The toad lounged on a spatterdock with a root-packed calabash pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. As he meandered down the river, he sealed his lips around the pipe and inhaled, his chest expanding into a large bubble as it filled with root-smoke. He grabbed it with a webbed hand and blew rings as the lilypad carried him over murky waters and under mushroom caps.
A white pelican soared overhead, and the draft from the beat of his large wings spun the toad clockwise. He propped himself on his elbows as the bird landed on a bumpy green-brown floating branch, and shook his rain-soaked feathers.
The toad took another drag, tipped his head and croaked, “Howdy.” Root-smoke spilled from his mouth.
“Hello, Oliver.” The pelican, Jeff, pushed a pair of wire framed glasses further up his face. “I hope I’m not stepping on any toes. The bay is really sparse this summer.”
“I’m not bothered if you take a fish or two.” Oliver waved his hand as he spun, lazily, in a complete circle.
A mosquito hovered between them.
“The little ones are going to hatch any day now.” Jeff shifted from one foot to the other, and back again.
Oliver extended the pipe, “To take the edge off?”
Jeff raised a wing to cover his beak. “No, thank you.”
The toad’s tongue leapt out of his mouth, punched the mosquito, and retracted with the twitching carcass stuck to it.
Jeff stepped back, flinging out his wings as his foot slipped. He flapped twice to steady himself.
Oliver remained fixated on Jeff while he scoured the river. The branch shifted slightly, and for a flickering second, Oliver thought it opened an eye.
“You sure?” He pushed the pipe towards the jittery father once more. “Seems like you could use it?”
“My wife would kill me if I came home smelling like that.” Without looking up, Jeff plunged head-fist into the murky depth, and emerged a moment later, coughing and spitting. Not a single fish in sight.
“Rough hunt?” Oliver laughed at him.
“Having a family to feed is no joke,” Jeff retorted. He landed back on his perch and glanced sidewise at the toad, with a new gleam in his eyes. “And, food’s been real scarce this year.”
Oliver’s chest clenched slightly.
The log shifted again.
Jeff opened his wings.
The water rippled, and his footing was upended as the branch surged upwards. It opened a large jaw to reveal a jagged row of yellow teeth caging the pelican.
The alligator splashed down, a wriggling foot protruding from her mouth. Feathers kissed the river’s surface. She flicked her snout once more, and tossed the bird deep into her throat. She swallowed.
Oliver bobbed in the wake, ribbiting with laughter as he plucked up a single white feather and fanned himself with it. He took a drag and leaned back, blowing smoke rings as the current carried him downstream.
F. M. Donhiser is a fiction writer and Emmy-nominated news producer based in Spokane, Washington. They are originally from the Black Hills of South Dakota and would take trips to the lake with their best friend to catch toads in 10 gallon buckets, and then scream and run away if the toads started jumping.