Embrace the Unseen Love of Nature

I did not intend to amass any following of followers who idolize this creature. It just happened.
The story begins with the first frog. I decided to call him Cletus because there used to be a man named Cletus that my dad purchased pills from. It felt right. Heavy and low to the ground, it was the sort of name that would scuttle into the bunker with everyone else and come out the other end covered in rings of mold on the pipes. The mere utterance of that name could get Dim through any tribulation, any tumultuous storm. He sat there gazing at me with those big blank fish eyes, and for a brief moment, I felt he understood me. As if he understood all my miseries, I felt whole again in some small way. Still, he approved it.
Cletus was a dumpy tree frog — Litoria caerulea if you choose to enumerate with a vet tech. There is nothing as provocative as giving them the moniker 'Dumpy,' a name that sounded embarrassing to the ears as if their weight is an issue that has to be addressed. But these frogs don't care about that. They droop and extend, clinging tight to the windows like congealed pistachio ice cream with eyeballs. They are quite peculiar, or maybe ridiculous looking in some sense, but not ugly. They are peculiar in a way that is quite calming and familiar. She often notices some shockingly ugly thing when, for some strange reason, it seems to elicit an odd reassurance. That was Cletus.
At that time, by the grace of God, I was relatively ignorant of frogs. But I knew Cuban tree frogs were already in Florida, and the presence of this fish would mean that other fish could easily get established in the area. They would sneak in through the toilets, and now they are a nightmare to the frogs within the community. These dominant animals feed on almost anything and anyone, including the little frogs and most probably the happiness you so much cherish. They have not yet received an invitation but have emerged as the rightful winners.
I wondered, "If Florida's going to get eaten by predators, swallowed whole by some invasive species, why not let it be something that Cletus can recognize?" It was predictable in a way that one could only consider poetic. That may seem strange, but if everything's already beyond repair, why not take the much-needed time and crack it a little? We may need to put some tender, non-threatening substance into the faults which do not object to rot.
That was not my purpose in breeding the frogs. But, one frog turned into two, then twenty, and it seemed the bathroom had become a foreign land of frogs. Tadpoles in food takeout containers, feeders full to the brim, the sound—a typical buffet restaurant, a circus. In truth, despite the ability of the neighbors to hear croaks coming from my apartment, they never dared to knock. The Florida people appreciate the concept, stating they should not interfere with other people's affairs. I was just one croak away from eviction and had no idea how I had arrived here.
Guppies were bred in mason jars and placed in the toilet tank. The feeder insects were able to flee into the air vents. Having every shade and hue in the color spectrum and as many forms, big and small as one could imagine, the frogs filled the scene; they leaped onto windowsills, clung to the mirrors in the bathroom, and even hid coyly in every corner of the room. Wet, soggy, sticky… the carpet of the bathroom was also damp, and it felt as if my feet sank into something akin to wet sand. I couldn't fight it anymore. I stopped going to work. I told myself it was necessary — holy. They needed me.
But something changed. The new frogs were not like the old ones.
Some of the creatures featured in this series of artwork included a frog with too many toes and one with another mouth on the chin. Some of them had queer eyes, rolling them sideway or closing them constantly as if trying to recall something which hadn't yet occurred. Next came the noises—the croaks. One of them fired so loud that the windows shook. I couldn't explain it. In their tanks, the water began to have a different smell — denser, more like mold and lightning. I also checked the pH and ammonia levels, but everything appeared to be in order. This is why I started wearing gloves, but my skin continued to itch.
I woke up the next morning with a stuffy nose and had to cough out something clear and green in color. This time, I attributed it to the mold growing on the walls; in my heart, that wasn't the case. Mold doesn't hum.
In the beginning, I wore gloves to prevent me from touching the result of the growth on my skin; then I wore a mask. Eventually, I stopped caring altogether. One morning, I woke up and had to cough out green phlegm, which looked like a ball in my throat. It wasn't a cold. It wasn't even mold. It felt like a new experience that could not be described.
One evening, while staring at the mirror, I realized it: It was as if the skin behind my ears was decaying and assuming the hue of vegetation. Like spinach, when it is steamed, it sticks to bone. My pupils had grown large as they had just spent time submerged in hot water. I didn't feel any pain. That was what terrified me. It should provoke change and jolt the system, yet this was like throwing in the towel. It was happening, and I did not know how to put the brakes on and bring it to a halt.
It began at the throat, though it could have originated in any other body part. There wasn't any pain. I'm only squeezing, feeling something growing from my throat when it starts feeling hard — like a balloon behind Adam's apple. It sometimes occurred when I was strolling around the store, and suddenly, I would die. Low, wet, and guttural. It was not brutal, but it did not reflect human qualities. It rang a bell, and no one made eye contact with me when I turned around. Not really. Then, unexpectedly, a woman near the yogurt section turned around, looked, and smiled – not a smile of civility but of desire. I croaked again, and she dropped her basket filled with the fruit from our land on the floor.
It didn't stop there.
I found myself alone, hiding in parks and crooning by retention ponds. It was not an SOS call. It was a call. And, one by one, they came.
Women. Dozens of them. Some people wore high heels societally. Some other people did not have shoes at all when they danced. While some had on sundresses, some put on nurses' scrubs. But they all moved slowly, like moths, towards the light in a humid environment. Their pupils were dilated, and their arms and legs were swung; it was as if they were attracted to me. Hand on their knees and chests, they knelt on the grass, on the mud. Others sat near them with their legs spread clumsily, their mouths open. They watched me as I began my diet and exercise routines to build strong muscles. Silent.
The second and more disturbing aspect was their pupils; they gleamed. They swirled. I never spoke. Neither did they. But it didn't matter. We didn't need words.
And then, in me, something exists. Something broadcasting. The croaking, sure. Maybe the pheromones, too. But they also wanted more than that. It was how I started to smell, like foam from the sea, like fish, like something that rots and is alive and sweet. It was how I knew the names of every wet ditch in the county, every forgotten retention pond. She felt associated with the burning light of neon lamps in the parking zone late at night.
There was power in it. I never began to count the cost of a power that I could not have purchased if I had tried.
This was not my ambition, but I appeared to be leading a secret frog cult. It grew. Now, it is too late to change something.