A Trip to Bullfrog Bayou

by Krista Loomis

“Where are we going?” Chad said. We walked down the road past our house. Chad held back, a few paces behind me. The sun had just begun to set throughout the trees, casting shadows on the gravel road that stretched before us. I was taking him out to the old fishing hole, fondly known to some as Bullfrog Bayou. I was going to teach him how to gig frogs tonight. I hadn’t told him this yet, however. He wouldn’t have agreed to come. He’d been too busy feeling sorry for himself about the fact that Maggie Baynard wouldn’t go to the end-of-school dance with him.

“We’re going out to gig frogs,” I said. I twirled a flashlight in my hand. 

“Ugh!” he said. “Why’d you drag me outta the house for that?”

“You’ve been pining after Maggie Baynard long enough,” I said. “It’s time for you to get out and do something.” He sighed but didn’t protest any further. I turned back to look at him. He was just about to finish 6th grade. He was pretty tall for his age, standing at about 5’3.” At this point, It seemed that all his pants were highwaters. His dirty-blonde hair stuck straight up at his cowlick and his front teeth had a bit of a gap. But he had a big heart. Maggie was a dang fool not to go to the dance with him. 

As we approached the pond, I handed him the gig. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he said. He scrunched his face in confusion.

“You’re gonna use it to get the frogs,” I said. His eyes widened at the thought of the task. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I’ve never done this before. What if I mess it up?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I said. I cleared a limb from our path. “Just find a frog you like, and I’ll blind it with my flashlight. Then you sneak up on him and stab him with the gig. Simple as that.”

“Simple as that,” he said, repeating after me. I knew it wouldn’t be as simple as that for Chad. Nothing had ever been that simple for my brother. He was very competitive. He always felt that he had to perform well in order to please others. When he didn’t get people’s approval by doing his best, it affected him considerably. Something as simple as not being able to gig his first frog could send him into a sorry spell for days. 

“Shh!” I whispered, though neither of us had been speaking. “Hear ‘em?” We inched our way closer to the water. I shown the flashlight in the direction of the croaking noises. I spotted a group of bullfrogs over by a patch of weeds. 

“Now you go creep up on them very quietly, Chad,” I said. “When you get up close enough, stab them through the gut with the gig”. Chad moved towards the frogs, quietly. He held the gig steadily in his hands. As he took a step, he snapped a twig. The frog jumped and the gig plunged deep in the mud. 

“Sorry,” Chad said. His face fell. He kept his eyes on the place where the frog once sat.

“What have you got to be sorry for? It’s your first time. Let’s try it again.” I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but I felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear these words. “It’s okay,” I said, reassuring him again.

After a few more failed attempts, we spotted a massive bullfrog up the embankment. Probably about ten or eleven inches. “Now see if you can get this one,” I said. He crept up real close, and I shone the light stunning the creature. With a decisive stroke, the gig went straight through the frog and into the dirt, keeping him pinned. 

“I got him!” my brother said. His voice echoed into the night. 

“Well, would you look at that,” I said.

“What do you reckon I should do with it?” he said. He picked him up, wrapping his hand around its ample torso. 

“What say we go hang it in the old oak outside Maggie Baynard’s window?” I said. I shone the flashlight in his direction to catch his response. I can’t describe the look I witnessed on my brother’s face that night with anything other than “free.” In that moment, he knew that he was free from other’s expectations. Free from his need to please others. Free to do as he wished. He threw down the gig and broke into a run toward the Baynard house. 

“Last one there’s a rotten egg!” 

***

Gubbage

November 14, 1985 Serves 5

by Jessie Thomas

The name is strange, and the ingredients even more so, but it will fill their bellies. Some protein, starches, a vegetable. They will remember the smells, the textures from nights like this and feel warm inside, despite the cold outside and the strange newness of open rooms and water heaters. They will remember this, the good parts, and not the rest.

Ingredients:

1 pound ground beef
2 store-brand cans of spaghetti
½ an onion
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can sweet corn
Salt and pepper, to taste

Directions:

Dice the onion. Just cut the bad spots out. Brown the beef with the onion. Strain and save the drippings for cabbage soup or maybe gravy tomorrow. 

Mix all ingredients together in a large pot. Perhaps the one he gave you for your first anniversary. At least he left you that. Heat contents until bubbling, stirring occasionally. Season to taste. It will be dark by then. Winter shortens the days. Pretend it is almost over already.

Get out five inherited bowls and five thrifted spoons. Set the table in the space between the wood stove and the curtains hiding your bed and theirs. Call the children in for supper. They will be excited to have their favorite meal tonight. They will come in the door, shoes dusty and faces red from their time spent playing outside.

Amanda will tug your sleeve and tell you happily that she found a quarter on the ground after school today, so she got a sucker from the drugstore on the way home. Smile and congratulate her. Aaron will slyly take the rocks from the driveway out of his mouth and put them in his pocket. He will think no one saw, and you will let it slide this time. Pick up little Sara with her father’s odd red hair, and put her in her chair. Aimee, the oldest, will hum the Rainbow Brite theme song under her breath as she hangs up all their coats on the rack by the door. She stands on tiptoes to reach. They will all need new shoes soon.

Sit with your children. You will realize how much your back hurts only after you sit. Standing at work all day will do that to you. Rub your eyes and dish out dinner for your family. Eat, slowly. Clear the table. Tuck them all into bed. Kiss Aaron, in the bottom bunk. Kiss Amanda and Aimee, in the top. Kiss little Sara, sucking her thumb in the toybox, toys taken out and blankets put in. Turn off the light, close the curtain. 

Lock the front door. Climb into your own bed. Take a deep breath and stare at the ceiling. Prepare yourself to do it all again tomorrow. Again and again until things change.

***

The Unfurling

by Bethany Powls

Emma and Edmund celebrated their second wedding anniversary in September on separate ends of the farmhouse, neither speaking nor acknowledging the other. 

One early morning, in November, Emma woke to Edmund’s gruff voice whispering in her ear. 

“Get up,” he said. “I hear Sam whining.”

She grumbled, lifting herself off the mattress, and grabbed a flannel as he pulled on some pajama pants. She made the disrupted side of the bed, waiting for him to grab a flashlight, and followed him out onto the porch. 

The last time Sam had cried in the night, he had discovered a group of monarch cocoons in the garden behind the house. They found him lying on the ground, pawing at the broken chrysalises he had trampled in his frenzy. Some were hatching, their wings twitching, poking out from their shell as they died. 

Edmund must’ve been sleeping on the couch if he had heard Sam’s cries. She pretended not to mind. Sometimes he trampled her delicate chrysalis. Yet she missed what they had before the fight. The argument had been unbearable, but the aftermath was even more so.  

Once they were outside, she was glad she’d grabbed the flannel. They both took off in the direction of the whining, wind whipping at their legs. Edmund led with the light as they headed in the direction of the garden, where Sam had first discovered the butterflies. 

They found him whimpering softly, the bloody marks along his side, visible in the moonlight. His lungs were punctured. She dropped next to the aging dog, gently scratching behind his ears as he cried, her eyes welling with tears. 

“Must’ve been coyotes,” said Edmund, “Probably an alpha pair. They work better together. We don’t have a gun.”

She looked up at him, his face was grim in the moonlight. But now, the hard edges softened as he stared down at Sam’s prone body. Eventually, he dropped into a crouch next to her and stroked his hand along Sam’s back. 

“Maybe he was guarding the late-season butterflies,” she said. The corners of Edmund’s mouth turned up slightly in vague amusement. They both looked toward the motionless chrysalises, suspended from a tall tomato cage.

“Thank you for waking me up. He shouldn’t be alone.” she said. His gaze caught the frozen trails on her cheeks.

He smiled softly, kindly for the first time since before September. Her wings fluttered a little, the wind drying the damp. 

“I suppose I haven’t thanked you for anything in awhile,” she said. There was a lot that they needed to say to each other. He  moved to sit on the chilled earth next to her. 

Something flitted in front of their faces and she jumped. It was a monarch, landing on Sam’s still body, where it perched, wings trembling in the breeze. They moved their hands over Sam’s fur as his whimpers faded and the wind stole his breath. They were still stroking his fur when the sun peeked over the neighboring field.

Prelude to the History of Music
by Westen Gesell

She stands there, watching the inert forms of her troop as clouds of flies settle over them, without any hope that the bodies of her family will stir, crushed by the choking stench of their emaciated limbs.  The gaping sockets of their eyes lock onto her, beseeching her to save them, accusing her of not having done enough. Once again, she sinks to her knees in despair….

… and snaps her eyes open, her breath squeezed between the cold, hard earth and the bottomless predawn sky of the savanna. She has dreamed enough to distinguish between the worlds of sleep and wakefulness, but nonetheless, she strains her senses for reassurance.

No flies.

No stench.

The sound of eight others breathing in the dark begins to soothe her, but she knows there is truth in the dream. Their bodies have grown weaker and thinner during the dry season, with fewer opportunities to forage or scavenge and predators growing increasingly desperate. They are still emaciated, and she can still feel the foreboding weight of their empty stares.

Sometimes, Leader can taste the strength and pride she felt when the old Leader, her mate, was grabbed by a crocodile, leaving her to guide the troop. Though she had not been the strongest, she possessed an intelligence and foresight that her troop had recognized. They became hers, and she theirs, in a relationship that mixed kinship, ownership, and protection. That new sense of possession had energized her once, but now it only shakes her from sleep in the early hours and tugs at her fears throughout the day.

She lies there, knowing that sleep lies beyond her reach, and after several heartbeats, gently rolls her offspring away from her and slips out of the granite-enclosed space. As she steps out into the open, something in the pinkened sky moves her to climb atop one of the boulders of their kopje, where she sits, still unsettled by worry for her troop.

The Serengeti lies shrouded in fog, with the dark forms of acacia trees and other kopjes intimating at what could lie in their shadows. Light brims on the horizon, spilling across the pale haze and lending it a golden solidity even as it melts away. Above, the formless grey faces of clouds slowly catch the sunlight and burst into fiery texture. To the west, the cool, dark blue of night gives way to the fresh warmth of a new day.

A pebble skitters down one of the boulders, and the female turns to see her daughter as she climbs up to join her. The sense of responsibility that Leader feels for her group is strongest with her, and the child’s presence fills her with a quiet satisfaction. Together, they watch the landscape in silence as color is restored to their world.

Leader has been awake during the sunrise before, but never before has she placed herself at such a vantage point and simply soaked in the visual display. There is something in the regularity of this dramatic shift that makes her feel small, and yet comforts her. The world is heartless, yet dependable in its rules and patterns, and that is somehow enough to provide the female with the calming resolve she needs. She stretches an arm around the thin shoulders of her daughter and pulls her close as the final wisps of mist disintegrate in the growing warmth.

Today is a day worthy of change.  

* * *

Eight figures step through the grass with stones in hand, enjoying the brief respite from the beating sun provided by the splayed canopies of the acacia trees. On some days, the younger ones split away from the adults, peering up into the trees and laughing with delight when the birds are startled into flight, but today there is a grim set to Leader’s jaw that quiets the troop. One of the younger ones skips a few steps away, breaking out of their synchronized gait, but is cowed by an older female, who roughly grabs them and hauls them back into the center of the group.

It is not abnormal for the troop to start their day traveling in the direction of the river, as they are now, but the focus of Leader is still unsettling for many of the older troop members, though they lack the linguistic faculties to question her. They reach the river by late morning, which they approach with their senses on high alert for predators and rivals. At the water’s edge, they each drink their fill with a watchful urgency, fearful of the crocodiles that have claimed troop members before. Across the river, a small group of zebras engages in similar behavior, with the same caution as their hominid neighbors.

Once they have hydrated themselves, Leader resumes her deliberate gait, leading the group along the riverside. The uneasiness of the troop grows, and many of them tighten their grip on the stones they have brought with them from the kopje. Their eyes flit back and forth between the searching gaze of Leader and their surroundings. They learned long ago the dangers of lingering near the water, and the increased foliage near the banks of the river screams of lurking predators.

They walk in this state until early afternoon, the stink of their fear surely heralding their passage before Leader stops at the edge of a thicker copse of trees. Kneeling, she points through the brush into an open area away from the river.  An involuntary hiss escapes one of the males as they see the goal of their journey: a lion stands over the body of a zebra, growling, deep and guttural, as he senses the approach of other animals.

Deliberately, the lead male turns to face the troop’s members. In mute disbelief, they watch as Leader stretches her arms out, a sizeable rock in each hand, and brings them together with a percussive clack. Despite seeing her prepare for the action, many of them jump at the sound, watching in horror beneath her arms as the lion looks up from his prey and stares at the copse of trees with another growl.

Again, Leader brings her hands up, and again she crashes her two rocks together.  By now, the group recognizes what she is doing, and her daughter joins in this time with her own smaller rocks. With the next crash, several more members have joined in, accompanied by the stomping of feet. With several more crashes, the entirety of the group has joined in, and they sway to the beat, their fear somehow leached from their bodies by this unifying activity.

A cry bursts from Leader’s mouth, the high pitched collection of nonsense syllables eliciting a response in kind from the troop, with different members finding their pitches to create a wild, hair-raising harmonic cacophony. As they gain confidence, their volume and range increase, with some members singing a growling drone of their own beneath the accelerating rhythm of stones and feet.

Leader turns and steps out into the clearing, followed by the rest of the troop, still singing and swaying as she crashes the rocks together. Together, intoxicated by their music, the group is unstoppable, and they slowly advance on the lion from the trees.

The lion roars, stepping over its prize as it confronts these strange ape-like beings. He, too, recognizes this display, but has only seen it in a defensive setting, when this species is threatened by a predator. This new, aggressive use, is an entirely new phenomenon. He roars again, his hackles raised, and takes another step towards this newly aggressive group of hominids. Under ordinary circumstances, such a strange show of force would be enough to force it away from its food, but resources are scarce now, and he too can feel himself weakening in the heat of this dry season.

The singing falters, with members of the troop recalling the strength and danger of the apex predator they are approaching, but Leader continues her chant with more urgency, animating her gestures further to refocus her comrades. With each call and response, they inch closer to the lion until they are no more than three body lengths away from it, and it feels as though they are singing directly into its gaping maw. The dissonance of the music, and of this bizarre upheaval of the food chain, is a physical thing now, mixing with the furious roars of the lion. For several seconds, they stand there, two species, screaming at each other, disputing a hierarchy that has remained in place for tens of thousands of years.

One of the rocks that a male is holding actually shatters from the repeated impact. With a scream, he hurls his remaining stone at the lion, striking it on the head and cutting off its roar. Before the beast can recover, other members of the troop are launching their stones with as much strength as they can muster, striking the predator on the head and sides as it backs away. Their screams grow stronger with this escalation, and the tension seems to break.

With a final, perfunctory roar, the lion retreats from the clearing with blood dripping from its muzzle, jogging away through the acacias beneath a further onslaught of stones.

Their singing continues for several seconds, until they are certain that they are alone, after which they turn to each other, elated by their victory and still feeling the rush of adrenaline. With the ferocity of the constantly hungry, they tear into the flesh of the zebra, struggling through the tough hide to get at the meat beneath.

Leader sees the broken pieces of rock that the male discarded lying in the grass and stoops to pick them up. One of them is very sharp, and she carries it over to the carcass, remembering past troop members cutting into the hides of scavenged animals with rock shards. With short, vicious strokes, she splits the hide around the wound, allowing for easier access to its muscular frame.

* * *

For two hours, the troop remains in the clearing, eating their fill before beginning the trek home.

The two children play as they walk back, accompanied by hisses and barks from their parents when they stray too far, or too near to a stand of bushes. Overall, though, the group is more relaxed, and members communicate contentedly with each other. Though they lack specific words, the past few generations have seen the development of an emotive, tonal verbalization, with certain patterns of syllables beginning to describe experiences. One adult mimes the throwing of a stone, chattering excitedly as he recalls their victory earlier that day.

Early evening is setting, and Leader allows herself a rare instance of satisfaction as she watches her daughter skip from curiosity to curiosity. There is an intelligence in the child that fills her with pride and gives her hope for the troop in years to come.

A soft, golden haze seems to fall over the Serengeti as the sun nears the horizon, and the bugs come out beneath the acacias, catching the sun with their lazy motions and appearing to be more light than nuisance. Other members of the troop sense that something fundamental shifted today, and there is an accompanying sense of surrealism as they enjoy their lack of hunger.

Letting her eyes wander, Leader can feel the weight of those empty stares from her dream lightening.

A scream rips her focus back to her daughter, and her environment snaps into horrifying clarity. A lion, blood dried on its snarling muzzle, has leapt from within a thicket of taller grass. Clasping the child’s kicking leg between his teeth, he yanks her brutally off of her feet, and begins to drag her away from the troop.

In defiance, she twists and slams a rock into the lion’s nose. For a brief moment, the impact is startling enough that he lets go, and she begins to crawl away.

The sight of her daughter’s arms flailing in the grass gives Leader’s maternal instinct the strength to smash through the barrier of her survival instinct, and she finds herself bounding after the lion, screaming uncontrollably as she hoists a stone above her head. Behind her, several other members break into pursuit as well, matching her cries with their own.

Although desperate for food, the lion once again finds itself to be no match for the concerted ferocity of this group of Homo ergaster. The leading ape-like being actually bludgeons it on the snout with her stone, followed by a further barrage of stones from other members of her troop. With yet another frustrated roar, he releases his prey and retreats again into the savanna.

This time, the mother halts her aggression immediately, falling to her knees beside her child and cradling her head in her lap. Shakily, Leader coos to her, as she did when her daughter was an infant, uncaring of the blood that gushes over her thighs.

Within minutes, the child lies dead, her mother’s tears mixing with the blood as it soaks into the dirt. The Serengeti stands motionless around them as the sunset bathes the sky a deepening red.

Surrounding the pair, many troop members find tears spilling down their own weathered faces. The sun has completely disappeared by the time the mother looks up at her troop with a look of both utter exhaustion and resolve.

Breaking the rules of the Serengeti comes at a price, and this species has come to know that price intimately since they were forced from the forests uncounted years ago. Slowly, the group gathers more tightly around the child’s body, tears still glistening on their faces.

It is far past the sunset when the troop has finished and resumes their journey back home, the blood of more than one species coagulating around their mouths.

* * *

In the morning, the empty gaze of her daughter alone is enough to drive Leader atop their granite shelter, where she sits and continues to weep before the lightening sky. As she looks out at the misty forms of the acacias, and the distant darkness of foliage around the river, she finds herself hating this land that demands so much for mere survival. A scream begins to force its way up her throat, fueled by the pain and frustrations of a mother whose greatest fears have been realized, but she chokes it down for fear of waking her troop.

The skitter of a rock draws her attention, and she whips around to see another member of her troop, a male who she recognizes for his smaller form and missing pinky finger on his left hand. He freezes as their eyes lock, but the softening of Leader’s gaze as she sees the pain mirrored in his eyes allows him to make his way to her side.

Moments later, the other three females climb atop the rock, followed by the other two males and the only remaining child.

Sitting together, they share their pain and watch the world return to golden clarity.