It was the year our mother turned into a toad. Such things are known to happen. We barely questioned it—just arrived with sacks of crickets, tossing them like pebbles for diving bats. For a while, it felt like we were children again. Our mother sat proud in her brackish puddle, chest puffed, neck stretched, plucking them from the sky with her aubergine tongue.
Months drifted by before my sisters and I returned, sacks slung over our shoulders, vibrating with chirps. Her puddle had swelled into a dark pond, thick with flies and mosquitoes. She was nowhere to be seen. We tossed the crickets in, hoping to lure her out, but they sank to their pointless deaths—around them, a curl of tadpoles. We stood on the bank, no longer children.
is a poet whose work focuses on nature, family, and anything strange. Currently, he is working on publishing a chapbook of poetry and flash fiction. While not struggling against the English language, he enjoys travel, hiking, and playing with his daughter. His work has appeared in 50-Word Stories.
