When the wise old witch said, she would teach him a lesson she wasn’t kidding. Charles Fortesque-Smyth was an abuser, a user and a refuser.
He quickly discovered being grasshopper was no fun at all. Especially when he was placed in an aquarium with the most ghastly purple stones. “I’m a grasshopper,” he thought, “not a Rockhopper.”
Starvation was staring him in the face, and he knew he had a face that most likely deserved to be starved.
To make it worse, his skin had gone a pasty green and threatened to go more pastel that he would have liked. Through the glass, he saw his family tucking into their Sunday lunch just as the eldest showered him with a weed he’d pulled from the garden.
The weed was sinewy, tasteless and of no nutritional value. He wondered if he jumped he could escape his glass prison.
He leapt high, and on his descent, he saw the cat below, jaws agape.
“Oh no,” he uttered.
The family saw only the cat licking its lips.