THERE ONCE WAS A FROG named Maurice who lived in a small garret above his flower shop, Grenouille, on the Rue de Seine. It was a humble abode with a million dollar view of the rooftops of Paris and the Eiffel Tower, the Cathedral of Notre Dame and the River Seine. Beyond the peeling paint and cracked caulking of his window sash, the world was a colorful mossaic of trees, bricks, tiles, steel, stone, sky, and clouds.

Being a man of simple tastes, Maurice broke his fast with hot chocolate and a croissant at a nearby sidewalk cafe before opening his shop for the day. He only scanned the news this morning because he wanted to get an early start. He was going on a short trip to meet a grower who seemed to have spectacular blossoms for reasonable prices.

By the time Brigitte, his shop assistant, arrived, he already had the sidewalk displays arranged and the store swept out. He stopped only a moment to help Brigitte who was fumbling with the frog at her throat. Maurice seemed perplexed that the device easily opened at his touch and her cape fell from her shoulders, softly to the floor. Their eyes met. She smiled, then made a moue as he gathered the frock and hung it from a hook behind the counter.

“FATHERFORGIVE ME for I have sinned...”

The priest on the other side of the screen waited. Finally, he prompted the penitent to continue. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

The silence on the penitent's side of the confessional continued several moments longer.

“My son?”

“I'm thinking, Father.”

“How long has it been? Weeks? Months? Years?”

Another pause. “Um, decades...”

“Decades?”

“Yes, Father. Decades.”

The priest stroked his chin, deep in thought. “You have much to confess.”

Another pause.

“Do you remember the proper form? The significance of confession.”

“Of course,” the penitent responded without pause this time. “I was well taught by the Jesuits.”

“So well taught that you have stayed away for decades?”

Another pause. “I've been busy, Father.”

TIM WAS DESPERATE. His best seller didn't have legs. It rose to the New York Times top ten list and stayed there just one week. Now, the money was running out and his agent was showing signs that he was ready to look somewhere else for a rising star.

Success had come too easily. Tim wasn't ready to handle it. Now he was struggling to free himself from all the leeches who had arrived to suck the blood out of those first few royalty checks. The repo man came for the car. The landlord was threatening a law suit for breach of contract. The fiance hocked the ring and there were still payments due on it.

Tim was a very desperate man. The visit to the witch was an act of desperation. Although he didn't believe in God, he was ready to believe in the devil. That's how he ended up living in a hovel on the wrong side of the tracks in downtown Atlanta with Margaret Mitchell.

THE HAWK WAS AWAKE, alert in an instant. A half second later, it had satisfied its curiosity. There was no danger lurking nearby in any of the three dimensions of space surrounding its roost.

It preened itself. A loose feather was dislodged and left to float on the still morning air. A cluster of pine needles captured it and a squirrel would later add the feather to its nest. A final shiver dislodged the dew from its outer coat of feathers and the hawk was ready for the day.

Talons loosened their grip on the branch and the hawk fell forward. It dropped into a forest-darkened void, then spread its winds. Flexing its muscles the hawk's wings ballooned against the draft. and its course transitioned from an unguided plummet to a graceful arc that carried it under a branch and towards a break in the tangle of foliage. Moments later, it exploded from the treeline like an angel on a mission from Heaven.

NICK SAT AT THE BAR across the road from Pimlico Race Track, surrounded by Milt and his coworkers from the Country Truck Shop. Milt and Nick were both members of PeeWee Pobletts's race team. Nick was an alternate driver and Milt was a mechanic in the pit crew. 

The gang of them sat with crab cake sandwiches and beers sitting untouched on the bar in front of them, their eyes glued to the closed circuit television above the back bar. No one spoke. Their mouths all hung open. 

They had all seen the number five horse cross the line first, and were waiting on the Tot Board to make the results official.

No one seemed to be breathing. Droplets of condensation slid silently down the bottles and pooled at their bottoms.

The results, though expected, startled them when the board lit up. First place, number five, two dollar ticket pays ninety-six.

Wait for it. The synapses in all of their heads seemed to flash the signal from their eyes to their brains in slow motion. Then came the reaction.

“WO IST... der banhoff? ...die toilette? …der Flughafen?”

“What are you going on about, dear?”

Henry scowled at his wife, Martha, who was staring at him like a demented cocker spaniel. “I can't find what I need in this damn phrase book,” he responded. 
Berlin
“I told you you should have bought an iPhone,” she said for the thousandth time. “They have an App that will translate whatever you want, just by speaking.”

Henry growled. “Too much money,” he said. “I don't need a cell phone with all that crap.”

Martha shook her head and compassion disappeared from her face. “And, how much money are we wasting standing here while you look through that phrase book?”

CLARK DUCKED AS A SPROCKET FLEW PAST. He ducked again when the chain that remained attached to the other sprocket finally came free and twisted itself into lethal knots as it flew after the sprocket. The missiles disappeared into the crowd behind him inflicting pain and suffering in their wake. Still, the carnage couldn't wipe the smile from Clark's face. 

“Sorry 'bout that, boss,” his assistant, Jeremy, muttered as he rooted through his box of replacements. “I'll have it fixed in a jiff.”

“No problem,” Clark responded as he stepped forward and touched the machine to share its final shudders as it ground to a halt. “It'll work the next time.”

J. B. Bucksworth stepped up next to him, puffing on a thick, foul-smelling cigar. “Well, what went wrong this time?” he asked and slid the cigar to the other side of his mouth without using his hands.

“Nothing,” Clark replied.

“Nothing?”

“No, nothing really. Just needs a little adjustment, that's all.”

THEY WERE EVERYWHERE THESE DAYS. They loitered in crowds looking for something to do. They queued up in endless lines outside soup kitchens. They huddled for shelter in doorways and under bridges. They lined freeway on ramps with their thumbs pleading for a ride from nowhere to somewhere else with no hope. They were the homeless French who had invaded America.

Secretary of the Treasury Henry Frobisher glared at that portion of the teeming masses who blocked his way to the White House gates. He was late for a meeting with the President. “Damn frogs,” he muttered.

“Sir?” his chauffeur responded.

“Nothing, Jacob,” he replied. “Just thinking out loud.”

“Yes, sir.”

The government limousine nudged forward another few feet as Jacob saw the sea of humanity give way. Another half hour passed before they were able to reach the secret service agent who glanced inside and waved them through.

JOHN RADIN STOOD IN THE FOYER, befuddlement playing in his expression, his children tugging at his pants leg, and his wife tapping her foot behind him. “I told you to call first,” she admonished him, impatience putting an edge in her tone.

“But...” John stammered.

The hostess waited, her smile becoming forced. “Sir?” she prompted John. “I asked if you had a reservation.”

Collecting his thoughts, John's eyes focused on the pretty young woman talking to him. “A what?” he asked.

“A reservation, sir.”

“You need a reservation for... for this place?”

LUNCH HOUR WAS ALMOST OVER and Bud glanced back over his shoulder. The same man was still behind him. He didn't like confrontation but this was the third day in a row. He took several deep breaths and turned about face abruptly to catch him before he could scurry away. It worked. He caught the man standing a mere pace behind him. “Are you following me?” Bud demanded.

The man smiled matter-of-factly. “Why, yes I am, sir,” he replied.

The answer wasn't what Bud expected. He had prepared himself with evidence to accuse the man. Instead, words failed him. The man waited patiently.

“Why?” Bud asked after he had recovered.

“Why?”

“Why are you following me?”