Much Ado

I am 7 years old and ever since I first understood things and words I have known that toads like me. I was around 2 when I remember my mother throwing a spoon of honey at a nice speckled green toad that perched itself on my high chair for a friendly stare. She sliced at the poor thing like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill.
At school if I was sitting by the window one of the garden toads would often drop by. 2+ 2 = 4 was accompanied by the blink blink of a visiting toad. I never really thought about all this too much. But my parents spent many happy hours contemplating my imagined magical abilities. One of their discussions went like this:
“She’s always got a toad around.”
“Maybe she has lucky lips and they’re all princes looking to be turned back.”
“Honey, I think that works for frogs, not toads.”
“Maybe she’s a fairy.”
“Or a mushroom.”
I ran away at that point because I really didn’t fancy being poked at by a fork. Why couldn’t I just be a simple girl whom toads liked?

***

Anyone is welcome to complete the above.

Untitled

I really wanted to find the perfect pic for this poem of India's. I couldn't. But it feels incomplete without a visual and i'm no artist so here's one courtesy http://www.flickr.com/.

The listener gasps
Wonder shines
My trials are dragons
Through the shards of time.

A fluttering cloth could well
Be a sphinx
And that purple bolt
A never ending bridge.

The lustful animal
Becomes a man
My passion is his blood
As he stalks the land.

The waters still
As wings take air
Her reflection catches
In Juno’s snare.

My words are all colours
The artists unpaid
This life not charmed
Just a storyteller’s lay.