Snow On The Tombstones: A Collection of Flash Fiction and Vignettes

Down In The Pond

I didn't mean to drop the softball into the pond.

It doesn't matter why I was out in the woods (I was walking home) or why I was throwing the ball (I was bored). What matters is that, one moment, it was in my grasp, and I was tossing it up and down, catching it perfectly. The next, I fumbled it. Neon green tumbled over my whimpering fingertips, bounced off a pebble, and plopped into the water like a poorly-skipped stone.

I dropped to my knees and tried to fish it out. This could not be happening. I needed that ball. The pond was too deep, and the ball was sinking deeper until it was just a hint of neon submerged in the muck.

"Shit!" I pulled my hair out of my ponytail and took off my hat just so I could run my hands through my hair and wring my hands with my cheap ponytail holder. "Shit!"

"What's wrong?"

I looked around to see who asked that. Their voice was feminine, lilting, and somehow soothing; I found myself wanting to cry just by hearing it.

"I'm down here, dear."

And there it was, near my left knee.

A bullfrog sat there, with its mucousy body and its gray-brown skin, staring up at me.

A talking frog certainly wasn't the craziest thing I had encountered in these woods. Around these parts, there's a whole lot of weird, magical bullshit that happens. I heard that some kids came out into the woods last summer and killed God.

"What's wrong?" the frog asked again.

I tried to keep my composure, but my voice gave away what my eyes wouldn't. "I dropped my-- I dropped my goddamn ball."

"Oh, honey, that's tragic. I can get it for you, if you'd like."

"Um. Sure?" I, refusing to cry, furiously rubbed my fist into one of my eye sockets.

"In return, I am going to ask you for a favor. Will you take me home with you, just for tonight? The woods are dangerous for creatures like me, and I need your help."

I had to blink off the shock, but, before I thought to reject the offer I had accepted. Slowly, tentatively, I nodded. "Sure. That sounds reasonable."

I couldn't be sure that it actually happened, but the bullfrog smiled at me, before going down to the edge of the murky pond and jumping down to retrieve my definitely-waterlogged softball. She completed her end of the bargain by somehow pushing my ball up to the surface and returning it to me. It was covered in algae and pond muck. I was glad to have it back.

Of course, that meant that I had to keep up my end of the deal. I was tempted, for a moment, to leave her there, to take my ball and go, but I knew that wasn't wise. There are things in these woods you don't want to piss off. Anyway, my mama didn't raise a liar and a cheat.

I scooped up the frog and carried her in the crook of my arm, then started off toward home. Bran was not going to be pleased, but, honestly? Fuck him. I do what I want.

We spoke on the way back-- about simple things, small talk. We started at why I was in the woods, somehow got to the misconceptions about lead poisoning, and were about to talk about how much she hated pencils (which I didn't get, because she was a bullfrog and definitely didn't have thumbs) when I realized that I didn't even know her name. (It was Melody.)

We made it to the squat two-room shack in the woods where Bran and I have always lived.

"Bran! I'm home!" I yelled, kicking the door closed behind me. I held Melody in the crook of my arm.

He was sitting at the table with his feet kicked up, doing his homework. The kid was a genius when it came to calculus. He stopped pressing buttons on the fancy graphing calculator I had to dip into my savings for. Bran looked at me, then at Melody. "Oh, hell no!"

"Bran, come on!"

He reached over to switch off the radio. "You know how I feel about frogs."

"Frankly, Bran, I don't give a damn. Don't be a loser."

"Shut up, Anastazie."

"You shut up."

"I can leave if you want me to," Melody interjected. There was a sense of guilt and shame in her voice.

"You brought a talking frog into our house?"

"She's eating dinner with us, goddamn it!" I turned Melody around so that I could look into her eyes. "What do you eat?"

"I'm not proud of it, but basically anything? Bullfrogs are ambush predators. Crawfish, snakes, insects. Anything, really."

We had some crawdads in the fridge from dinner a few nights ago. I put the off-brand Tupperware into the microwave I bought at a yard sale after Bran destroyed out last one. Melody ate it greedily.

With the scent of a mediocre bisque in the air, the three of us went to bed. Our room was bigger than the combination kitchen-dining-and-living-room, but not by much. There was just enough room for our two twin-sized beds and a thin dresser we shared.

I let Melody sleep on my pillow.

Something came over me, with the croaking of the real frogs outside and the chirping of crickets and cicadas, with the light of the moon through my tiny, dirty window. Before I could think about the consequences, I gave Melody a kiss on the top of her bullfrog head and went to sleep with my back to her. She told me she loved me. I went to sleep smiling.

In the morning, there was no longer a bullfrog on my pillow. Instead, there was messy blonde hair, like a frizzy, unbrushed cloud. There were delicate eyelashes, strong bones, warm arms-- there was Melody, on my bed next to me.

I smiled, and went back to sleep.