CHAPTER 1: Monologue
The name’s Larry. Larry Crawford. Just a regular kid. Or was back then. You don’t know me any more than I’d have been likely to know you had our places been switched. I don’t even know why I’m writing this down because there’s not much of a chance that anyone, anyone from Earth that is, will ever read these memoirs. You might be thinking: well, what are you doing it for then? I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing it simply for my own sanity, to convince myself that what happened to me really happened. Maybe I’m doing it so that if by chance it happens to someone else, there’ll be a documented account – a way of letting them know they weren’t the only one. Or maybe it’s just so in the back of my mind, I’ll know that when I die, this journal will become my legacy. And if you happen to be so unfortunate as to be reading this, hopefully it’ll help you. And if it doesn’t, well, tough. I had to live through it. So for whatever reason, here it is: the story of my life. Well, not my whole life. That would be totally boring. So, I’ll just start with the day my life turned itself completely upside-down, inside-out, and backwards.
It all started on a wacky Wednesday. Yeah, I know. Only it didn’t feel too wacky at the time. It started out innocently enough. Just the typical school day morning when everything seemed to be going wrong. I woke up to Aunt Priss shrieking up the stairwell for me to get my butt in gear. As I stumbled out of bed, I caught Mr. Frisky hunched provocatively over my backpack and immediately chased him out of my room. Aunt Priss didn’t name him Mr. Frisky for nothing! Thoroughly grossed out, I realized I had left my cell phone in the top pocket. Desperation eventually prevailed over disgust and I delicately unzipped it and fished out my phone, then wiped my hands on my boxers. I needed to see whether Helen had responded. Hey, I could always hope. But there weren’t any messages from her, only one unread message from my friend, Shane, who had nothing more informative to say than, “Dude.”
I tapped out a plaintive apology, again, to Helen and hit the send button, setting the phone down on my nightstand. Then I threw on my dad’s robe and trudged down to the kitchen. Maybe a little breakfast would help me perk up. At least my aunt had the coffee pot brewing. The aroma wafted to my nose and made my mouth water. Coffee was a new thing for me and, man, how did I ever get through a day of school without it? Plus it was cool to say I drank coffee. Made me feel older.
My aunt was in her robe, a pale, pink, fleecy thing that tended to square off her already square body. It was only partially cinched closed by the belt, affording me a view of her in her nightgown that did nothing for my appetite. Her dyed, saggy hair was balled up into baby blue plastic rollers and a lit cigarette dangled from her lower lip as though defying gravity to dislodge it. She stood at the toaster ready to defend her English muffin the moment it popped. Fluffy moved in predatorily and Aunt Priss shooed him away. Meanwhile, Lady Pom-Pom waited inconspicuously on the floor. They always worked as a team those two. Most of the other cats just ignored each other and did whatever they pleased, how they pleased, and whenever they darn well pleased it. Aunt Priss took a drag on the cigarette and eyed me critically.
“Don’t you look like a winner this morning?” Aunt Priscilla was anything if not tactful. A real motivational speaker. “Stayed up late playing video games again, didn’t you?”
I didn’t say anything, just reached up into the cabinet, pulled out a mug and shambled over to the coffee pot. It wasn’t even worth the effort of contradicting her, of telling her I had actually stayed up most of the night studying for an algebra test. She wouldn’t believe it, mostly because it wouldn’t be the first time I’d told that lie before. Just this time it was the Gods-honest truth. I pulled the pot away just as a last lingering drop splattered and hissed onto the burner. The coffee was too hot and I burned my tongue, but I didn’t care. I could already feel the rejuvenating effect of the caffeine working its way through me with that first gulp.
I pushed Fluffy unceremoniously off my seat and sat on the padded metal chair. He gave me his best “you’re not the boss of me” reproachful stare before retreating behind the trash can. The vinyl seat was ripped in a dozen places from cat claws. Aunt Priss sat opposite me, absently spreading raspberry jam on one side of her toasted muffin and Nutella on the other half. If past history was any indication, she’d completely eat the raspberry one in big, ungainly bites, then savor the hazelnut spread in small, little nibbles. This was accomplished by her whole chin thrusting forward and back, like a hen pecking seed from the ground.
“You going to make it to school today?”
“Uh-huh.” I ignored the way her eyes flicked over to the clock on the wall, her accusation all but spoken. “Lots of time,” I said, taking a more cautious sip from my mug.
She smiled, like a vulture would if vultures had lips. “Then in that case, be a dear and grab the paper, would you? I’d get it myself but, you know, my bunions.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re a dear. I’ll put some bread in the toaster for you.”
No sooner had I left my seat than Fluffy was back in it. I tightened my robe and banged out the screen door, not caring if anyone saw me. The cement walkway was cold on my bare feet. Aunt Priss took her retirement seriously. In that, I mean she rarely did anything that required much effort, and certainly not if it was something she could get me or someone else to do for her. Most days she didn’t even leave the house. That meant I was pretty much assured of returning home after school to find the sink full of dirty dishes and mostly empty Chinese take-out containers sitting open on the table while a coterie of cats feasted on the remains like a pride of lions around a freshly killed gazelle. In my mind, I was mentally preparing myself for one heckuva lousy day.
Little did I know what fate had in store for me. As it happened, I was almost to the mailbox when I stepped through the wormhole.
That’s the funny thing about wormholes. In sci-fi movies they always make them look swirly and glowing, like the eye of an iridescent hurricane – and just as big. The truth is, you can’t see them until it’s too late – and they can be almost any size. Usually they’re only a few feet wide, sometimes smaller than a dime. They can pop up just about anywhere in the universe, any time, and then collapse again just as fast. They’re that unstable. In fact, the odds of actually walking through a wormhole at the exact instant and the exact location that one appears are trillions and trillions to one. But I did. Sure. With that kind of luck, why couldn’t I have won the lottery instead?
Of course, I didn’t know any of this at the time. It wasn’t until much later when I met a wizard in a jungle versed in this kind of cosmic phenomena that I learned just how rare an occurrence this truly was. According to his calculations – which consisted of throwing some nutshell fragments on the ground, it had only happened twice in the history of the entire universe. The little wizard who explained all this to me called himself “The Great Oolio.” I know, I know, what can I say? Truth is stranger than fiction. But that part of the story comes later. I’ve got to tell it in order or I might leave out something important.
So anyway, that’s how I ended up here in the first place, standing in my bathrobe in the middle of a swamp, up to my shins in algae-coated brackish water, looking like the Monday morning edition of Jesus, with my arms held out wide and a “What the heck just happened?” look on my face.
As you might expect, my first thought was that I must still be in bed, dreaming, or hung-over, if that’s even possible from tossing down a two-liter Mountain Dew and a whole bag of taco-flavored Doritos the night before. Makes sense, right? So when pinching myself got me nothing more than a busted capillary, the next thought that went through my head was an image of my math teacher’s face when I didn’t show up to take the test. He was sure to make a bunch of snide comments to the class about my lackluster attempt to pass his course. He was a bald, little tyrant with a Napoleon complex, with pants that were always pulled up too high.
But then I realized I had a lot more on my plate to worry about than my less than stellar school attendance record. That, and my coffee was just sitting back at home, wherever home was, on the kitchen table getting cold along with my toast, assuming that Aunt Priss bothered to hold up her end of the agreement. She probably figured I’d ditched her and headed to school looking like a homeless person. She often made off-hand comments that she never understood anything teenagers did these days. Nevertheless, regardless of how much she enjoyed reading the Editorials section, she’d wait for me to get home before actually going to retrieve the newspaper herself. But that wasn’t my problem anymore. No, mine was a much bigger problem. As I stared at the incongruous scene playing out around me, I would have given anything to be sitting in math agonizing over a bunch of incomprehensible questions on things like rational and irrational numbers and the Pythagorean Theorem. But solving for the perimeter of a circle wasn’t going to help me now.
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CHAPTER 2: The Battle of the Bog
The air was pierced by the sounds of fierce cries as the opposing ranks of the two armies splashed and clashed. As improbable as it seemed, I thought I had somehow walked into the middle of some kids’ backyard brawl because the largest of them only came to about halfway up my thigh. The pint-sized soldiers on both sides were outfitted in a medieval style. Those in the front lines of the ‘battle’ wielded sticks as swords and spears, while those in the back fired volleys of arrows back and forth that looked like miniature darts as they sailed overhead. Despite the hooting and hollering, neither side looked to be doing much damage. Even the swordplay that was being bantered around looked like a bunch of old ladies with canes shooing away aggressive squirrels.
But as I stared with mixed surprise and befuddlement, things took a turn for the weirder. What I thought were kids, or at least midgets, weren’t kids at all. They were frogs! Big, ugly frogs, dressed like knights in turtle shell armor with snakeskin sleeves.
It made my head spin. I might have been more amused by the whole notion if my robe wasn’t getting all soggy. That, and I felt something trying to wriggle itself between my toes.
My sudden appearance, as you might expect, hadn’t gone unnoticed. However it had happened, though, I found myself mixed in among one of the armies. The bewildered frogs nearest to me shouted and pointed, some turning in my direction to meet this unexpected threat in their midst. A few of the archers began firing at me.
Fortunately, most of the little arrows couldn’t penetrate the thick material of my robe. But others struck my arms where they were exposed below the elbows. They felt like little needles pricking my skin. They didn’t hurt, but they stuck there and I was beginning to look like an escapee from an acupuncturist convention.
Then some of the arrows hit me in the neck and one got me in the cheek. Now that got me mad! What if it had hit me in the eye? With a growl, I reached down and tugged a large branch free from the mud. It was time to kick some toadstool!
You might think that a full grown thirteen year old would have little to fear from an army of eighteen inch, spear-toting amphibians. That’s what I thought at first. But after those slimy buggers began jabbing me with the points of those spears, I quickly changed my tune. I sent a few of the hardier ones flying though. The soft whump! they made as my club whacked them out of the ballpark provided some well needed self-gratification. After that, they gave me a little breathing room, but their archers continued pelting me.
Covering my face with one arm as best I could, I let out a roar and rushed the nearest line of them. Their eyes bulged and they broke and scattered, hopping in all directions. Emboldened, I kept up my onslaught, taking slow exaggerated steps so as to not lose my footing in the muck. Swinging the stick in wide arcs, I made my way into the thick of their number. A few momentarily held their ground until they saw their fellows abandoning them in droves. The tide of the battle turned completely once I had reached the stubborn remainder who had formed a defensive line and were using me as their pincushion. Shouldering their bows, they hastily skedaddled in long leaps with the retreating footmen.
Trying to keep my meanest face on, I faced the other army of wart-mongers. To my surprise, they raised their weapons and a throaty cheer echoed through the swamp. One of the frogs hopped toward me. From the way the others made way for him I assumed him to be in a position of some authority. Maybe I could find out what was going on.
He looked old judging by his wrinkles, like he’d been pickled in formaldehyde and yanked from a ninth grade biology class. He wore a black shell over his torso intricately marked in blue, red and yellow that was polished to a high gleam. Under that was what appeared to be snakeskin, sewn together as though it were a shirt of medieval ring-mail. He drew himself up on skinny legs and saluted me. “Sir, I commend you for a battle well fought. For a Dry-skin, you are indeed a mighty warrior.”
For some reason I wasn’t even surprised to hear him speaking to me. At that point, my hope was I would wake up at any minute and find that I had slept through my alarm.
“You have my sincerest gratitude for turning back Queen Padjumper’s army,” he continued, “Her Commander-in-Force was attempting to outflank me on the western edge. A sneaky tactic. Had it not been for your timely ambush…well…very effective, that, though if you don’t mind my saying, your skills in combat could use some, er…refinement.” He emitted a low croak that could have passed for a chuckle.
A chubby frog in a shirt made of interlaced and oiled reeds hopped forward and touched him on the arm. “Colonel Kermit, sir, it getting late. King be expecting report soon.”
Colonel Kermit? I know what you’re thinking: I’m kidding, right? You just can’t make this stuff up.
The wrinkled face wrinkled further. “You are correct, of course, sergeant. I shall make haste.” He turned back to me, eyes blinking unevenly. “To thank you for your service, please accept my invitation to King Bogscratcher’s palace.” He waited expectantly.
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
“Excellent. The king will be pleased.” The colonel looked about him. “You! Squire! Escort this Dry-skin to the palace.” He pointed with the end of his sharpened bamboo sword for added dramatic emphasis.
“Yes, sir!” the young frog responded, bobbing his head respectfully. He held a spear with a long, wicked-looking tooth lashed to the top.
Without further preamble, the colonel emitted a loud series of chirps and the strangely clad frogs hopped, clambered, and swam. In a few moments, they had all disappeared beneath the bog. The water was calm and glassy, broken up by clumps of spiky marsh grass, brown cattails, purple lilies, and orange jewelweed, and dotted across with lily pads and moss-covered logs. The sun twinkled across its surface. It was actually quite peaceful in a surreal sort of way. Only the lone frog remained, standing motionless as his throat sac puffed in and out like a fleshy metronome.
