Short story

A frog is a frog is a frog

Gabi Lardies on the work of christian dimick

From where he sat on the shelf, Bunny could see a slither of the sunset each night. The little patch of sky, above the wooden toy box, blushed pink, purple, and sometimes – not tonight – a fiery orange. Bunny sighed. Another day had passed without the door creaking open. Muffled sounds came from the other end of the house: footsteps, voices, not particularly happy, nor angry, and the clanging of plates. In the room, only dust had stirred, catching on Bunny’s mangy fur and his one eye. 

For a while, years ago, Bunny had sat up straight and proud on the shelf, next to a pile of adventure books and plastic sharp-edged toys with wheels and levers and mechanisms on them. Not Bunny’s preferred company, but he thought that perhaps, with good posture, he’d be able to charm his way back onto the narrow single bed, up by the soft pillow, where the window would be dead ahead and all day he’d be able to watch the rimu tree swaying in the wind, the tī kōuka dropping its spear-shaped leaves and the clouds whizzing by. An image of the boy’s face surfaced in Bunny’s mind. But were his eyes green or blue? His nose lumpy or pointed at the tip? The closer Bunny tried to look, the fuzzier edges became. Anyway, no matter how straight Bunny’s back or how perky his ears, he’d never regained the top spot. Now, there was no-one to charm, and Bunny slumped like a dirty sock.

Another night stretched in front of him, growing darker and darker. From the shadows, numbers called out – five, seven, three – their ghostly forms hanging in the shadow for moments like breath on a winter’s morning. Bunny could still see the times tables, drawn out over and over and over again, dancing in front of his eyes. He would have called them out, had his mouth been more than a seam, and had he had lungs full of air. But he was just synthetic stuffing, all the way down. Bunny let his eye glaze over.

The THWACK! of a ball hitting a wooden bat woke him. He was outside now, on a tartan picnic blanket loosely thrown over acid bright green grass. The boy was there, running to three wickets, while others scrambled around. The sun was right overhead, casting short, sharp shadows. Something rustled to Bunny’s left, and then from the folds of the grass, a frog hopped onto the edge of the blanket followed by another, and then another. Bunny could not differentiate between the three of them. The frogs all looked like familiar copies, like he’d seen them in a book or an old photo. Their edges wobbled, the green spilling out and then pulling itself back in like a noodle. They looked at him and blinked. Behind them, the ball was found, and the boy stopped running. 

“Bunny,” said the first frog, its throat jumping up and down. “Can I have a grape?” Bunny looked in return, still trying to put a name, or a place, to the face. The frogs hopped past him, helping themselves to snacks, and then disappeared into the grass without saying goodbye. “How rude,” thought Bunny. His attention returned to the game. The children cut dark, quick figures on the horizon, moving to rules Bunny didn’t know. The air slowly got colder and the sun lower. Eventually, the figure slowed down, the boy approached, and picked Bunny up by the ears. They walked home to a square house with a triangle roof, a door and two square windows. 

Bunny woke feeling warm and yellow. No-one had drawn the curtains, and the slither of sky was a soft blue. The duvet was smoothed out, and the pillow a lump underneath it. Across the room, beyond the bed, a tatty pile of paper sat on the small wooden desk. There, traces of the boy. A little hand outlined in a jagged red line. A navy blue line trying to remember the shape of the sea. And in the corner of a page, a frog, its legs folded, its mouth a long thin smile, and its eyes unblinking.

This text response was commissioned by Gus Fisher Gallery on the occasion of the exhibition Three Approaches, Three Rooms, 2024.