3rd Eye: Rembrandt's Pond

It was high Summer, Ma said it was The End Times, when the Wrath Of The Lord would be Visited Upon The Heathen Nations Of Babylon. Ma always spoke like that, like every word she said was real important.

Rembrandt guessed she might be right, not having no way of telling otherwise he mumbled 'Amen' and slid out of the shaded inferno of the porch and into the direct heat of the afternoon sun.

Rembrandt had turned eighteen this hot summer, and Ma said he din't have no sense no how.
Rembrandt guessed she might be right about that too, not having no way of telling otherwise.

The pond had always been there, Rembrandt's Pa had died on it. Not in it, like getting his self drownded but on it. After he got hit by lightnin' in that Fall storm and Ma said It Was The Lord Warnin' Him To Change His Heathen Ways, Pa just kinda wandered around the place in a daze, feeding the hens and barking at the old hound. He didnt do much actual work on the place after the lightning, too often just sitting, the old tractor humpin' beneath him, staring out into the fields until the motor drank the all the gas and quit.

Rembrandt didn't care that his Daddy had wandered out one cold night last winter and froze to death on the ice of the pond. The pond didnt exist in Winter, it didn't just get covered up, like putting a lid on Aunt Flo's soup tureen, cover up the thick dirt coloured water till it was time to eat. It went, somewhere else Rembrandt reckoned, the frogs were silent and the water was gone until it was the End Time.
Summer was that time.

Rembradnt's bib overalls and his army surplus boots fell away as he slid into the water. Best he could figure it was like a big ol' puddle of fresh piss. He slid into its warm depths, the cold mud and colder catfish sliding away from his passing feet. He lay down in the warm waters.
Hearing Ma in his mind, speaking the Bible words, about laying down in green waters and God watching the sheep.

When Rembrandt lay still long enough, the frogs relaxed. Their midsummer song began again in earnest, a piping cry of the lonely single and horny as hell frogs of the area. They numbered hundreds, this the only standing body of water for 10 miles in any direction. The descendents of old frogs now croaked over the mudstained bones of their grandfathers.

Rembrandt floated out into the pond on his back. Eyes closed the water lapping over his naked body, the mud slipping from his toes and down onto the tops of his wide feet. Ma said they were webbed when he was born. Fingers too, some kinda mutation. Doc over in Greensburg had taken photos Ma said, and then quick as you please cut the thin skin between Rembrandts fingers, but left it on his toes.
Rembrandt wiggled his thick fingers in the dark water, the frogs came close, the first one always made his stomach go tight. The warm sun and then the soft PLOP and a wet frog perched on the edge of his cock hair croaking its song of love.

Rembrandt raised his head slightly, staring down over his chest to the big male frog, yellow and green against the pale brown of his skin.
It croaked and sang, soon a lady frog joined it and Rembrandt wiggled his fingers in the dark water, moving slowly out into the center of the pond.
The male frog began to move over the female, rubbing his tight round skin over the smaller form of his lady.

Rembrandt raised his head, lowered his eyes and watched closely as the male half slid and half hopped over the female, sliding down her broad back and in between her smooth thighs. Rembrandt watched, his meat rising out of the water as he followed the big frog as it slid into place behind the smaller one. Her skin was green and slicked wet. Her dark eyes rose and fell out of her head as she breathed and Rembrandt inhaled sharply as her eyes went suddenly wide. That was it, that was the moment when the big green fucker slammed it to her, pushed his frog meat up her frog privates and they were Doing It.

Rembrandt reached with his long slim arms and stroked himself above the water, carefully touching so as not to disturb the mating pair on his belly. It was over fast, first the female and then the male leaping back to the safety of the water as Rembrandt's juice sprayed over them.

Rembrandt lay there, floating in the piss warm soup, breathing deeply, feeling the frogs around him, smelling his own sex and the sex of the mated frogs.

Gently he drew his legs up and kicked out, his webbed feet propelling him effortlessly through the ponds surface while the frogs sang in the reeds and weeds.

Rembrandt listened to the frogs song, smiling as they called his name, across the warm dark water.
Over and over again a frog chorus sang... "Rembrandt! Rembrandt! Rembrandt!"

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