I feel that way every time I try on wet-look black leggings, but I find it hard to believe you would not look cool in a pleather jacket. It feels less daft once you’re used to it, promise!
Yeeah, wet-look black leggings are several cool rungs above leather jackets. I’m pretty sure you could do it though.
Once I dress up and put on some makeup I’m sure I’ll feel better wearing it than I do just putting it on over my work clothes, hah
fffffffff why did I order a (fake) leather jacket, I am NOT COOL ENOUGH to pull this off, omg
Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.
It used to be a problem.
There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up with parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.
So I got frogs. It happens.
“You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”
I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.
Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.
Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.
I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening. I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.
Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.
Toads are masters of it.
I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.
When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.
I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.
I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.
But I can make more.
I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.
Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.
It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.
I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)
The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.
My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.
I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.
Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…
My partner: *turns off the bathroom lights as I'm brushing my teeth*
My partner: creatures as evil as you belong in the dark
I’m having driving lessons at the moment which is basically a good thing but my driving instructor is pretty objectionable. I mean he’s always going on about how terrible immigration is etc (ffs) but he went so far as to complain that the Romans were “poofs”
Come on mate
Being a dick about modern immigration is one thing but YOU SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN OVER THE FREAKING ROMANS BY NOW
Rules: In a text post, list ten books that have stayed with you in some way. Don’t take but a few minutes, and don’t think too hard — they don’t have to be the “right” or “great” works, just the ones that have touched you. Tag [ten] friends, including me, so I’ll see your list. Make sure you let your friends know you’ve tagged them.
I was tagged by hey-lethallan. Thank you for tagging me! :)
The Pern series - Anne McCaffrey. They were a very big deal for me when I was a teenager.
The Selfish Gene - Richard Dawkins. I know, he’s Richard Dawkins which is a problem, but his writing is good just as long as he stays within his area of biology and doesn’t try to know anything about people.
The Moomin books - Tove Jansson. The thing that I love about these books is how full they are of moments that you will remember forever.
The World’s Wife - Carol Ann Duffy. People who love fierce and interesting women, this one will touch you too.
The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy trilogy in five parts - Douglas Adams. I met most of the people I now consider my family at a Douglas Adams university society so that one was very important for me.
The Jeeves books - PG Wodehouse. The thing that it important about these books is how rapturously good and hilarious the prose is.
Bad Science - Ben Goldacre. I read this at precisely the right time in my life. I’m with all those people who say this should be required reading for anybody who wants to talk about science or medicine in basically any capacity.
Staying Alive - Neil Astley (editor). There’s like the maximum of great stuff in here.
Machine Sex and other stories - Candas Jane Dorsey. Nobody has read this apart from people who I’ve persuaded to read it! It’s wonderful though! Weird woman-focused sci fi short stories.
The Wind-up Bird Chronicle - Haruki Murakami. As if Kafka is the best Murakami book. Pffft.
I’m tagging: lithulf i-am-the-snotolf theflyingromana oldfridgescankill sciencefictionbaby avocadofries poehlerized theredkite illustratedjai thegentlemananachronism (I’ve just tagged people for whom I have reason to suspect that they read a fair amount, anybody else feel free to pick it up too!)
Was it stated somewhere in Asunder that animals are better at perceiving/remembering Cole than the sentient races or is have I just made that up because of the whole animals-sensing-ghosts cliché?