💾 Archived View for gemini.ctrl-c.club › ~scotchsour › 2023-09-15-chase.gmi captured on 2023-12-28 at 17:30:44. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content

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Chase

A frog scrambles in and out of the grass, fleeing the pursuit of a boy. Behind the boy, a girl also gives chase, but it's more about the boy than the frog. The children, one in shorts, the other in a sundress flapping, run arms outstretched beneath the sky.

The frog jukes, nearly hitting the boy in the hand. The boy recoils, bumping into the girl right behind him. Seeing an opportunity, she grabs him in a hug and squeezes tight. The boy wriggles to free himself.

It is a suburban perfect-grass day, sun just barely angled before noon. The shadows beneath them appear as morphing blobs on the lawn, and the grass curls itself toward the sun.

The boy cries out for help, and the girl laughs at his plight. Speech bubbles pop above their heads. “I got him!” “Noooo!”

But then the boy busts free and spins about. Stares her down. Then grabs her head in his hands and plants a sloppy smacking kiss right atop her forehead, and runs way, swirling a path this way and that, hands flopping at his sides like broken wings.

She drops her arms. She is not happy. She stands there, dress sagging on her body. Her face does weird stuff with itself in disgust and despair. Then, she opens wide and screams out a pitiful wail. Slaps the slobber off of her forehead like she’s beating a drum. Still crying, she looks around to see if any adults are paying attention.

The adults sit at a picnic table, drinking beer, laughing about some story with a good punchline.

So she shuts off her crying machine, her face goes blank. She watches the boy bank into a turn, bobbing up and down from his sprint. His hair flops on his head.

She grins and gives chase.

The frog now sits on a sunny rock with his legs elegantly crossed, smoking a fat cuban cigar. As he watches the two of them play, a slight grin creeps onto his face. Now his worries are over. The fight isn’t about him, it’s about them.

Running about, they inscribe a circle on the lawn. Carefully, they temper their speed so they don’t get caught, but neither do they catch. It is with this protocol that they run forever until the grass turns brown, goes cold, and fills up with snow.

Now they’re high-stepping through white stuff, still in chase, falling belly first into the powdery chill yet getting back up, chasing and chasing until an icy trench develops at their feet, and then they chase some more.

When spring rolls around, the snow melts into brown grass, then green, and they keep running atop it, laughing and screaming and crying, with the adults still far beyond their world, pontificating about football and other silly things.

The frog jumps into the circle. “Hey you two? You forgot about me.”

They stop and stare at the frog, who is now a very old frog. He has developed salt-and-pepper goatee, which is quite elegantly placed on his chin. “Hi, froggie,” they say together.

“I realize that you have ‘your thang.’ But the goal was to catch me, wasn’t it?”

The children are older now. The boy thin and intelligent, with many books in his mind. The girl is mature and well-grounded, with a heavy seriousness living inside an athletic form.

Both are nearly adults, developed in body and mind. The girl wears her gray comfies, the boy wears his button-up black.

The frog continues. “I think I’m going to die soon. It’s just the curse of the lifespan of a frog. So are you going to catch me, or what?”

The young woman picks up his frail body in her hands, and holds him like a baby. She strokes his head with a finger. The frog blinks, but accepts her kindness.

The young man approaches, now curious with piercing eyes. He regards the frog, and asks the young woman, “Misha, should we name him?”

Misha says, “No, it’s too late to name him. He’s too old.”

The frog interjects, “I don’t mind. You can name me.”

“Okay,” says Misha. “Andrew, what do you think?”

Andrew says, “Liver.”

Misha asks, “Like the organ?”

Andrew pets the frog tenderly. “No. Like a person who’s lived. Who’s been there, made a story of their life.”

Misha smiles. “Of course. Liver it is.” she strokes him behind the ears. “Hello Liver.”

Liver says, “Hello.”