Frog Song by Brian Graham

     These fucking frogs, I swear. Please. Give me a break. Ribbittig all night long. And, sure, they’re not as loud as dogs barking or cars backfiring or any of the urban sounds I know so well, but it’s not like I’m a heavy sleeper or anything and the ribbitting, the ribbitting is enough.
     October, 2003 and Southern California was on fire. While it burned, I called my friend in San Diego who said the sky was an imposing orange and the smoke was so bad most people stayed indoors. I was jealous. Yesterday I met a former firefighter; she was smaller than me and had a name like a movie star. I could be like that, if I wanted.
     But the frogs, they don’t rest. Four, five, six am. Not like the gentle early morning trills of the robin, or blackbird or chickadee or whichever bird gets up that early - those birds are beautiful and I love them. Their songs mean something, and I want to gather them into my arms and feel their tiny hearts beating against my skin. Not like the frogs. They are grotesque and guttural and make no pleasant sounds. But they’re all right, I guess, in some ways, and I still mow the lawn, slowly, hesitantly, afraid to move the singing blades too fast and have frog blood on my hands, but that will change very soon if they do not shut up.
     Someday I’ll go to a place where there is always music – singing throats, haphazard drumming, wailing saxophones. I will call it home.
     The frogs come back, every night without fail; ribbitting about whatever it is that frogs find it necessary to voice their opinions on. Where the hell do they come from, is what I want to know. There isn’t anything resembling a swamp for miles.
     I walked around the city forever. First over to Pine Street, then down the hill, towards the noise and rush of cars that never make their peace with the world, even in the small hours. Down on Western Avenue, overpriced showrooms displayed couches, lamps, tables, rugs. Thousands of dollars just to furnish a small apartment. On First Avenue, there was a bookstore that sold paperbacks spouting the praises of taste and design. One book was made up entirely of photographs of various animals embalmed in small jars. Another was devoted exclusively to emoticons. Even in the simplest art, there is pretension.
     Honestly. It’s like I owe them something. It’s payback for all the karmic wrongs I have perpetuated against the frog nation. “What do you want from me?” I scream silently as I lay awake at night. Always silently. I’m not sure I want to be the sort of person who yells at frogs at 4:30 am, the sort of person the neighbors whisper about and warn their children not to approach. I’m not that person. I hope, anyway.
     They both left in April, though only in spirit. Their forms remain, unattainable as always, and full of a kind of spark that my dictionary seems unable to define. I would create a word to gain their favor. But, instead, I waste hours manipulating tools and dreaming of drunkenness.
     Relentless, these frogs. I guess I envy them that. They say persistence is the key to getting what you want, but there’s something to be said for giving up occasionally. There are worse things you can do.
     She comes back to my place. But perhaps that is not the right way to think of it – it implies something. The connotations are there. But when she comes over, there are no connotations. They are only hallucinations of my own design. “When I got my wisdom teeth out, I soaked through all my gauze almost immediately,” she says. “But I laid down and didn’t really think about it and most of the blood drained down the back of my throat while I slept. I know it takes some people days to recover from that sort of thing, but when I woke up some hours later, I felt normal. Great, even. I couldn’t believe it. I was so pleased with myself I got out of bed too quick. Suddenly I got really dizzy and a few seconds later I threw up. An entire stomach full of blood all over my white carpet.”

3:00 am – frogs.
3:30 am – still.
4:00 am – still.
4:30 am – more.
5:00 am – now.
5:44 am – always.

     There are no ideas left. Only unspoken hymns with enigmatic words and cryptic analogies that leave me breathless. They heat the atmosphere, combining with oxygen to create momentary fires. They bind us to the earth - inexorable, forever. And it’s just like you to want that sort of thing, isn’t it?

About the author:
Brian Graham lives in Seattle. Things of his have appeared on Haypenny, Monkeybiycle, Dezmin, Pindeldyboz and No Ripcord. He also posts nonsense on www.intentionalbitterness.com, albeit infrequently. One time he was at a party chatting with a fairly attractive girl when she stopped mid-sentence, and said, "you remind me of that guy from Swingers." Confidence swelling from the complement, not to mention a few drinks, Brian replied, "you mean Vince Vaughn?" she shook her head. "No, the other guy. The fat one." Brian still doesn't know what to make of this.