Croak

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He staggers from the fire, his boot catching on a tree branch. There is a sharp burst of laughter from the others; they're always laughing, and usually at him. He curses them all and moves into the trees.

The crash of their voices follows him. They're drunk, and so is he, the lot of them piss drunk on too little sleep. He doesn't know why they come out here every year. It isn't for the woods. Maybe for the freedom they offer, but not for the woods themselves; they'd as soon get together in the city to light fires and pound beers if they could do it as loudly and with as little interruption. The woods offer appropriate cover, and an excuse to get away from their wives and girlfriends. Out here, their voices carry.

Fuck the woods, he thinks, undoing his pants. He listens to the others laughing. Before him the forest edges into black. He is unsteady on his feet, top heavy, his thoughts thick as mud. A creeping motion to his left draws his slow attention; he shakes himself, does up his zipper. He peers into the darkness.

On a nearby evergreen a frog is crawling. Its color is hard to make out, but in the faint glow of the fire it has an orangish cast, rusty, almost metallic. One forelimb extended, the other tucked beside its slim torso, the frog seems to look back at him.

Very slowly, the skin below its wide mouth bulges outwards; it utters a long, rattling croak. The man can see it breathing, its black eyes fastened on him.

"Thing's staring at me," he mumbles, his words slurring. The frog takes another exaggerated step down the length of the tree. Still looking at the man, its throat bulges:

"Croak," it says.

The man laughs. The sound dies almost instantly. Light from the fire flickers in the frog's eyes. The man turns his head, tries to call to the others, but can't find his voice. Frowning, he returns his gaze to the frog.

"Croak," it says. The man puts his hands to his ears. He tries to tell it to shut up. The words echo hollowly in his head. He touches his throat, tries again to speak, but though his lips form the words, no sound escapes him.

"Croak," says the frog for the last time, as it lowers its eyes and leaps from the tree in one long, fluent motion.

As if through a void, the man retreats to the fire. The others look at him, some laughing, but silently, like TV characters with the volume muted. The man attempts to tell them about the frog, but all he can manage is a strangled croak.