As Long As He Is Mr. Right
By Siewleng Torossian
The witch’s ragged voice called out. “—wait— Remember, you must—”
Anya had already pocketed the love potion and run to her car. She was sick of waiting. Blind dates did not show up. The ones who did were full of themselves. Friends had tried to help her search for Mr Right. They introduced her to the new guy in their office or their apartment block and that made her feel foolish. She would end up tripping over her words.
The witch and her spells seemed a reasonable idea, worth every penny according to the women at the office. Like a modern fairy tale, they said.
As she parked in the clearing, the headlights lit up the huge rock at the edge of the woods. Time on the dashboard showed two minutes to midnight. The witch said she had to wait for the frogs on the hour or after. She got out of the car. A fairy tale indeed, frog-turned-Prince Charming. How that could manifest, she did not bother to understand. She was that desperate, as long as she found Mr Right.
Clutching the small glass bottle, she hurried to the rock. The witch must have spent ten minutes repeating the instructions. As if Anya was a six-year old. Wait at the edge of the woods. Wait for frogs to appear. Wait, and wait, wait until the frogs came for her.
She squinted at what seemed to be movement between the trees. The half moon gave barely enough light to show the shapes of thick trees and bushes. There was the distinct smell of wood and damp and there was scratching and slithering. She could not hear a single croak.
How long was she supposed to wait? Frogs should be leaping to claim her. The one that planted a kiss on her cheek would be her Prince Charming.
The old hag said to drink the potion—
She held up the bottle. Was that before or after the frog—
What did the witch say?
She unscrewed the bottle. The odor was lemony, not unpleasant.
Oh wait. Did she just expose the spell?
Looking into the woods at the growing wall of darkness, she tried to decide. Wait some more? Drink anyway? What if removing the cap had reduced the potency of the spell?
She tipped the bottle, swallowed, licked her lips not to waste a single drop. The taste was how it smelled, lemony, not bad.
At once, the colors shocked her.
They burst bright and glowing around her.
Something was wrong.
Wow. Greens, browns, yellows, reds, oranges, purples, on and on, in every possible shade.
If the witch had explained this part of the spell, she missed it.
Her vision sharpened as the colors steadied. Veins on the leaves shone like sticks of green glass. Bark rippled golden. She could make out colorful creepy-crawlies resting on the undersides of leaves. Instantly, she recognized the faraway shriek. A hog had found food. The sky sparkled like a million eyes blinking at her.
All she could do was stand and stare. How odd the women did not tell her about this bonus ability that came with the potion.
The croaking blasted from nowhere.
No, not from nowhere. She could detect the exact location of the frogs. They lived deep in the woods.
She kicked off her shoes and ran. Sudden knowing directed her where to go. She spotted fallen logs of golden tree trunks before they tripped her. Her bare arms hurt from branches ripping her skin. She circled bushes, dodged large boulders. Under her feet, twigs snapped and poked into her soles. She had never run this fast before.
Before she saw the frogs beyond the bushes, a green mist and a funky sweet odor told her she had found their home.
She tore off her dress. The fabric was a scab. Her skin needed to feel the breeze seeping into her pores.
Frogs were chirping and hooting.
The sight was unbelievable. Lumps of slimy green and brown squatted under the shine of the moon.
“Oh wow,” she mumbled as she squished her feet ankle deep in the waterlogged grasses.
Frogs were hopping and criss-crossing away from her. She understood them. Her new friends were making room to let her through. The itch between her fingers distracted her but only momentarily. There was so much to see and do.
Raspy cheering rose around her.
She spun around, eyes following the gaze of the frogs.
A motion was vaulting from the other end of the marsh, spiking a trail of brilliant green. The frog had sprung so high in the air it had to be noticed.
Despite the mist, she saw clearly the jumper as a bullfrog. Green back, cream-colored belly, brown irises, almond-shaped pupils. Under its neck, the vocal sac ballooned, booming a trumpeting call.
A quiet calm came over her and she let it. She eased into a squat and started licking the cuts on her foreleg.
Frogs hurdled, exchanging cries of who was doing what and going where for the night. Part of her wanted to join the babble and ask about the best places to hunt for snails and slugs.
The bullfrog was lunging again. Its large eyes shone down at her. She could not help a memory surfacing. Something about what she had to do, before all else.
She leaned to listen to her frog friends. They were planning a trip to explore a distant marsh. She noted the details. Two fields away. By the river where the water forked around a large rock.
Another throaty shout descended from the air. The bullfrog was one leap away.
As she flicked her tongue between her toes to clean off the mud, she remembered.
Before hunting for food or playing with her friends, she had to wait.
THE END
Author Bio: Siewleng Torossian writes speculative stories. Her work has appeared in 365 Tomorrows, Friday Flash Fiction, Potato Soup Journal, Close2TheBone, Horla and Eunoia Review.