This is my message to you.

Frog tattoos. Frog silverware. Frog napkins. Frog towels. Frog couch. Frog chairs. Frog earrings. Frog slippers. Frog shirts, buttons, robes, pictures, steering wheel covers, corn holders, nail clippers. You name it, he had it. You don't need to be told how much he loves frogs. It's just something everyone knew. Where this came from, however, wasn't common knowledge. It was one of those things you were just a little too nervous to ask about.

He was young when his obsession started. He was one of those summer camp kids that would go to the lake at maybe thirteen years old with his friends. The good, classic kind of fun. It wasn't like he was sitting at home in a circle with a bunch of his friends playing Dungeons & Dragons or playing some weird Gameboy game with all of his friends. Fun's changed nowadays. Back in the early 1980's, when he would go to summer camp, it was different. He was never the cool kid that had the cool haircut and the cool way to wear his shirt. He was the anti-cool-kid. The typical overweight, runny nose, heavy breathing, candy stashing, coke-bottle framed, short shorts camp kid. The nerd to win all nerds.

Just looking at a picture now, you'd immediately be able to tell that it was taken during the 1980's. You know how the camp had uniforms for all of its kids? And most kids at that age were presumed to be active and running? Athletic at least. They ordered mostly small, medium and large shirts, usually skipping on the XL's. So he wore a large, which was still too small. It was one of those camp shirts that was that thin material that you'd find at a vintage clothing place on an old shirt. They don't really make shirts from that same material anymore. Most shirts are a bit thicker. But his was thin, and yellow, with red lettering on it and a picture of a kid in boy scout getup also outlined in red. But it was stretched, so even the boy scout on his shirt looked fat.

And as he stood there waiting to be picked for hide and go seek, or kickball, he breathed in heavily and let out a snotty sigh as even Jimmy with a broken arm got picked before he did. Then, sure enough, at the end there were an odd number of kids there, meaning that one team would have more than the other. As soon as the last broken armed kid was picked, the captains pointed out the numbers and said they couldn't take anymore because that would make the teams uneven. So our curly-haired, overweight, pit-stained yellow shirt friend turned his back on all the kids, tied his light up sneakers up tight and walked out toward the lake. In the evening light, with dusk beginning to shade all around him, his sight was absorbed and his ears took the reigns, leaving his glowing tennis-shoes alone in the dark. And as he stood in front of the lake he heard a splash to his left. Then one more. And then two quick splashes. Whatever was splashing around settled itself right next to him about two feet away. He took out his camping flashlight and shined it at the foot of a log. A single frog was sitting there, staring back at the flashlight, confused. He approached cautiously and to his surprise, the frog didn't run away. Excitedly, but not too excitedly so he wouldn't startle his new friend, he picked it up and sat back down on the log. Every night from then on, when all the cool kids were playing kickball or were by a fire making smores, he went away by himself. Light-up sneakers, lake, log, and frogs that never ran away.

Chan

"It was a shortcut," she said. "This boat will take us directly to the other island. . . if no one sees us of course."

And I dare you to leave her at that moment. With the lighthouse in the distance dancing its light all around the water. The breeze a perfect sixty-five degree cool. It was that time of night that the sky wasn't quite dark yet, but was far from being light. That kind of blue that you only see in movies. Post-edit, not during the shoot. And we were standing on the dock with no one else around. Her wringing out her already wet hair and me standing there with my reports, waiting to go to the other island. She smiled and kept insisting, "Oh come on! It'll be fun! You'll see!"

Helpless.

We didn't know who the boat belonged to. But she apparently knew enough about it to know that it travels back to the other island at around the same time every weeknight so the owner can go to his or her house right by the shore. It's always dark by the time she gets over there, she says, so she can't tell for sure if it's a man or a woman piloting the boat. The boat itself though is a piece of work. It's definitely seen better days, but it's far from tattered. Let's call it "lived-in." As we approached it from the dock, we saw that the boat had strings of lights strewn about its railing on the side of it. Green wiring, almost like Christmas lights, but the light bulbs themselves were normal size. The kind of bulbs you may find in an old house ceiling fixture. One of those with a simple socket attached to the ceiling with a light bulb screwed in and a long chain or string hanging down from the right side of it that you'd pull to turn it on and off. Other than that and the headlights in the front of the boat, everything else stayed dark. We approached from the rear of the boat so there was a better chance no one would see us. "Ladies first," I said both jokingly and nervously.

And we were on board. Immediately we went to the top of the boat, above all the windows where someone could possibly see us. It wouldn't be such a big deal to become stowaways, but taking the boat would turn a three hour drive through unpaved roads and shoddy bridges into a smooth, scenic, thirty minute romantic boat ride with this intriguing girl. From the top of the boat the view was spectacular. All the trees and flowers from both islands screamed at you, wanting to be noticed so eagerly. We sat up top, each sitting with our legs crossed, our knees touching. She asked why I needed to go to the old Strassfield building anyway and all I could tell her was that I was the poor soul they assigned to deliver these extremely important reports. Something that you can't just mail, you have to deliver. "If I knew more myself, I'd tell you," I explained. She smiled and gave me a sly look paired with an amusing smirk.

Just then my chest sank. I looked around and my bag was nowhere in sight. I was positive I'd left it at the dock when I first saw this girl. I'd put it down to shake her hand and not being able to take my eyes off of her I never looked back down. "I'm screwed. There's no two ways around it. I don't have the keys to open the drop box I'm supposed to leave the files in. . . I'll have to get back to shore somehow," I told her.

She said, "Relax. You worry too much." I explained I couldn't help but worry. I'd probably be fired, which would mean I couldn't afford my apartment or my car or to eat. I'd need to find a new job, but with the economy being what it is, that alone would be an adventure and. . . "Stop," she said, revealing my bag from her right side. Relief spread through my body like the warm feeling you get when you have a hot cup of coffee on an empty stomach. Warmth that's instantly felt throughout every extremity.

Thank God.

Another five to ten minutes passed as we chatted about nothing in particular. I asked what she was doing going to the island and I got no response. The awkward silence that surrounded us was intense for a few seconds but was shattered by an abrupt crashing of a wave out to my left. I looked out into the water where the sound had occurred. It wasn't a wave, it was a splash. Something was there. I heard it again, this time farther up. I looked back at my present company and she was staring out in front of the boat as if she'd heard nothing. I asked her, "Don't you hear that? What is that? All that splashing?"

She looked at me and smiled her knowing smile and said, "Don't tell me you've never been here when the whales are awake. . ."

All my life, I'd never seen a whale in real life. Three summers I went whale-watching with my family and never saw so much as a ripple. It was the biggest waste of time anyone could ever imagine. But here i was, on the top of this boat, with this beautiful, charming girl, and I was surrounded by maybe a dozen whales.

She stood up and walked to the edge. "Jump in." She said.

"Are you crazy? What if that's a blue whale? What if I get swallowed whole? I can take a lot, but I'm no Pinnochio," I joked, "If a whale swallowed me, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be alive anymore."

"Don't be silly," she said. "These are killer whales. They don't swallow people whole. They eat seals and penguins, but these are totally friendly."

I was silent for a few seconds. "Seriously?" I asked, "do you know what a killer whale can do to you? For all I know they're hungry. I'm pretty sure there aren't any penguins in this climate and who knows what they'd go for next? Even for one hundred dollars, I don't think you'd convince me to--" And I heard another splash, this time much closer. I looked at her and said, "oh great now they're coming closer." But there was no she anymore. There was a pair of flip flops and a cell phone on top of the boat where she was standing just moments ago.

Looking down at the water, I could barely see her by the wires of light bulbs on the side of the boat. But she had jumped. What's more, I was able to see a large black fin moving slowly toward her. I didn't know her name so I had nothing to shout but, "Hey! Look out!" She laughed and swam toward the fin, grabbing on to it like it she was holding the reigns on a horse. And faster than I knew whales could swim, this one darted off with her holding its dorsal fin. It jumped above the surface a few times with her still hanging on, laughing and cheering. It was the most amazing thing I'd seen.

"I can't believe you're still standing there!" she yelled, "forget about the reports and just jump in. I told you to in the first place. They won't hurt you, I promise!" She was interrupted as she went back underwater for a second, but she came back up laughing.

I wanted it. That was exactly where I needed to be. I slipped off my shoes and reached down to pull off my socks. Setting them down on top of my stack of reports, next to her flip flops and cell phone and my bag, I walked to the edge.

And with a deep breath. . .

The man who broke logic. part one(?)

He wore spectacles that were small in diameter but as thick as a military bunker wall. Telescopes strapped to his face. You'd have to think he was able to see everything. You see people walking around the streets squinting at things every day. Street signs, addresses, maps, you name it, people squint at it as if they can't see it clearly without squinting. This man never had to squint. It was like someone stuck a needle into his tear duct and started pumping. His eyes were gigantic. Wide, and open all of the time. He had a pointy nose that supported his scopes and large, sturdy ears that held up his glasses frame. His worm-like neck was always sunken just a bit down like he was embarrassed. Sort of like a scared turtle. A very intelligent, very awkward, socially-inept turtle. Guaranteed if they sold shells, this man would purchase one. And then several extras to stockpile at home so he'd be ready in case something happened to his current shell. He'd place them next to his stacks of freeze dried food - the "just add water" kind. He'd place them next to his multiple packages of paper towels and napkins. He'd store some in his laundry room next to his slew of cleaning supplies just in case he ever ran out of Windex or Drain-O. He's that kind of a guy.

He never even came close to running out of . . . anything.

A pack-rat, sure. But more than that he was a planner. He was a thinker. He would map out the most efficient route to take to work every morning before he left. Always turned his mattress over. Flossed, dusted, and tidied up every corner of every space in his perfect little apartment. Hospitals were not this clean. He's the kind of guy you'd look at and try to picture his name. Some people you look at and think, "Jeff? Thomas? Rob? Bill? Gary? Steve?" And other people you look at generate totally different sets of names like, "Milton? Marvin? Milhouse? Murray?" For some reason names that begin with the letter M have increased nerd potential. Let's throw in "Stuart?" and "Walter?" for good measure. Either way, if you saw him, you'd immediately look toward the second set of names.

He ate bran flakes.

Living like this doesn't usually attract a lot of friends. So understandably, he grew lonely from time to time. Rather than go and spend an evening at a bar, park or social restaurant, he would stay home and look through different chat rooms on his computer to try and find someone to talk to. Someone who shared his interests. Someone who understood him. Someone who knew what to think when they saw eighteen gallons of Windex stockpiled in the laundry room. Insane? No. Prepared.

Wooly Mammoth

It's as if a nervous giant wanted to talk to you, but didn't quite know the words. The giant would just kind of sit there looking at you, gesturing and trying to get your attention. The two of you might speak different languages, making communication even harder. But still the giant tries.

He starts off with a slow swoon back and forth like a lazy pendulum on an old grandfather clock to give himself motion. To eliminate the possibility of quick, unpredictable, possibly rash actions. He watches you as you study him, trying to imagine what you're thinking when you look at him. He's concerned because he doesn't want to scare you, as is the usual scenario when any human is approached by a giant. It's as if he is consistently outcast from everything. Excluded from nearly all inter-species activity. This occurs between men often to a certain degree, but imagine how much more intensely a giant must feel this.

Carefully, lost in his swings of back and forth he decides that you're comfortable enough with him to not run away as you're approached and takes his first step forward. The first step, despite how quiet and gentle he intended it to be, shakes the foundations of all the buildings around you. You can't help but be worried. A car alarm goes off behind you as you stand on the corner of an intersection at the edge of town. It's dusty outside, as the wind is free to blow in this clearing in the concrete forest of the city. If you look hard enough through the dust, you can see the hill that the road follows out of town standing still behind the giant. No matter how hard you try though, the giant still remains the center of your attention. An extreme concern, but not quite a threat just yet...

He notices you didn't move after he took the first step. He smiles an awkward smile that borders innocence and insanity at the same time. At this point you can't help but worry.

He takes a second step.

"Don't move," you tell yourself. "Maybe he's like one of those dinosaurs in that movie and if I don't move he can't see me."

He sees you.

But he means well.

A third step.

Now even more car alarms begin to sound. Why there is no one else to witness this giant coming into town is still a mystery to you. Are you the last one? Did he already get to the rest of them? The tempo of your heart begins to steadily increase as his sixth step is approaching. Still you think, "No. He is not here to harm me. If he wanted me dead, he would have crushed me like a twig already."

And you're right.

Finally you stand face to face (so to speak) with the giant. He's fifteen feet in front of you, staring straight down into your eyes. You, fifteen feet in front of him, staring straight up directly into his. Two creatures fascinated at the other's existence. His face sort of winces and you can see he's struggling to get some sort of expression out. He opens his mouth slightly and takes in a deep breath. He holds it in for a second as he thinks and uses just a little bit of the breath to start a word, then pauses again, holding his breath once more only to expend the rest of it with a sigh and a simultaneous furrow of his brow. It's at this point that he's no longer just a golem. Not just a lifeless machine. He has intentions and desires. He just wants to communicate, but he doesn't know how. Empathetically, you decide to act first while the giant shakes his head in confusion and disappointment in himself.

"My name is _________!" you yell at him, hoping to initiate the interaction.

But you yelling so suddenly startles him and he motions his head backwards in surprise, keeping the rest of his body where it is. His sudden movement startles you just the same and causes you to motion your head backwards, eyes wide with suspense. Copies of each other.

Imagine, just for a second, what it would be like if you looked into the mirror one day and the thing in the reflection was doing exactly the same things you were, making the same expressions, breathing in the same rhythm, blinking at the same time, and moving just as you did, but looking nothing like you. A reflection you could not agree upon.

Seeing you back away as he did amuses the giant. He smiles a no longer awkward smile and lets out a thunderous laugh.

More car alarms.

You can't help but smile at the joy of this monstrous creature and the inadvertent catastrophes he's potentially capable of creating. You look at his face once again, twisting and forming wrinkles where before there were not any wrinkles. He's deep in thought. He wishes desperately he could say something that you would understand... Finally after an extensive thought process, his wrinkles disappear. His eyes open wider and a smile returns to his new expression. One of conviction. Certainty. Triumph. The words had come.

He opened his mouth and began to speak. The words weren't important. Words to you are not the same as words to him. What you were expecting was a sentence. A statement. A greeting or some sort of foreign sound. What you were not expecting was music. There were words within the music that you could not understand, but that wasn't important. As he formed new syllables with his giant mouth, symphonies of sound emerged as he returned to his pendulous motions. He was singing. And it wasn't just a few measures of sound at a time, it was entire thoughts and philosophies and introductions expressed through this orchestration of sound.

Finally, as his statement entered a final decrescendo, you understand where he's coming from. And that not all communication is rooted in speaking the same language to each other. Certain things can transcend.

And with dust still blowing through the intersection, tumbleweeds crowding the entrances to these tall buildings at the edge of a town covered in a yellow haze, your solo applause echoes throughout the empty streets.