Bullfrogs and Stars

Somewhere between the stale hum of bug zappers and the distant yawn of a freight train, he sat on a rotting log, sipping coffee from a chipped mug.

Behind him, his disciples argued about whether frogs could feel shame. He didn’t care. He was watching the stars.

“Well?” someone asked. “Do they mean anything?”

The shaman squinted upward, eyes wide, pupils doing interpretive dance. “That one there,” he said, pointing at a very average-looking star, “that’s the Bullfrog of Destiny. If you stare at it long enough, it tells you your purpose.”

No one spoke. Then, a loud croak erupted from beneath the dock. A fat bullfrog leapt up, landed squarely on the shaman’s chest, and threw up.

He stared at the sky, dazed. “I’ve seen it,” he whispered.

And no one could prove he hadn’t.