The Box Of Frogs
“You must know Aubrey Plaza!” he said one night as they sat in front of the TV. “Of course I do,” she replied. “It’s where Kennedy got shot.”
Today's post is a not-at-all-festive bit of new (very) short fiction I have written for paying subscribers. It can be read for free, for a minimum £2 per month (or £20 per year) subscription, which will also give you access to everything else I post, and the full archive of my writing. But there's also a more festive one (which, for fear of cluttering your inboxes, I didn't send out as an email) everyone can read for free here.
The house was called Frogs. It was a little boxlike (but not gargantuanly so). The name instantly charmed and seduced the couple. The night before they found the house, she had done a painting of a frog, and they had decided it must be a sign. It turned out not to be. Frogs was just a house. A fairly ordinary, neutrally decorated one that never quite stepped up and attained something you’d call charisma. Frogs, meanwhile, were frogs. Extraordinary. Brilliant. Occasionally bordering on semi-permeable, part-aquatic genius.
The couple stayed together. She was older (but not gargantuanly so). Cultural gaps revealed themselves from time to time - references to obsolete products that mystified him, film stars she felt she should have heard of but hadn’t.
“You must know Aubrey Plaza!” he said one night as they sat in front of the TV.
“Of course I do,” she replied. “It’s where Kennedy got shot.”
