis. Praying mantises are voracious and soulless. They will eat anything they can hold in their serrated arms—and they eat it alive. As feared as they are, most grasshoppers don’t give them much thought. There just aren’t that many praying mantises around. There are few grasshoppers who have seen a friend getting her head chewed off by a mantis.

Aside from cats and chickens, which are sometimes faster than the hopper’s leap, grasshoppers don’t actually worry about much. This is due to the hunger. They live to eat as much as eat to live. If they are wary of a predator it is only because it interferes with their need to eat and eat and eat. It’s going to die at the end of the summer anyway and it must eat its quota to get into grasshopper heaven. Otherwise, they are sent to grasshopper Hell, a brown, dry place devoid of any living thing to eat where they must live with their raging hunger for eternity.

This is why the monster in the garden legend troubles their dreams in the night. It is said that the monster is never seen but that its presence can be felt just before it strikes. Some hoppers have reported that, while in the ecstasy of gnawing on a cucumber leaf or a rose bud, a feeling of dread will fall over them. Looking around, they see nothing but more buds, stems, and leaves. Maybe there is a lowly ant working nearby, but nothing worthy of such dread.

Suddenly an eating companion just one leaf over disappears. Yes, like magic—there one moment; gone the next. It’s enough to make a grasshopper stop chomping for a moment. “Was I dreaming? Jake was just there a moment ago, right?” As quickly as the thought entered the hopper’s first brain it disappears and is replaced by the yummy cucumber leaf waiting to be devoured. But when Jake’s head falls out of the sky and plops down on the leaf with a wet shmack, it gets real. Jakes’ friend, who wishes to remain anonymous, reports that Jake’s throat, heart and stomach are hanging from Jake’s head—his body is nowhere to be seen. It’s a horrible sight. Poor Jake! It’s almost enough to turn a hopper’s stomach. Almost. The cucumber leaf is just too delicious.

Something lands on a leaf just the other side of the stem.

“Lisa? Are you joining me for lunch?”

There is a “click” as leg joints release and a hopper hops. Jake’s friend is horrified to the point of vomiting as Jake’s headless body lands nearly on top of him. Without his head Jake’s friend has no proof, but he’s certain it’s Jake—headless Jake. He’s looking down a hole into his friend’s body where his stomach and heart used to be. He stares speechless dribbling tobacco juice from his mouth. Jake’s second brain is still functioning because Jake’s legs cock and once again he hops in a perfect arc to the base of the cucumber plant.

“Jake, where are you going?” his friend asks in a state of shock. His gaze shifts from the body where Jake’s legs are rubbing where his head used to be, to Jake’s head, lying sightless and still beside him.

“The monster in the garden,” he whimpers.

But the cucumber leaf. It’s so yummy. And Jake’s friend is so hungry. He takes another greedy bite just before the Dread falls upon him. He stiffens. His legs cock.

Leap! screams one part of his tiny brain. Don’t move! whispers another part.

Something unseen is moving closer . . . closer. Just as his leg brain triggers the leap Jake’s friend disappears. He’s gone, leaving no trace he ever existed . . . until his head plops down into the dirt. His body follows. Not having Jake’s grace or persistence, his body lies on its side, legs quivering in an attempt to right the body to jump away.

The monster in the garden has struck again.

Across the vast garden, on leaves, stones, and earth, hopper heads lay entangled with hopper guts, staring sightless through alien insect eyes at the hot sun above.