It's a Different World
Frog (Name to be determined)
A frog who has turned into a princess
Last night Redwater slept bathed in moonlight. At the edge of the town there was a quiet little brook, where the reeds grew tall, and lily pads speckled its surface green. Golden-green fireflies danced above, their ghostly reflections glittering off the still water. Near the edge of the pond, where the reeds grew thickest, there sat a sturdy rock, and on that sturdy rock sat a little green frog, for it was her rock, and her ownership was undisputed among the creatures of the pond. She sat that night, fat from so many flies, her bulging eyes drooping and sleepy croaks in her throat, watching the fireflies sway drunkenly above her head. The night was cool against her sticky skin. In that moment, as she laid her head against the rough stone before her, a contentedness swept over her, and if frogs could smile a bright green smile would have spread across her face Soon she was a asleep, and as she slept she dreamed deeply and soundly—dreaming of the far away things of which frogs dream.
The light of the morning was bright—dreadfully bright. And when she stirred, uncomfortable, her limbs responded heavy and sluggish. It had been a good dream. She had been plucking flies from the air with her tongue, and each one was juicier than the next. It struck her, as she roused herself, and the fog of froggy dreams cleared from her head, that the top of her rock was wetter than she remembered. She was sopping wet, which was strange, for the reason that she so liked the rock she kept was that it was so very dry, and it was the best place to feel the sun against her skin. When she stirred again, she felt water resist her movements, making a gurgling slosh, as if something heavy were moving through water, like the sounds that the old brown tortoise made when he lazily paddled about, squinting, for the tortoise had terrible eyesight. Something tickled the side of her face as she raised her head, and as her eyes adjusted to the pale morning light, she saw it to be a reed. A very tiny green reed. This made her pause, and frown, if frogs could frown, for reeds were tall trees that tickled the sky with their fingertips. She raised herself up, water dripping from her face, and a patch of similar reeds spread beneath her, circling a rock. A very small rock. A very small rock that looked so terribly, terribly familiar. And as she stared at the rock, remarking at its familiarity and trying to place where she had seen it before, something came tumbling down the sides of her face—long, soft tufts made up of brightly colored strands. Whatever the stuff was, it came to rest against her limbs, and she felt it trailing wet down her back. Her eyes followed it down, to where the water broke beneath her, falling against two long, white-colored limbs. Her limbs. They were not her spindly green arms, but long, and pale, and smooth things that she had never seen before in her short life. She startled, splashing in the pool, and her body became visible to her. Huge, and gangling, and dwarfing the pond—her pond—beneath her. Her middle was long, her arms longer, her legs longer still and freakishly bent backwards. Terror buzzed in her head, alive with white fire and the strange lurid shapes of last night’s fireflies. If it was a dream, it was the ghastliest dream that she had ever dreamed in her life. A croak formed in her throat, alarmed and panicked, and when it reached her mouth and came bellowing out into the air, it was the sound of a woman’s shriek.