Croak (Short Story Preview)

Mosquitos buzzed around the trails of thick sweat that slithered down the back of Otis Fletcher’s neck. His course hair stuck to the salt and gently tugged with every movement of his sun damaged skin. Swamp water swished around the little plastic boat and filled Otis’s nostrils with a foul odor like sewage and rotten eggs. Beams of filtered, evening light cut through the trees and spotlighted the water striders skating across the bayous surface.

“Got a croak.” Willie Fletcher’s voice cut through the scream of cicadas.

He stood on the other end of the boat, rocking the vessel, and sending ripples through the murky water. His dark green waders had worn thin on the knees and threads shot in random directions. Thick, tanned arms sprouted from his shirtless torso to raise the aluminum frog gig above his head. Their mother, June, had always told them that the no shirt-wader combo was trashy, but the brothers were comfortable, and their father had encouraged it, so they kept wearing it.

Course waterproof material rubbed across Otis’s bare chest and cool water swished around his legs, dangled off the side. He turned to watch Willie. They’d been out on the water for over an hour and their nearly full bucket.

Otis imagined the frog legs they’d fry up later and his mouth watered. Ever since he’d moved out of Louisiana and landed that insurance job up in Chicago, he’d been fine on cash. He could even afford trips to fancy restaurants that had dress codes. But something about those frog legs they caught and fried would always hold a special place in his heart. He wasn’t opposed to saving a few bucks either. His bank account was filled, but a part of him was still the little kid out in the swamp whose parents struggled to afford groceries if Dad didn’t come home that week.

Willie drove the four-pronged spear into the swamp with a grunt. Brown water launched across the deck of the boat. A brief, high-pitched squeal echoed between the trees and Willie pulled in his prey.

Strong legs shot out straight under the animal and its arms toward the sky. Its mouth hung open and exposed soft, pink flesh like a ring box. Lumpy orange flesh covered it’s back. Thick warts dotted its skin. Small black crystals jutted from the peaks of its growths like the inside of a geode.

“Well, that ain’t a frog I’ve ever seen,” Willie said.

 “You’ve never seen the crystal-backed croaker?” Otis said.

Willie pulled the frog from the fork and dropped it in the bucket. “Smartass.”

Otis grabbed the frog and turned it over in his hands. The crystals poked his skin and thin ribbons of needles drifted through his muscle like wisps of smoke, enough to notice, but not enough to hinder his inspection.

“Well, Goddamn,” Otis said.

“Think it’ll taste alright?” Willie said.

“Hold on.” Otis held out the frog to a beam of light a couple feet off the boat.

“Don’t drop it!”

“I ain’t gonna drop it!”

Light reflected off the crystals in a dark beam like it took all the color out of the light. At the base of the crystals, a faint light glowed from somewhere in the frog’s guts.

“I think this might be worth something,” Otis said.

“Something?” Willie asked.

“Something to science,” Otis said. “You said you haven’t seen any frog like this, right?”

“Correct.”

“I haven’t either,” Otis pulled the frog back into the boat and carefully placed it on the deck. “And I’d say we know our frogs in this area. What if it’s a new species?”

“You think there’s an undiscovered species of frog out here?”

“Maybe.” Otis shrugged.

“These swamps have been explored to death.” Willie swung his arm to gesture around them. “I’d be shocked if there was a rock in here that ain’t been found.”

Otis turned that over in his mind. He stared at the frogs faintly glowing innards and twisted the hair of his moustache. Insurance gave him a keen eye for value. After only a few years, he could tell you the retail price of any given laptop within a hundred dollars. He figured if he wanted to, he could clean out the Price is Right.

“Maybe the value’s monetary.” Otis slipped into his insurance adjustor voice, smooth and customer friendly. “How much do you think someone would pay to have that thing taxidermized on their mantle?”

“A pretty penny I’d reckon.”

Otis took note of the glint in Willie’s eye. The way his brother looked at the frog bucket shifted from hunger to greed. Otis had seen that look plenty of times on the wrestling mat back in high school. Willie would go on a strict diet to make weight, and by the day of the tournament, he’d be close to digging through the trash for scraps. But when it was his turn to wrestle, that hunger snapped to a desire to win like a switch.

“Exactly,” Otis said. “There’s a pawn shop up the road, I reckon they might give us something for it.”

“They’ll give me something for it,” Willie said. “I found it.”

“Oh, come on. That frog bucket is communal.”

“This ain’t going in the frog bucket.”

“Be reasonable, Willie.”

“Reasonable with my frog.”

“A frog you wouldn’t have found if I didn’t invite you out.”

“Still found it.”

“I’m offering to split it.”

“Not your place to offer.”

Pricks danced across Otis’s skin. His chest swelled with agitation. Willie was probably right. He did find the frog. But something about the way he so quickly shrugged off his brother filled Otis with a righteous anger that he couldn’t quite explain. Especially after all the money Otis had loaned Willie over the last year when the family’s mechanic shop went under.

“Fine,” Otis said. “We’ll take it to the pawn shop and see if it’s actually worth anything. Then we can hash it out.”

“Whatever you say, Spunkmeyer.” Willie grabbed the frog from the deck and reached for the small cooler he kept his beers in. He lifted a small blue can out and replaced it with the strange amphibian.

Payne Spiva (c) 2024