I kind of remember this frog I killed when I was nine. I remember being repulsed by it. It looked like some kind of freakish green monster. It leapt in the air so suddenly, like something out of a nightmare. But still, I was drawn to it. Rather than run away, I wanted to explore it. I wanted to chase it and find it and make it pay for scaring me. My heart raced from excitement and fear of the unknown.

I don’t remember how long it took me to catch the frog, but it seemed like a while. It wiggled in my hands with massive, disproportional legs. I held onto it tight this time, flapping it around against the air, giving it some sort of whiplash, at least against its legs since it didn’t really have a neck. I threw it against the ground. It took a moment but it tried to leap away. The only problem was the leg I was holding wasn’t working write. I’d broken him. The “monster,” as I called him, just flopped around in circles then settled to crawling away toward the pond.

I wouldn’t let him.

It didn’t take as long to catch him again. I grabbed the leg and put my foot against him and pull off his leg. I didn’t expect the leg to move in my hand so I dropped it. The frog had become disgusting again. It was opening and closing its mouth obscenely. I didn’t want it to live anymore, so I jumped on it and squished it over and over again. I had slain the monster. My heart beat so hard in my chest that I ran around my neighborhood like a maniac. I was so high on adrenaline. Nothing could touch me. Nothing at all.


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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XXII

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