Mouths Full of Rain

I called the first bone us after the man my dad bought the pills. I felt that was correct. A fatty name. Like something to survive the Apocalypse by raw into a creeping room or licking the shape of a copper pipe. Cretus stared at me through the glass as if he knew I was broken. How did he approve?

Garbage frog. If you are trying to impress your Latoria Caerulea veterinary technology. People call them "dumpish." That's insult. How is your weight a problem? These frogs don't shit. They looked at each other, distributed them to each other, clinging to the window like pistachio ice cream in melted balls.

Have you ever seen something so ugly and just felt better?

The Cuban tree frog is already there. They came first. They come to their toilets and eat the locals, and perhaps their luck. No one invited them, but they win.

When Florida was completely swallowed, I thought it should have a Cretus-like face.

I wasn't going to breed them. One day I had a frog. A week later I had two. Then 20. The bathroom then sounded like a swamp of alien sex. When their neighbors heard the noise, they never knocked. People in Florida know when they have to look away. I was a clock from the evacuation.

The tadpoles lived in take-out containers. The feeder took over the grain shelves. One morning I woke up like a warning label with a frog on my extended eyelids. It became clear to me that I did not collect them. They were hung on me. It was as if I was just a host.

Florida is already invasive. Even invasive weather is hell. Snowbirds are invasive. Half of the plants are colonial holds. Each lizard appears to be escaping the reptile display and the development of nicotine addiction. Like evolution, I gave up halfway through. People come here to corrupt peace. It's as if the whole state is an ecosystem hospice.

So I thought:

If the apocalypse already occurs, why not curate it? If it's already broken, why not intentionally break it? Why not fill the cracks with something soft?

Release Site 1 was behind Wawa. I brought a 5 gallon bucket full of youthful frogs. We didn't talk. Just tilt the bucket and let it go. I was looking for a location near a drainage channel where the floor was chewing and the water was squeezed as if it smelled like rusty teeth.

The frog was not in a hurry like a break from prison. They just sat there. Blinking. Did you climb onto the lips of the bucket and look at me as if it was safe?

Of course, I wasn't sure. But I had to believe in something. So I said: "Go for tolerance."

I didn't expect anyone to notice that. I thought they had disappeared into shape like everything else. But then I watched it in Vito, a curriculum that stuck to the Redbox machine as if he was choosing a movie. One sat in a bath of broken birds behind the green whale. I saw one in half of the channel shopping trolley on the Corporate Afterverse channel with rusty skeleton. And I began to think... maybe you're working.

I've started to publish more.

Parking space. Hotel Brunnen. The pond on the golf course. Behind the dentist's practices under a bold container next to the roadkill. Every place you forgot or failed. Church, but for the frog.

I didn't leave a note. I have not asked for permission. It just appeared, let go, and continued. I flipped the bucket over and saw how much the little monk Ks craped on the pilgrimage.

They spread out. After that, people realized.

I see her at night - someone stuffed into the bus stop for lip filler, another traffic from the shadows of the Waffle House sign. They hid more. They existed. Deliberately like mold.

I continued to breed. More than I could handle. Eggs stacked in the fridge next to old yogurt and nicotine stains. Feeder insect escapes into the ventilation slot. Kaul Tadpoles lives in Masong Glass, located above a toilet container. The bathroom floor has been squeezed. I stopped fighting that. I stopped going to work. There was no time. It didn't take care of it.

They needed me. He said it was okay. need. Holy,

But something has changed. New batches... They weren't like the old batches.

A frog with too many toes. The other has a sealed mouth under his chin. It flashed sideways, then didn't stop flashing as if he remembered something that wasn't alive. Cloak, and I swear, the window trembled.

The smell of the water was different. syncope. Like mold and static electricity. The pH value and ammonia were confirmed to be normal. But something was happening. I started wearing gloves, but my skin was still itchy.

I began to wake up and coughed something translucent and green. I held the form responsible. But it wasn't a form. Mold is not ham.

I wore gloves. Then I put on a mask. Then I stopped caring for it.

One morning I woke up and pulled a little green from my throat.

I didn't go to the hospital. I didn't want to record it.

One night I stood in front of the mirror and looked at it. The skin behind my ears is softer. green. Like steamed spinach that sticks to the bones. My students were wrong. It's wider. It was as if they had soaked something warm.

My body didn't hurt. It scared me.

Change should feel like violence. It felt like surrender. It started from my neck.

There is no pain. Please don't swell. Pressure only. wealth. Like a swirling balloon behind my Adam Apple. I go through the grain, meaningless, I'm left behind - low, wet, throaty throat.

Cloakroom.

But it's not ugly. Not even humans. It vibrated. Something flickered in the light of the store. I looked around to apologize, but no one was staring at me.