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Toad Words

elendraug:

jumpingjacktrash:

the-real-seebs:

ursulavernon:

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

!.

You know how if you go through years and years of “best science fiction short stories”, every so often you find some short story you’ve never heard of before, but it’s just amazing and brilliant and leaves you wondering why you never read stories with that plot before? This is one of those.

Seriously, wow.

this made me smile.

i’m still smiling.

this is really good and brings up a serious issue that’s dear to my heart

check out amphibian ark if you guys want to help

image

silentsnowdrop:

toxic-cupcake:

jesussbabymomma:

crohns-sucks:

neecygrace:

Today’s picture for invisible illness is a personal one. This is one of about 30 notes that my friend has received since using her handicapped placard. I’m going to say this to you, have you ever seen someone get out of a car parked in a handicapped space and said to yourself “they look too young or they don’t look disabled.” I’m going to go with yes you have, because we all have at one time. I can’t remember doing it, but before I understood the difficulties of invisible illness when I was younger I probably did. Let me ask you this though, when you had that thought was it because you knew with 100% certainty that they weren’t handicapped or did you assume that because of their age and/or not seeing a cane, walker or wheelchair? All I’m asking is that we stop and think when we someone need a mobility aid, park in a handicapped space or say they are disabled that we remember this “DISABILITY HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH AGE OR APPEARNACE.” #spoonie #invisibleillness #disability #chronicillness #rheumatoidarthritis #lupus #fibromyalgia #myofascialpainsyndrome

If nothing else, this post needs to be seen around the internet more. This harassment is not okay and no one should have to deal with it on top of having an invisible illness. This is just another form of anonymous bullying to add to the internet bullying these TROLLS are capable of.

If you are healthy, please reblog.
If you are sick, please reblog.
If you have a disability, please reblog.
If you have an invisible illness, please reblog.
If you know someone with a disability, please reblog.
If you are a human being, please reblog.

Let’s spread the word and help those of us that may not look like it. 

Ignorance isn’t bliss, ignorance is ignorance. 

I never thought about this wow

Story time: My step-dad has a prosthetic leg. It’s below the knee, and he gets around with a barely noticeable limp most days. This was one of those days. He parked his truck in the handicapped space in front of Wal-Mart and some asshole actually says to him he should leave that space for “real” handicapped people. My step-dad, being a bit of a smart ass, reaches down and pops off his leg. He then proceeds to wave around the limb, which is black and covered in orange and red flames. He shouts across the parking lot to the now fleeing asshole, “Is this handicapped enough for you?” I nearly died laughing.

My grandmother has a handicapped placard. She doesn’t look at all handicapped, but when it gets very cold or very hot, she can’t walk long distances outside or her heart hurts.

And I know kids who have heart troubles, so this doesn’t just apply to older people. So yeah, if they have the card, they need it.

unquintessential-rants:

i-do-not-know-why-i:

audiencezombie:

verysweetpeach:

Hijab Tutorial for Eid by Nabiilabee

more like “how to style your hijab and look like a majestic queen” oh goodness

There’s a lady down my street that does this and every time I see her I tell her how beautiful it looks on her. It really makes both of our days better.

this is gorgeous.

Now this is fashion.

(Source: beautyofhijabs)

Feminism is not about who opens the jar.

It is not about who pays for the date. It is not about who moves the couch. It is not about who kills the bugs. It is not about who cooks the dinner. It’s not even about who stays home with the kids, as long as the decision was made together, after thinking carefully about your situation and coming to an agreement that makes sense for your particular marriage and family.

It is about making sure that nobody ever has to do anything by “default” because of their gender. The stronger person should move the couch. The person who enjoys cooking more, has more time for it, and/or is better at it should do the cooking. Sometimes the stronger person is male, sometimes not. Sometimes the person who is best suited for cooking is female, sometimes not. You should do what works.

But it is also about letting people know that it is okay to change. If you’re a woman who wants to become stronger, that’s great. If you’re a man who wants to learn how to cook, that’s also great. You might start out with a relationship where the guy opens all the jars and the girl cooks all the meals, but you might find that you want to try something else. So try it.
4 ignorant delusions people have about feminism (via brutereason)
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