Brad Green’s work has appeared in several journals, including Storyglossia, The Blue Earth Review, and elimae. He’s currently at work on a novel and blogs occasionally at elevatetheordinary.blogspot.com.
It will begin with the falling of frogs. Or perhaps torrential red rain, a plummeting of blue stones colder than a bone in a glass, showers of ash, scattered slag, coke blown wild. This had always been his contention, that the particular strives toward the Universal through the exclusion of everything else. He had studied the excluded,
that is, he had studied the damned.
—This is our lot, he told her. Some night the sky will unleash a tumbling and nothing will be done to stop it.
She listened to her knife hiss slowly through the onion till the edge clicked against the counter and the halves wobbled away from the blade. —Maybe, she ventured, it’ll be less a falling and more a rising up perhaps. You’ve probably not considered that. But I have.
Charles turned toward her. He stood as if he were holding his breath. —We’ve discussed this. You know that’s not true. You rely on things that can’t be proven. It’s foolish.
—And falling frogs aren’t? Falling frogs are what’s dumb. No reason it won’t happen as written just as easy as frogs can fall. We are not forgotten.
—Innumerable accounts of falling things have been recorded. In scientific journals. He slapped the back of his right hand into the palm of his left four times. —Papers of fact. Frogs recorded foremost amongst them all. Show me the other. Prove it.
She glanced at the cross of brighter paint on the wall, the absence of it more glaring than the presence had been and laid the knife down elaborately on the counter next to the severed onion browning quickly from exposure.
—There’ll be a thud, he said to her back. Some night you’ll wake to it. Then another and another. Frogs on the roof, frogs on the grass, frogs in the gutters and frogs filling the street. There will be no end to it. Innumerable frogs falling.