A Christmas Party

By Cameron Pierce 

      “Congratulations, you’ve discovered death,” the frogman croaks, pointing with a green bone finger.
Where is he pointing, who is he speaking to? In the direction of his finger stands a Christmas tree, spoons tapping and clawing at teacups beneath its bottom branches. But to whom is he speaking? A child’s fingernails blink at the end of an arm, quivering, gray. Do frogmen speak to children’s arms? Odd things occur, though we know not why, but when death is discovered, all reality dies. 

     The quivering arm opens another gift, with its eyes, already wrapping paper and ribbons strewn about, “Oh, you mustn’t spoil me so,” lifting up another teacup and spoon, “my dear parents!”

     Twisting his face, the frogman shouts in a squeak-toy voice, “Young arm, by parents do you mean those two scarecrows touching each other’s limbs in the corner? I’d find it rather disturbing, I rather would, if it weren’t for their exquisite hats...” raising a skeletal hand, “but to the point, I said you’ve discovered death, my dear arm.” The frogman smiles, tongue flickering, “Now won’t that make your dreadful parents proud?”

     The quivering arm opens another gift, with its eyes, even more wrapping paper and ribbons strewn about, “Oh, you mustn’t spoil me so,” lifting up another teacup and spoon, “my dear parents!”

     Peering through the green fog of the room, the frogman searches for a single ornament on the tree, then hops back, “Why, you ghastly thing! You’ve hung tea bags on this tree, not ornaments!”

     “My parents really are lovely, you should meet them when they finish touching in that corner,” and peeling open another gift, “Why, you shouldn’t have!”

     A rustling escapes from the corner, the sound of brooms holding hands. White fluid rolls down the frogman’s face, “Please, I am here for only one reason, you’ve discovered death!”

     “What? There’s been a death in the attic?”

     The frogman tears off his hat-shaped head, breaking down near a bicycle-sized bottle of apple cider, “Death! You’ve discovered death! The crawling ribbon on the first gift you opened is death, and now you’ve let it wander! Death is free to roam your house, you foolish child! It will haunt this ground forever....”

     “But we don’t have an attic. And sir, may I ask who invited you to my Christmas party?”

     “I am a frog and a man, a frog that is also a man. As you see I am amphibious and walk upright,” shifting his wet eyes to his fallen hat, “But please, don’t ask about the skin hat, I don’t know where it came from.”

     “You ripped it off, I see. Stained the carpet too.”

     “Yes, yes, I’m afraid I will soon bleed to death.” A light dances in the frogman’s eyes for a moment, perhaps only a piece of the sun reflected. “Say, my dear arm, let’s forget the whole death business for the moment, I’m sure that ribbon will turn up.” He backs away, looks over at the scarecrows, smiles, “I’m sure your parents won’t mind now. See, before I bleed more than I as frog or man am permitted, could you, just maybe, let me borrow a teacup to replace that soiled hat? It’s all crumpled now anyway and I’d really like to hurry, as death must be around here, but let’s not....”

     A curling of the arm’s fingers and faint glowing of the eyes bring a great silence down upon the room, a deep emptiness of space and time.

     At last the arm speaks, with what smile an arm can manage, “My dear parents, could you prepare our meal at once? I demand frog legs!”
 

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