September 8, 2014 | Occasus | Issue 4 | Fiction

The Frog and the Lily Pad

Dusk was closing in like cool silk and the stars began to buzz, their glowing wings sapping the last licks of the sun. They dotted the sky; squabbling with the clouds until they had room to begin the waltz, like they do every night that it doesn’t rain. About a foot from the edge of a quiet pond sat a frog cleaning his toes on a lily pad (because this was a time when lily pads had frogs, not flowers). Each frog has always spent a little of each night cleaning his webbed feet to stop them getting clogged and dirty, like unwashed socks, making it hard for them to keep balance.         

The pond sang lightly with ripples as Frog leaned over the side of Lily Pad. “Lily Pad,” asked Frog, “do you mind me sitting on you?”

Lily Pad remained silent for a time, occasionally blowing bubbles in time to the pond’s song. She had never been asked if she had minded before. Finally, Lily Pad opened her mouth (which is hidden very well just where the stem and pad meet,and is in fact rather large) and let out a long, loud sigh. “Yes,” whispered Lily Pad. “Now you mention it, I’d rather have a flower. Can you get off?”

This was not what Frog had expected to hear. Puffing out his chest sullenly, he folded himself into the waxy centre of the pad and clung on, a little too tightly, with his polished toes.

“I say,” said lily pad once again, “I’ve decided now, I would like you to get off. I want room for a flower,” giving a slight shimmy of her leaves to emphasize her point. “There is no room for a flower.” Frog replied. He had stopped listening to her ridiculous request and was engrossed in an altercation between a water-boatman and a diving beetle. The diving beetle was accusing the water-boatman of bad oarmanship as he became tangled in some weeds just where the diving beetle was readying himself for a dive. The Beetle had been practising for this dive for months; every morning holding his breath as he did laps of backstroke. The water-boatman was ruining everything.

“Did you know fireflies are descendants of the moon?” Asked Frog, still watching as the waterboatman accidently slapped the diving beetle with a piece of weed, flicking it off one of his many feet. “You see, most people assume they are descendants from the sun. But the truth is, they melted off the moon during an eclipse when the sun got too close. It’s why they get such terrible sun burn.”

Lily Pad remained silent, swaying to the chorus of the little pond’s melancholy song. “Enough.” said Lily Pad as the song came to its tragic close. “I’d like the room for my flower now, please leave.”

“Lily pads do not have flowers!” yelled Frog in a sudden panicked rage, which startled the trees from their sleep and made one shocked fir spit out a pine cone- which landed on the damp floor with a soft thunk.

 In one swift movement Lily Pad flipped Frog off her head, opened her mouth to the sky, and swallowed him whole.  Other lily pads watched with interest, they had always known they deserved a flower. With a stomach satisfyingly full and a clear head, Lily Pad turned to her neighbour and looked up to the whimpering frog sitting above. “Did you know fireflies are descendants of the moon”? She said.

TIFFANY SHEPHERD is a third year exchange student from Leeds University studying Classical and English Literature.