Short Stories From Out There

The Grass Got Too High

It's been raining all week, and I can't mow my lawn. This is bad. I can hear the grass. I hear it when it gets too tall. It whispers, out there in the lawn, out there in the night. I can't tune it out. It's humming no matter where I go in the house. After what seems like forever, I open the window. There it is, small voices, like a hundred babies cooing, all that one word. The most horrible word ever made.

"Eat," over and over. "Eat, eat, eat."

I've never eaten so much salad, more salad in the last month than in my entire life. "More roughage," I tell myself. "Good roughage. Almost as good as fine grass in the summer." It sounds like an old saying. Maybe something horse people say. Maybe something horses say. Maybe something crazy people say.

The whispering started when Kathy left. She moved in with her new love, Bob, that prick she works with, who I knew from the get-go was after her. Well, Bob got her all right. And she's gone. We're still sorting out the house, but for now, it's mine. It's taking months because she's always gone on trips. Trips I'd never bother with. Bob lives for trips. He would always mention that at work functions when Kathy would whine about not going anywhere. Prick.

Anyway, one night, I was partaking in my newest hobby, crying my stupid self to sleep, and I cracked the window open a bit. That's when I heard whispering. I figured it was some kids pranking me. It's not enough that life kicks you square in the nads; life has to add the cruelty of strangers as an extra topping on the crap pizza that your life has become. I went outside with a flashlight and a bat and tracked the whispering to somewhere behind the house.

I aimed the light right at the spot where it sounded like the whispering was coming from, and no one was there. Also, it went quiet. I walked all around, looking for the suspected punks, but nothing.

As I headed back into the house, the whispering kicked in again. I sprinted back to the source, keeping my light off until I was on top of it. I could tell the sound was coming from the ground right in front of me, right there on the lawn. I turned my light on the spot, and instantly, silence. There was still nothing there. I walked all around looking for wires or anything that would explain it. Nothing.

I went back in and shut the window. That next day, I mowed the grass so I could see better. There was nothing but grass. That night, peace. That was until the grass grew back.

The patch of whispering grass is about ten feet in diameter. It is under a branch of the old Japanese maple tree, the one tree in my yard with dark red leaves. The branch, a thick, gnarled one that almost reaches the house, fans out at the end, resembling a claw, and looks like a monster's arm trying to grab my roof.

Folks are creeped out by it, especially Kathy. It is pretty cool. It was another thing about my house that was different, and I loved that. I told Kathy it keeps those neighbor rat kids out of our backyard. I also told her some people would pay a mint to have that, so it stays. I should have known then, by her giving in, that something was up.

When we first married, we'd fight and have some real doozies. Getting my way was rarely a result. Kathy's far better than me when we get emotional. It makes her smarter than me. I get wound up, then I blubber, and I have a hard time knowing the difference between what happened and what I felt happened. Sometimes, after I've said something that made perfect sense, I'll realize how flat-out goofy I sound and burst out laughing. Sometimes, Kathy joins me, and then it's okay. Sometimes, she doesn't, and then things will get worse.

Lately, Kathy stopped fighting me. She would just say "Whatever," and go to her work office we made for her. She'd shut her door, call a friend, argument over. I'd stand there and smile. A victor's smile. The smile of a complete fool holding a gold-colored rock.