A Rain of Frogs 

A Rain of Frogs

Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known...

Howdy, pilgrim

You have stumbled across a writer’s catchall and armamentarium of lost words―a cellar, if you will, stocked with last year’s sweet potatoes and next year’s onions plus a hopeful phrase or two. The blurbs and links at the bottom of the page are teasers and set to rotate daily. There’s an index to your right and here.

Thanks for dropping in. Most of this is pretty good stuff, the rest, well... to quote the Acknowledgements page:

What happens to a Sci-Fi or Fantasy story after it has been published—the remainder pile, a sporadic reprint, oblivion? Typically the afterlife of a tale consists of gathering dust until the writer's heirs and assigns shred it for packing nick-knacks and other writerly impedimenta. Not quite the half-life of linoleum. And what of the loves, lives, hopes and aspirations of its citizens? Must they float forever in a shimmering noösphere playing whist and watching the flights of eidolons? Boring. To misquote Walt Kelly's Pogo: “We have seen the future and it's not yet...” The call, dear reader, is yours.

A Rain of Frogs is intended as a companion blog for onetinleg.com, a place I can write freely, snap my braggin’ suspenders, and plomp in the backstories and factoids that “decorate every man’s lapsed past” (from Platterland, a story of mine), but just don’t belong among the more crafted offerings on the Mother Ship. Stick around and browse.

A mission statement

“Ohh, mommy, look.” A mother and child studied the darkening sky. The young one was working hard at staying up later than usual, watching for a sign, hoping to stay up for another hour. A bright blossoming flared and faded past her finger's end. “A star exploding.” The woman had been a mother many times over many years. The night sky held no new wonders for her. The child had to think quickly. “A minute more, please. I am looking for the V of the eidolons.”

“Silly girl.” A pause. “What is an eidolon?” Eidolon. A new word from school. The little ones were ever bringing home new things; it was hard keeping up. The mother peered into the afterglow left by an expired galaxy.

“They are the wild flying pigs of time, unwinding the stars.”

—The Return of the Orange Virgin

 

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