Frogg Pond
by
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. . . I was talking to Salvador Dali. We were sitting at opposite ends of a long wooden table. His end was in outer space. My end was on a balcony that overlooked a blue sea. Objects floated between us: pieces of fruit, a large bowl, a crystal vase, a butcher's knife, a meteor the size of a beach ball. "Surrrealism is but one perrrspective," Dali said. The r's rolled off his tongue like drunk lemmings. "My frrriend, Picasso, he sees the worrrld thrrrough otherrr eyes." An apple drifted past my head. "Picasso is dead." "So am I." Dali gave his mustache a musketeerish twist. "Death is anotherrr perrrspective." Dali's spent breath pushed the vase toward my end of the table. "If you're dead, how can we have this conversation?" "Because I invited you." His hand swirled as though it held a brush and he were painting the words. "Where are we?" Dali arched his eyebrows comically. "Here." He spread his arms. He was wearing a deep sea diving suit. "I'm surrrrrrounded by infinite space. Yourrr back is to the ocean." I knew I was dreaming - that was the strange part - it didn't matter. "What's it like on your side?" Dali looked around, seeing what I couldn't. "Imagine the earth with many more dimensions." "Like your paintings?" His lips popped like a wine cork. "Of courrrse." "Ecumenical Council or the Average Bureaucrat?" He smiled. "All of them." Maybe I wasn't dreaming. "Why did you invite me here?" His surreal smile collapsed inward. "I want you to deliverrr a message." "What?" "The rrreligions have it all wrrrong." "How? Are you in Heaven? Is there a god?" Dali laughed. "You can't get away frrrom them. Allah, Buddha, Zeus. Chrrrist, They arrre all herrre." "Everyone gets along? The Jews and Arabs don't fight?" "Therrre arrre no followerrrs herrre." "No Christians?" "A few." "Any Jews?" Dali stroked his chin. "Jesus is the most famous. Everrrybody kids him about it." "The other gods poke fun of Jesus?" "He has a good sense of humorrr." There were so many questions I wanted to ask. One in particular had bugged me all my life. "Is it true some people are just born lucky?" Dali snatched a pear out of the air. "Life is eitherrr easy orrr it is impossible." "Is our fate preordained?" Dali swept the sky with his hand. The turbulence tipped the vase. Water splashed out, but nothing got wet. "Not until you connect all the dots." In the dream, it made perfect sense. "Could I have been you?" "If you werrre me, who would I be?" "You could be me?" Dali's eyes widened. "Why would I want to be you? I am a famous arrrtist. You are drrreaming."
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About the Book
FROGG POND – A Third World Adventure
What do a cyberporn queen, a lesbian art collector, and a retired drug smuggler have in common?
They’re fans of Amos Frogg.
Truth and fiction tangle in exotic Costa Rica when expatriate cartoonist Amos Frogg is arrested and jailed, accused of a crime that could forever alter the course of contemporary literature.
In prison, an eccentric poet pushes Amos to the brink of insanity. All hope is lost until six loyal fans (they call themselves Frogg Heads) unite to rescue Amos.
While Amos tightrope walks the fine line between lunacy and genius, the dysfunctional Frogg Heads embark on a bizarre journey of adventure and self-discovery. Along the way they must battle corrupt government officials, survive a volcanic eruption, ferret out a traitor, and solve a murder of Biblical proportion.
Afterward, if there’s time, they may stop for lunch.
ADVANCE PRAISE for FROGG POND
" . . . RIBBITING"
– Mainiac News
"Finally, fiction that’s stranger than truth."
– Flakey Citizen
"You won’t believe the ending."
– Houston Hustler
"Amos Frogg . . . is a GENIUS."
– Village Vagrant
About the Author
Steve Cason is a former newspaper reporter and humor columnist. Frogg Pond is his first book. He lives with his wife, Ann, in a cabin in the foothills of Clinch Mountain in Tennessee.