A few years ago, back in 2010, I think, Steph and I ran a little publishing project called the December Lights Project. The idea was to publish a different free story, each from a different author, every day in December. Each story was going to be fun, funny and light. We had some amazing stories and it was a great success, but after a couple of years we took the website down (because, you know, it cost money to keep up and we were broke).

Anyway, because the story I contributed isn’t available for free anywhere else online, I thought it would be nice to share it on my website again for anyone who missed it the first time around and who likes funny, light stories.

Here it is:

The Frog King

So, here’s how it happened.

Some people are really into traditions, okay?

I mean, seriously into traditions. It doesn’t matter what the tradition is or how dumb it might be. If it’s a tradition, it’s gotta happen just the way it always has, and that’s that. No discussion. These people, right. These people freak out if anyone just suggests that maybe, oh, I don’t know, things might change a little. That things might start to make some hopping sense.

Who wants to deal with that kind of raving, dribbling, eye-bulging freak-out? Sometimes, it’s easier to just go with the flow.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Boy, was I wrong.

All I’m saying is that if anyone says tradition to me again, they’re losing their head. I might be a frog, but I’m still the croaking king, okay?

Anyway, I was going to tell you how it happened. This was back when I was the prince, and a pretty good-looking prince, too, I don’t mind telling you. I was fifteen, I was hot, and it wasn’t going to be long before I was going to get married to some equally hot princess and have cute little prince- and princesslets running all over the place. You know how it goes. You’ve read the stories. Shiny wedding. Lots of gold, silk, horses and carriages, presents, and waving at crowds. Then a stupid number of too-soft mattresses, a bit of how’s-yer-father, and, as the French say, there you have it.

Everything was going swimmingly. There were plenty of princesses giving me the eye, and more than that, if you know what I mean. Which I think you do.

Then this old witch turns up at the castle gates and starts going on about tradition. Now, my dad, he’s a real sucker for this mumbo-jumbo. Astrology, witchcraft, dowsing, freaking crystals, the whole lot. And the witch has got this old book, and as far as my dad cared, if it was written down, it was God’s own truth, because why would someone write it down if it wasn’t true, right?

Don’t go there, okay, because I’m all over that one. But my dad was the king and what he said went and that was that.

So, the old witch, she’s saying that in the old days, in tradition, the princess has to kiss a frog, who then turns into a prince and they all live happily ever after, yada, yada, yada and whatever. Personally, I reckoned she’d been at the wacky-baccy. The thing was, she said, first the prince has to be turned into a frog, so the princess can kiss him and turn him into a prince. Which is a pretty roundabout way of going about things, if you ask me.

Nobody did.

So, the next evening, I’m standing in the middle of some dumb circle of candles, as naked as the day I was born, while this pervy, dirty old witch dances around me, waving a dead, dried frog. And, yes, she was naked too. That I do not want to think about, thank you very much.

Five minutes later, I’m on the floorboards, croaking away, and all frogged-up.

My dad was delighted.

Everyone gathers around, the courtiers, my friends, my family, all the rest, as I’m tipped into a marshy pool outside the palace, and they all toddle off back to the comfort of the palace, leaving me with the mosquitoes, the flies, the fish, and a damned heron that spent the next week trying to spear me.

Now here’s where it all goes wrong. Because tradition or no tradition, princesses just aren’t going around kissing frogs any more, if they ever did.

And so there I sit, unkissed, totally frog, until my dad finally croaks it (ha!) and they’re left without a king. Then someone remembers me, and they all come poking around my pool.

By this time, needless to say, no one can find hide or hair of the bloody witch, and I’m still a frog.

Yeah.

Oops.

Which brings us up to now, with me still here, still green, and still warty.

Most of the time they leave me alone. Let’s face it. Frog kings are pretty useless at ridin’ and huntin’ and dancin’ and the cuttin’-of-ribbons, and there’s not a whole lot else in the job description. So here I sit, and everyone’s happy. Happier, anyway.

Except on Tuesdays.

And, yes, since you ask, today is a Tuesday. Fan-bloody-tastic. Thank you for reminding me.

I can hear the feet tramping towards my tank right now.

Tuesday is when the king receives petitions and hands out justice. It’s—yes, you guessed it—a tradition. God forbid that anyone would think that maybe a frog shouldn’t be handing out justice.

Well, here they are, the whole obsequious, slimy lot of them, decked out in robes that looked stupid two hundred years ago and which haven’t improved with time. Oh, your majesty, this, and oh, your majesty, that. Bah.

The chancellor bows, then scoops me up out of my tank where I’d just been contemplating eating a nice dead fly. Then we’re off, in procession, cymbals tinging and trumpets tooting, me in the chancellor’s cupped hands.

You couldn’t come up with something more farcical if you tried.

I could hop out from here and make a run for it, but with all these robed idiots around I’d either be captured or squashed by the time I got to the end of the corridor.

Sometimes squashed seems like an appealing option.

Here we go. The throne room is just up ahead. My loving people are waiting.

Bastards.

The doors are pulled back, the trumpeters blow themselves red, and out we march.

Oh. Oh. Dear God. They’ve put the crown out again.

Someone’s going to lose their head over this.

I want to hide my warty face in my little webbed hands.

The crown is sitting in the middle of the throne. And I’m plonked right in the middle, trying to peer over the rim at the sniggering crowds.

Oh, yeah. I’m going to hand out some justice today.

And… Hell. I recognise those banners draped like pondweed from the rafters.

It’s not just a Tuesday. It’s the first Tuesday of the month.

The first Tuesday of the month is princess day. God knows where they find them. Every scumming month they drag another poor, innocent princess into the throne room in the hope she’ll kiss me. There must be a lot of desperate royalty out there. Maybe we’re paying them. Maybe they’re far enough away that they don’t know.

All I know is that they’ve been scraping the bottom of the pond, so as to speak, with the ones they’ve brought in recently. And still no luck. Just a lot of horrified expressions and turned up noses.

Princesses these days, see, they’re more into Cosmo and Vogue and fifty-new-ways-to-satisfy-your-lover than squishing lips with frogs. Can’t say I blame them. I’m a frog and even I think it’s gross.

At my lowest, back in the pond, I did it with another frog. Yeah, it’s embarrassing, but what can you do? She was kinda cute for a frog. Nice shade of green and very smooth skin. Legs like you wouldn’t believe. Bit of a tongue on her, though. Clean up this pond! Don’t poop there! Were you looking at that other frog? The tadpoles were nice little things. Rather more of them than I’d been planning before I became a frog, of course. Still, plenty of heirs out there somewhere, although good luck sorting out the line of succession.

I’d always thought that doing the you-know-what with a frog would be as bad as it could get, but these Tuesdays, they’re worse. These are damned humiliating. Back when I was Prince Hot and Sexy, I never dreamed that I could be turned down by so many slappers and old maids. And the expressions on their faces. Let’s just say I thought I looked green.

I sink a little lower behind the rim of the crown, eyes just poking over so I can see what they’ve managed to dredge up this month.

The trumpeters blow hard enough to rupture themselves (some hope), silence (except the odd titter) settles over the throne room, the doors swing open with a gust of cold air, and then … nothing. Zilch.

I push myself up to get a better view.

Heads are craning, whispers starting, and the number of princesses coming through the door is exactly zero.

The chancellor clears his throat.

A courtier hurries forward, his stupid, toes-turned-up slippers hushing and slapping on the red carpet, followed by a hundred pairs of eyes. He whispers into the chancellor’s droopy ears.

I’d never really thought how ugly human ears are before. Frog ears are just neat little holes. Human ears? Like something God squashed on in a moment of distraction and didn’t have time to trim away.

The chancellor straightens, glances quickly at me, then turns to the crowd.

“Her royal highness, Princess Gertrude of Ruritania, is, ah, indisposed and unable to attend the gathering,” he booms. “She sends her most sincere regrets to his majesty.”

Who knows. He might even have fooled someone. It’s pretty clear, though, that she’s heard about me. She’s not coming.

My advisors gather in a little huddle, like herons peering into a pond.

A moment later, the chief heron stalks up to me.

“Your majesty.” He bows, and I have to restrain the impulse to hop back as I imagine the long beak spearing down. “There are no more.”

I blink, confused.

“Every princess alive has been invited. They have come, and they have left. There are no more. We have exhausted the possibilities.”

If I were human, I would sigh. It’s over. No princess will ever kiss me. I will never be human again.

It’s almost a relief. I wonder, abstractly, what they will do with me now.

A chorus of indrawn breaths attracts the chancellor’s attention. He turns. I hop to the side of my throne to look past.

Then I see her.

She’s walking down the red carpet, wearing a dress of glittering green that catches the candlelight and throws it back. I have never seen anyone so beautiful. Blonde hair cascades down her back. Her skin is as smooth as a pebble. Her legs are slim and look like they’re never going to stop going up (and in the dress she’s wearing, believe me, I can see). Her hands are delicate and long. Her eyes are as bright and sharp as emeralds. Everyone is watching her.

I realize my tongue is hanging out, and I snap it back like I’ve caught a fly.

“You’re not Princess Gertrude!” the chancellor says.

She ignores him, and he fades back like mist over the water on a summer morning.

She steps up onto the dais. I look up at her, and that’s some view, I’m telling you.

Her eyes gaze down at me. I think I might faint.

“Tell me, your majesty,” she whispers. “Are you true?”

I croak.

“Are you loyal?”

Croak.

“Are you honest and brave and noble?”

Croak. Croak!

“Do you choose … me? For ever and ever?’

Croak!

She leans forward, and view improves again, if that’s possible. My mouth feels as dry as a sun-baked rock.

Her lips are moist and soft. I watch them, goggle-eyed, as they descend toward me. I lift up my little frog lips.

We touch. She kisses me.

I feel the magic, like I felt it before, when the witch cursed me. Except this time…

She’s falling. Collapsing down. Shrinking.

Her robes crumple.

For a moment, I think she’s gone, disappeared like dew. But then, as I peer over the rim of that ridiculous crown, I see her.

She’s crouched in the middle of her robes. And she’s a frog.

A very familiar frog.

She glares up at me.

“What do you think you’re doing squatting up there on that throne?” she croaks. “Do you think the pond is looking after itself? You’ve got two hundred children waiting for you back home! Hop to it!”

I smile a wide froggy smile, and with a single bound, leap from the throne.

Some people are really into traditions. Seriously into traditions.

Me? I think I’ve got a better idea.

– The End –

And, if you’re looking for more fun, funny stories, Steph has also put up a free, fun, funny story on her blog today, called Dreaming Harry. Go read it!

Photo of Yakima Frog at top of blog post is copyright Richard Griffin on Flickr. Used under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic license.

“The Frog King”, copyright Patrick Samphire, 2010, 2014.