The Tormented Frog
by Diana Metz
There was once a lowly frog, Walsey by name, who was unlucky enough to live near a great castle. Walsey was ugly, even by froggish standards. Large blotches the shade of a molded orange covered his back, and he had caught warts from a passing toad. Part of his tadpole tail still remained, which made sitting a bit uncomfortable, so Walsey tended to squat with his behind in the air. An accident while leaping off a log caused one of his eyes to squint, while the other bulged excessively. Walsey was content with his lack of froggly handsomeness, the lack of friends allowed him more time to contemplate how the ripples moved over the pond.
One day, quite unexpectedly, Walsey was lifted from his wilted lily pad by something lacy and pink that smelled vaguely of a rose garden he had hopped through the week before. And without so much as a by-your-leave, the lacy- pink-rose-thing kissed him! Now Walsey was not opposed to kissing, mind you, but he preferred the thin, clammy, slightly gnat tasting lips of Ferdilla, two logs over, to these warm, squishy, chocolate tasting things. After a few minutes of dread Walsey found himself being dropped unceremoniously into a muck puddle. When his good eye cleared he watched the lacy-pink-thing stomp across the meadow.
Walsey hobbled back to the pond and gave his mouth a good scrubbing with skunk grass. He thought long and hard, trying to determine what he had done to deserve such torment. But since his life was sadly dull, he concluded that this was a freak event and that the bizarre creature was just crazy. Vowing to be more careful, Walsey swam to a slimy log in the middle of the pond and nibbled on some ripe algae.
The next morning dawned cold and cloudy, perfect weather for relaxing in the mud. Walsey was happily squishing muck between his toes when he was jerked out of the soft goo by a gardenia smelling hankie. He was lifted high into the air, where he came face to face with his assailant. A pair of hideous blue eyes stared into his for a moment before they closed and he was drawn helplessly toward a pink-painted scrunched up mouth. A loud “smack” was quickly followed by a disgusted “blech!”. The awful, blue eyes opened again and looked expectantly at Walsey. He was turned this way and that, and was quite dizzy when he was thrown back into the mud (gardenia hankie and all). Walsey wiped the mud from his good eye and warily watched the billowy-yellow beast stomp down the road.
None of the other frogs had experienced any attacks. They said Walsey was being too suspicious, or suggested that perhaps someone had put a curse on him.
Day after day, no matter where Walsey hid, a rainbow of flowery-smelling assailants came and jerked him into the air, each one forcing their squishy lips against his, waiting for something to happen, then dropping him into the mud, or rocks, or thorn bushes. By the sixth attack, Walsey knew he wasn’t being too suspicious, and by the tenth, he began to believe in the idea of a curse. Walsey was quickly becoming a nervous wreck.
After a week of terror, Walsey decided that he needed to visit Bootha, the local witch. Hiding under a large leaf, he made his way across the meadow and into the woods. He followed the warning signs posted on dead tree trunks to a clearing where he found a crumbling building. The path up to the house had been nibbled away by the forest animals, the cookie-walls had a thick coating of yellow-green mold, the frosting on the roof was almost completely washed away, faded candy cane posts leaned precariously, and the few candy decorations that hadn’t dissolved or been eaten were faded and no-longer appetizing.
Walsey threw off his leafy disguise, hopped onto the sticky window sill and looked through the yellowed pane of sugar. Inside he saw the witch’s crooked back, she was facing an old, cracked mirror. He heard her scratchy voice intone: “Ancient Mirror, wise and grand, who is the ugliest in the land?” The grimy mirror became crystal clear, and Walsey saw Bootha’s yellow, wrinkled face, now clearly reflected. What Bootha saw was the reflection of herself, the room, the window and a frog. She screamed and whipped around. Startled by the approaching witch, Walsey fell off the window sill.
Bootha stormed out of the house, and scooped up the frog. “Well, you beastly thing, what do you think you’re doing, scaring a poor old woman like that?” She carried him into the house and set him on a cluttered table. “Better tell me what you’re doing here before I dice you up for dinner.”
Walsey pulled off a leaf that was stuck to his foot, and glared up at the old hag. This was the final straw! “Go ahead! Eat me! See if I care. I’ve spent the past week being hunted down and kissed by a horde of lacy-flower-creatures, you couldn’t do much worse to me.”
Confused, Bootha tried to calm the exasperated frog. “Now, now, it can’t be as bad as all that. Lacy-flower-creatures, you say?” She wrinkled her face in thought. “They didn’t, by chance, happen to have pointy glass shoes?” Walsey nodded, rubbing his head where a hard toe had caught him the day before. “Hair like wild clouds?” Walsey nodded. “Long colored claws?” Walsey nodded so vigorously that he fell over. “Ahh. I think I know what your problem is.”
Bootha poured out a saucer of black-fly tea and set it in front of Walsey. “You see, a few weeks back I was insulted by a handsome, but rude, prince. I turned him into a frog, thinking that it would change his attitude. But, he talked a princess into kissing him, returning him to his human form. I assume the story got out and now every princess in the land is looking under lily pads.”
Walsey slumped dejectedly. “Isn’t there any way I can get them to leave me alone?”
Bootha thought for a moment. She scratched her head, loosened her shoes, and picked a spider out of her ear. “I suppose I could reverse the spell,” she said after a moment. She mumbled something about focusing pokers at a bare cadaver, and sprinkled powder that smelled like newt on Walsey’s head. “There, that should do the trick.” She carried Walsey outside. “Remember to put in a good word for me with the other amphibians.” Bootha waved as Walsey wobbled away. “The mirror was right,” she said with a shiver, “that was the ugliest creature alive!”
Walsey slowly made his way back to the pond. He wasn’t exactly sure what Bootha had done to him, he didn’t feel any different. He dropped happily into the mud, exhausted. The croaking of his fellow frogs lulled him to sleep.
The next day, Walsey had put the trip to the witch out of his mind. He went about the business of clearing the air of gnats. He didn’t see the frilly white cloud descending on him. The cloud grabbed him by his lumpy legs and raised him into the air. He dangled there for a few minutes, looking into the pasty white, fat face before him. He sighed, might as well get it over with, he lifted his mouth to get kissed. A long bony hand pinched the bulging nose and Walsey was brought within reach of the swollen lips. He closed his eyes, the smell of the creature was almost too much to bear: cherry blossoms!
Long minutes passed before the squishy lips touched his. As before, Walsey found himself dropped back into the pond. This time, though, there was an odd mist around him and he could not see the frilly white cloud stomping away across the meadow. He groaned and went back to his gnat catching. To his surprise, another frog had joined him. A pretty greenish-yellow frog with long slender jumping legs. A female frog. “Greetings,” Walsey stuttered.
“Where am I?” The soft rasping voice asked.
“The pond.” Walsey answered. He stared into the beautiful bulging yellow eyes. “My name’s Walsey. You’re new around here.”
The lady frog looked around. “My name’s Matilda.
Walsey puffed himself up. “Would you like to come over to my lily pad? The gnats are swarming.”
Matilda stuck her tongue out at the thought and accidentally caught a passing fly. Her eyes bulged as she swallowed. She smacked her lips and smiled. “Fresh gnats?”
Walsey escorted Matilda across the pond to his lily pad, noticing that she smelled vaguely of cherry blossoms.
Walsey and Matilda live happily under the wilted lily pad. And Walsey was never again tormented by the lacy-flower-creatures.
Read more short stories by Diana Metz here...