Aroha Witinitara
The Production
I am in the studio today sculpting a small army of clay frogs.
I carefully mold the little bodies, running slippery fingers
over the creases framing their faces and
methodically roll out sets of long spindly legs.
To finish off, I smooth out the folds of their skin with a damp sponge.
Each frog occupies a square of newspaper
all lined up along the table’s edge.
I pluck pots of paint from the basket on the windowsill
and move down the line, smothering them in color—teal, chartreuse, lilac.
Some I paint bone-white before I put them in the splatter box
and shower them with flecks of golden wheat and paprika,
others get fat lumpy spots in topaz or indigo.
I load them into the kiln, shuffling, stacking and reshuffling
until I’ve squeezed everyone in. I leave them to bake.
I return to unload a few days later when the kiln is cool to the touch.
I pull the doors open and the frogs spring forth like a fountain,
overflowing into the space.
They meticulously test their limbs, shake out each leg, flick their tongues.
The frogs notice me staring, one by one they turn to look
with wide eyes, dark and glossy from the glazing.
Something is tugging at the leg of my pants. I look down at
a particularly handsome lad with a dashing red coat.
He wants to speak to me, on behalf of all the frogs.
They wish to thank me, he says. Their creator. In one week’s time
they will be putting on a production of The Three Musketeers, he says.
Will I do them the honour of attending?
I graciously accept the invitation.
The frogs toddle down to the school auditorium to start practicing their lines.
I stay behind to sew the costumes.
Excavate the sewing machine from the back of the cupboard and sit down with sheets of fabric
silk, cotton, linen and leather. I set my machine to the smallest stitch
to sew silky, flowing capes and boots for their little webbed feet.
I make wide-brimmed hats with fluffy feathers glued to the sides
and whittle swords from popsicle sticks.
It’s a challenge but I finish in time to drop everything off for dress rehearsal.
On the night of the production, I arrive at twenty-one minutes past five.
I worry that I might be too early because I’m the only one in the auditorium
but when I sit down the curtain goes up and the lights come on.
There are my frogs!
Looking dapper and proud in their threads.
They recite their lines confidently, heads held high.
The three musketeers assemble on stage, the soundtrack starts
and in one fluid movement they brandish their popsicle sticks.
Oh no.
The frogs have forgotten they are not real frogs and are sword-fighting too enthusiastically.
They swing the swords with incredible force, cracking the porcelain bodies of their brothers.
Shards of color scatter across the stage, shower the floor like confetti.
I call out for them to stop but it’s no use, they’re having too much fun
and can’t hear me over all the smashing.
They hack at each other until their bodies are nothing but dust.
The soundtrack cuts off and all is still and quiet
except for a light tapping against the stage floor.
In the center a single detached arm is still swinging.
Aroha Witinitara is a current student at Victoria University. They’re originally from the Wairarapa but live in Wellington now. You can find more of their work in overcom, PŪHIA and bad apple.