Fiction

The Singing Frog of New York  

 

 Somewhat recently, a friend of mine told me a story he’d heard on his trip to the East Coast. It began with a young frog, from where frogs come from, a little pond in Louisiana, where he was bored of a life of hopping lily pads and slurping flies. The frog was a perfectly average amphibian creature with only one thing that made him different from the other frogs, he was an adventurer, and in his boredom, he leaped, hopped, and bounded over trees, rocks, ponds, and rivers. After a day’s journey north from the pond, the frog tired and searched for shelter for the night. He climbed atop a big rock and rested his eyes. 

The frog woke up to find the big rock moving faster than anything he’d seen. He figured he must have mistaken a sleeping animal, who was now sprinting at incredible speed, as just a rock. After hopping off he saw that this unusual animal was labeled with the word Tahoe and a peculiar logo he didn’t recognize. He had never seen an animal like this before. Feeling lost and homesick he searched this terrain of concrete and metal until he saw the green glimmer of nature. It was a dashing exhibit, home to trees, grass, and even a pond, not unlike where the frog had come from. Crossing under a big sign that read Central Park and finding a nice spot by the water the frog wondered why he still wasn’t happy. Sitting on a park bench next to a sleeping man and his, now on-the-ground hat, he was lost, far from home, and had no one to talk to. In his agonizing despair, he began to croak and whine a melancholic symphony of catharsis. 20, 30, then 40 minutes had passed and he looked down from the sky only to be shocked by the sight of a dense crowd of onlookers, entranced by the melody of the frog’s anguish. Men, women, children, birds, dogs, and squirrels all stood in silence, watching. Astounded by the talent held by such a simple, slimy creature, they filled the hat he stood above until any new piece of currency just slid off of the pile and hit the ground. When the show came to an end the crowd stayed, all in hopes of meeting the incredible singing frog. After meeting dozens of admiring fans he noticed that his feeling of loneliness had slowly come to pass. One woman from the crowd told him about a jazz club where she had been working and said she may even be able to get him a gig. After his first set, he was invited to join a flourishing band from the time. That's where he made a name for himself. After a few years of this, he started a successful record label that would allow him to afford a highrise penthouse in Manhattan.

I scoffed at my acquaintance and told him a frog couldn’t do all of that and how ridiculous his story was. 

“Why would you even believe that to be true, who could possibly convince you a frog was singing?” there's no way he could succeed in the music industry, I thought, “Why he did”, he replied, “The frog” and showed me a photo of the two of them in a Michelin star restaurant.

What is Luck?

I once met a stranger who told me he was both the unluckiest and the luckiest man in the world for an entire day. Obviously, I thought he was joking or lying when he said it, “How are you the luckiest and unluckiest at the same time, it doesn’t make any sense”, I said, sipping from a small glass. His story began with an incident in the candle-making factory he used to work for. They had a large-scale spill of hot wax which nearly destroyed the building and had many employees needing to be rushed to the hospital. “So where were you”, I blurted and he replied instantly, “Bathroom”. After this experience showed him the danger of his workplace he decided to take some time off work and clear his head in Europe. On the 20-minute drive from his apartment to the airport he was stopped at a red when an unexpected force took him by surprise. A UPS truck came down a steep hill and a loss of braking pressure caused the truck to slam into the back of his cab.  This sent them out into the intersection where he would look out his window to see another taxi flying towards the car. When he opened his eyes again he saw another set of eyes. Those of a middle-aged driver with a concentrated look of relief in them as he had managed to stop in time. The man I was talking to said his driver had called an ambulance due to whiplash. Somehow perfectly uninjured the man then exited his seat and entered the cab that had almost taken him out, asking him for a ride to the airport since he could still make his flight. When he finally arrived at gate 3A it was apparent that the flight had taken off and he had missed it. Disappointed he took another taxi home, this one uneventful, and made dinner before turning on the TV. When he switched the channel to his favorite nighttime news network he was shocked by the headline. The story was about an airplane that had taken off from San Francisco airport at 5:45 PM had a faulty thruster and fell out of the sky, 4 people died and 19 were injured on the flight that he had booked and missed by 15 minutes. 

 

So all within 24 hours, he had been in an industrial accident, he was rear-ended by a truck, and his plane crash-landed, any of which could have and maybe should have killed him. But in the same 24 hours, he had avoided being injured or killed 3 times. I guess that he was both the luckiest and unluckiest man in the world for a day. 

Pirates

When I first joined a crew and set sail, it was because that was how I would save my town. The place I was born in was struggling. The majority of families were in poverty, not earning enough to feed their kids. Pirates had invaded the town and within a few years, if anyone had jobs it was for them laboring over scraps and pocket change. My older brother told me about how my mom ran a bar before it was all taken over. I was born shortly before and have no memory of the bar or a time when the town was different. My mom gave everything she had to fight back and save the bar and other businesses on the row, including her own life. When I was old enough to understand what happened my brother and I made a vow to become powerful and liberate our home. 

Six years have passed and I stand, paralyzed by the blur that goes by my face and the change in air pressure as a cannon fired a shot inches in front of my nose. “Nelson!”, still dazed and confused by the events of the last few seconds something pulls on my sleeve, pulling me back to reality with it, my brother. “The captain got a message that the town was recaptured my marines!”, he yells at me, spit flying. “So they’ll be okay then?” I was in disbelief. “We can go home brother”

As he spoke the words I didn’t know I’d ever hear a cannon fires and the entire vessel quakes. Again, another shot and another violent shake, throwing some of us to the ground. The ship has begun taking on water. I look to my brother knowing we won’t be afloat much longer, “It’s ok” he says softly and deep down I know he’s right. We aren’t sad to die, our life’s purpose has been fulfilled, even if we had nothing to do with it.