Giggin

The waters lay still. They looked at each other, almost pushing for one to begin. With their throats expanded, the bull-est of the frogs pushes its head to the surface and as expected, the first gig is thrown their way. It misses by a hair.

They have been at it all morning. Human boys trying to impress their fathers with the first catch. If only their years equated to ours. I am 17 years old, that means I got 110 years on you little man. And as the oldest frog in the golden pond, I am pushed as bait, to see if the gig will miss again.

He must have a terrible aim. As others walk towards the pond bank, I send out a loud wom, wom, wom. I am here, and I refuse to be bait. Their flashlights shine through the pond, 30ft from where I poke my head. I bested those who came before you. I will best you too.

My years have passed and I wait as you see who will gig this old boy this year. Come get me if you can, and if you fail as I suspect you will, I will see you next year. I hope I will be around to see you fail again.