Frog Tales: Part One

After the celebration of the 50th anniversary of Impressions, the editors decided to create new legacy. This is the first installment of Frog Tales, a short story series that brings the Impressions' mascots to life in an adventure to create in the first Impressions Magazine. It was published in Volume 51, and the editors hope to pass it on and continue the story year as after year.


A long, long time ago there was a place by the name of Stodge
Swamp. It was a very dull, monotonous little community amongst the trees
and weeds and perpetual flood water on which the sunlight sometimes
shown. It was a comfortable, quiet place where all the colors were a shade
of green or yellow or brown. The sounds of the swamp’s inhabitants rang
across the water and cut through the otherwise consistent hushed hum that
provided for background noise. The inhabitants of Stodge Swamp included
a variety of creatures such as Mrs. Rosie Spoonbill, Mr. Al Gator, little Flight
Newt, Sir Big Bass, Mr. Snap Turtle and his wife Mrs. Soft Turtle, the old
snake Cotton Mouth, and Mr. Blue Heron.

Oh, and I mustn’t forget to mention the frogs of course, Mr. Fletcher
Frog and his neighbor little Miss Juniper Pond.

Fletcher Frog, though a few good years into grey hair, was still a
bachelor and lived alone in his quiet little mudhole by the water. If you
were to visit him, which would be quite unlikely as Fletcher Frog was not
fond of visitors, you would find inside his front door a clean, comfortable
space filled with soft yellow lighting and even softer leather-bound books.
Although his home was modest and small, among the rooms Fletcher had
proper study of which he was very proud. Most often he could be found
here, sitting cross legged in a dark leather chair, a book between his sticky
toes and a cup of hot tea on the little table beside him. He was a large, olive
green and white frog always dressed in a smart buttoned-down shirt, nice
pants, a blazer, and a bow tie. Not to mention the reading glasses he took
on and off as he opened and closed his books. His mud home was almost
perpetually silent save for the ticking of a grand clock on the wall and the
occasional sigh of the frog himself.

Little Miss Juniper Pond was a different story.

Juniper lived just down the waterline from Fletcher and to him, she
was a constant pain and only occasional amusement, much like a young
child he never had (or wanted, for that matter). Many years younger and
only a few shy from an officially teenage frog, Juniper was darker green,
small, and quick. She preferred t-shirts and overalls and galivanting across
the swamp inciting all the mayhem she could in the name of fun. She was
known to be loud and carefree, as well as fairly clumsy. In fact, Juniper had a
terrible habit of hopping (literally and figuratively) into things before think-
ing them through. If you were looking to find Juniper, my first advice would
be good luck. Secondly, I would say she was likely to be found in a sticky
situation in some more populated area of Stodge Swamp making a fool of
herself trying to catch a pretty butterfly or a beautiful flower petal. Either
that, or perhaps annoying Fletcher.

For the most part, Stodge Swamp was, well...stodgy. The same ani-
mals did the same things in the same order every day, over and over again.

Mrs. Spoonbill did her laundry, Mr. Snap Turtle argued over which log was
his and which was Mr. Heron’s, old Cotton Mouth sulked in the reeds while
Mrs. Turtle told him the same story of that thing that happened fifteen
years ago that was so very funny, little Newt collected bugs, and Sir Bass
complained that Al Gator was always getting his tail in everyone else’s way.
Fletcher sat silently alone in his study and Juniper was perpetually on the
verge of exploding from boredom and monotony.

Thus, it was a hazy, dull, and otherwise inconsequential Tuesday
afternoon when Juniper burst through Fletcher’s front door with all the
tenacity of a bullfrog, prompting him to splash hot tea all over himself and
his new Persian rug.

“Heavens!” Fletcher exclaimed, jumping from his seat. He quickly
rescued his book, set his teacup back down and began wiping himself off, all
while giving his unexpected visitor a stern look. “Juniper Pond!”

“Listen, Fletch, I’m thinking pirates,” Juniper jumped up and down,
an imaginary sword swinging from her frog toes, “Or bandits of some sort,
maybe knights and a princess in danger...how about dragons? No, better yet,
magical goats!”

Fletcher was on his knees now, scrubbing down the Persian rug with
his handkerchief. “What are you on about?”

“Stories!” Juniper responded, dropping to her knees as well, right
into the tea-splashed Persian rug. “You’ve got books about adventures don’t
you, Fletch?”

The older frog sighed, stood up, and walked into the kitchen to
place his soiled handkerchief in the sink.

“I suppose I do. Do you—” Fletcher caught himself before he said
the words that would inevitably lead to one of his prized books in Juniper’s
filthy frog toes. He changed tactics. “How about I read you one of them?”

“Yes!” She hopped as high as the ceiling and sped back into the
study, a disturbed Fletcher on her heels. Juniper began searching through
all the books on the shelves, sending several of them tumbling as she went.
“We need beasts and heroes and great feats of strength!”

“All right, all right.” Fletcher stopped her from rummaging any
further and placed the books he had caught back on the shelf. “I’ve got the
perfect book in mind just for you. All you have to do is go take a seat and I’ll
read it.”

Juniper happily hopped away while Fletcher selected a book of ad-
ventures. When he turned back around, she had taken his favorite seat and
was sipping on the remnants of hot tea still in the mug.
Fletcher rolled his eyes, but a small smile crept to his lips as he took
a seat in the chair beside her and began to read. Juniper couldn’t sit still
to save her life, so the entire story was filled with her hopping around the
room, mimicking the actions of the characters, and jumping off the backs of
the chairs. Nevertheless, she thoroughly enjoyed the story and when Fletch-
er finally closed the book she whined and begged for more.

“Not today, Juniper Pond.” He replied, “It’s late already, but if you
want to come back tomorrow, and knock on my door, I’d be happy to read
you another book.”

So, Juniper returned the next day, bursting through the front door,
covered in mud, and exclaiming something about magic wands. Fletcher
directed her to a chair, provided a cup of tea, and began to read a story about
witches and wizards.

This went on, day after day, week after week, and month after
month until the two frogs had read every book in the study at least three
times over. No longer did they only focus on adventures or magic, but all
sorts of stories about all sorts of things. They read poetry as well, and looked
at photographs of strange places and of paintings and drawings.

“Fletcher,” Juniper said one day after they had finished her favorite
book for the fourth time, “There has to be more stories out there, right?”

“What do you mean, June?”

“Well, there has to be more stories. Other stories in other books that
we haven’t read. New things...poetry, artwork, you know?”

“I’m afraid I have the most extensive collection of such things in
Stodge Swamp.”

Juniper frowned and thought for a moment. “Then why don’t we
make more?”

Fletcher laughed. “You can’t simply create new stories or new art.
Everything I have here is so old, the great works of the greatest Creatives
that lived long ago, they’ve all been passed down and gifted to me.”

“Creatives?”

“Indeed.” Fletcher thought for a moment, setting his cup of tea
down. “I believe those people are called Creatives. If my history is correct,
they used to visit the Swamp long ago but haven’t been around in a good
long while. They are the ones that write the stories and the poems and make
the beautiful artwork.”

“The Creatives...” Juniper’s eyes widened. “Well, we have to go find
them!”

Fletcher laughed. “I think they’re all dead by now, June. It’d be quite
difficult.”

“Then we write our own stories!” Juniper hopped up on the back of
her chair. “Just like the Creatives! And we can get the other animals in the
Swamp to do it too!”

“You can’t simply write a story. One doesn’t just create art on a
whim.”

“Why not?”

Fletcher opened his mouth to reply, but somehow, he couldn’t find
an adequate response. Why couldn’t they?

“Think about it.” Juniper went on. “We could become the new Cre-
atives and write down all our stories and get Mrs. Turtle to write poems and

Mr. Heron to take pictures and put it all in one big book and make a bunch
of copies so everyone in the Swamp can enjoy it!”

“You know, June, you may be on to something. I think Stodge
Swamp could use a thing like that, a much-needed creative outlet. What
would we call this book?”

Juniper flopped back down in her chair, an intense look of thought
on her little frog face. “We need a name that captures the feelings. Like the
feeling of stories and art, the feeling of the Swamp, and the feeling of the
new Creatives who put themselves into their work.”

“A feeling...” Fletcher nodded along, “A sense, a fancy, a...an impres-
sion?”

“Impressions.” Juniper’s big frog eyes widened even more. “That’s it.
We’ll call it Impressions.”

Fletcher smiled and turned to his little frog companion. “That
sounds perfect. Now you know there’s only one thing left to do.”

And so, they set off to find the Creatives. To find the best artwork,
the best photographs, and the best stories they could tell. To teach people
that creativity can come from anyone and anywhere. To make sure that
everyone has the opportunity to make something wonderful and to read
something brilliant. They set off to make Impressions.