Frogs dove this way and that, scrabbling off as if I were the intruder. I tiptoed across the lawn, keeping to the slabs of slate we used as a pathway. The unintended looping between the 1900s and 2000s threatened to tear civilization from its digital moorings. Credentialed prognosticators were pinning their hopes on the Y2K event, convincing everyone to prepare for disaster as data-entry land said goodbye to the bedrock of two digits for each date, month, year, 01/01/00. Vigilant fanatics were forecasting the end of the world. It was the late 1990s, the end of the century, the end of the millennium. Nevertheless, I jogged my memory for any personal indiscretions against frogs, toads, or other amphibians. I could imagine the frogs swarming me, knocking me over, smothering me with their communal slime. The sheer volume was alien and intense it gave me the creeps. The croaking was tremendous in the open air, crescendoing in waves like a chorus of cicadas. The oak tree that dominated the yard was swaying in a balmy breeze that carried with it a distinct odor that could only be described as primordial-wet and dank and feral.įor every leaping frog there were others squatting in the grass or hiding under the bushes. I rushed outside, and the morning air was hot, almost tropical, which was odd for that time of year. Crisscrossing in random arcs, across the lawn, up and down the driveway, out on the street, were hordes of leaping frogs. Raquel’s candle was burning in the bay window, but when I pressed my nose to the windowpane, cupping my eyes with my hands, I saw hundreds of tiny creatures hopping around the front yard in the predawn light. I slipped on my sweatpants and sneakers and hurried out to the living room. A peculiar croaking resonated in the morning stillness and woke me from my dreams.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |