Old Blogger's Tales

Toad Words

Toad Words by ursulavernon on tumblr 

[no longer exists]

Start

Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too. 

It used to be a problem.

There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up with my parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall out of her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

So I got frogs. It happens.

"You'll grow into it," the fairy godmother said. "Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings." She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it does when she's forgetting things. "Mind you some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?"

I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated dropping frogs on the road. The got hit by cars or dried down, miles away from their damp little homes. 

Toads were easier. Toads were tough.  After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll a word around on my tongue and get the flavour before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp, crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick. 

Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky, Purple, Swinging, Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening. I learned to speak some words as toads or frogs. It's all in the delivery. 

Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

Toads are masters of it.

I learned one day that amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be filled with frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible- fungus and pesticides and acid rain. 

When I heard this, I cried "What!?" so loudly that an adult African Bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to a pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it. 

I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine had retired a long time ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads the wings across the deck chairs. 

But I can make more.

I had to get a field guide at first. It was along process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I'm not paying attention.     

Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.

It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler's Toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it's frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.) 

The woods behind my house are full of singing. My neighbours either learn to love it or move away.

My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

I am practicing reading mordernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I'll say again and again, until I stand at the centre of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold. 

Terri Windling posted recently about an old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl's lips, and I started to think about what I'd do if that happened to me, and...well...

End

[First chapter! I'm so excited!
I do not own anything nor was I involved in writing this at all. All credits to ursulavernon]