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Hello, everyone. This is Ria

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with a Quick Note. This

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Now, on

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to the show. This

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is Ria. Welcome to Little

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Stories for Tiny People. I've

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dreamed up some characters that I

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care about so much, I just

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want to see what else they

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do in life. Frog

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from Frog and

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Salamander is one of them. He

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takes himself too seriously. He lets his

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ego rule over him. He wants so

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badly to

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be somebody. He is,

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like so many of us, and

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I'm rooting for him. Let's

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see what he's been up to. Our

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story is called Frog

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and Salamander, a third

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chapter. Take it

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away, Beatrix. Remember, there are no pictures.

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You have to imagine them in your

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mind. You can imagine them however you want.

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Okay, here we go. Mr.

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Frog, hello. Something

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nudged against Frog.

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He blinked his eyes, but

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the sun forced them closed.

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His head ached. Mr.

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Frog, I just wanted

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to say congratulations and

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maybe get your autograph? Can't

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this whoever this is take

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a hint? Frog wondered.

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But then his mind turned

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over the word. Congratulations.

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Frog sat up. It

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took a moment for his eyes to

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adjust. The sky was

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a brilliant blue. The

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surface of wormly pond shimmered

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just beyond the boulder on

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which he'd slept, hidden

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beneath a woven leaf blanket.

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Frog's typewriter, the one he'd

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used to write stories over

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the years, both before

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and after he'd

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become a well-known author, sat beside

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him. Frog cradled

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his head. His

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downward gaze settled on

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his tuxedo, a rental,

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he now recalled, from

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Frogadetio's discount formal wear.

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I loved it, Mr.

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Frog. There was that voice

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again. Frog lifted his

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head enough to see a small

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newt. He blinked up

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at him from beside the boulder,

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wearing a sparkly belt and

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a bewildered expression. In

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her claws, she held a

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book. Just loved it, the newt

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said, holding up the hardcover.

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The main character reminded me of

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my father. Really? It

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was Frog's book. His

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latest, The Newt in

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the Nighttime. And oh

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my, Mr. Frog, is that it?

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Is that your award? Award?

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What is this newt talking

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about? in

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the direction of the newt's

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enthusiastic pointing. There, beside

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his typewriter, was a

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golden statue of a fish.

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Frog let go of his head and

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reached for the fish. It

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glinted in the mid-morning

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sun. Below it, on

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its little stand, was

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his own name. After

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years of hoping and

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yearning and envying

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Salamander, who had to have

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won at least six times,

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after all that, Frog

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had won a pond

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award. As he

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held it in his grasp, fragments

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of the previous night trickled

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back. And the winner is

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Frog!

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Again, congratulations on your pond

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award. My aunt thought Salamander

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would win again, but after

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I read the newt in

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the night time, I said,

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it's Frog's year. Frog couldn't

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focus on the newt's prattling.

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The ache in his head became

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a throb, and there was something

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else. A pit in

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his stomach. Something was

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wrong, but he

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had no idea what. And

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your acceptance speech, it brought

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a tear to my eye.

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I said to my sister,

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I'm not crying. You're crying.

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Frog couldn't remember his acceptance

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speech. That's what real

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success looks like, doesn't

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it, Mr. Frog? You must

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feel so fulfilled. Right, Frog

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muttered, thinking vaguely

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that he should

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feel successful and fulfilled.

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He scribbled his name in the newt's

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book, then hopped down

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from his boulder. Thank

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you, Mr. Frog. Oh, and

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I cannot wait to read the...

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worm above the wind. Frog

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had taken a step away into

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the tall pond grass that

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surrounded Wormly Pond, with absolutely

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no idea where he was

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headed, but with what he

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hoped was an air of

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confidence in the presence of

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a fan, but at the

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newt's words he stopped

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and whirled around. The

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worm above the wind, eh? Who's the

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author? Salamander,

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most likely, Frog mused.

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It would be just like Salamander to

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announce a new book right after Frog

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had won a big award. Frog

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clutched his pond award against

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his chest. The newt

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peered at him with a curious

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smile. That's funny. I didn't

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know you were funny. Anyway, thank

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you again, Mr. Frog. With

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that, the newt disappeared into

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the grass. Frog stared

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after her and it was

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backwards. It was the

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wrong way round. He was

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supposed to vanish into the pond

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grass, with the newt looking on

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with admiration. And why

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did that silly title she'd

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mentioned, a worm above

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the wind, seemed so

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familiar. The wind

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mimicked Frog's thoughts, whipping

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in spirals, sending

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the slender reeds into

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wild pirouettes. Something

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was very off about the conversation

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with the newt, but

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Frog couldn't for the life of

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him figure out what it was.

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He heard a rustling and a

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small toad emerge from the grass.

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Frog stood up straight in his

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tuxedo and held his shiny pond

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award in the crook of his

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arm, casually, like

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a famous writer would do, in case

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this was another fan approaching.

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The toad hopped right by Frog without

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so much as a glance in his

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direction. Frog

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was transfixed, not

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by the toad, by

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the radio that blared from

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the toad's waist belt. This

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is an Awards Night edition of

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Books, Bugs, and Boulders. I'm

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Martha Malamar here with Wormley

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Pond's very own Frog, tonight's

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winner of the Pond Award for

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Excellence in Writing. Frog's best-selling novel,

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The Newt in the Night-Time, is

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already being celebrated at... The toad

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hopped away, disappearing into

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the reeds. How

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strange! Frog could

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hardly remember sitting down with

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Martha Malamar last night. Frog

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was frozen in place by the shock of

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it. The sound of the

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radio faded into the sounds of

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pond life. Frog

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forced his legs to

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unstick, and he followed the

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toad through the reeds. It

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was awkward to hop in

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his tuxedo, and the gnawing

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feeling in his tummy had worsened.

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But he knew there was something else

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besides the Pond Award. Something

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he couldn't remember. Something

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not good. Frog

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launched himself forward to

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find out the truth

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about his forgotten night.

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There is so much more to

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this story. You

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can hear the full

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episode by becoming a

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Little Stories Premium subscriber.

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Visit littlestoriespremium.com to join.

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And thank you, as

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always, for listening in. Thank

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you.