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Artichoke Norman hated being a garden frog. It was all the doing of the Psycho Wicked Witch of the West who out of sheer spite because he had spurned her advances had turned him into a ceramic frog. Not only that but she had caught him with his most gormless face destined forever to have the look at the startled frog looking into the approaching headlights.
The Psycho Wicked Witch of the West was an ugly woman. Even in disguise as a princess she was hideous and what was worse, was, she knew it. If she looked at anything long enough there was the danger of paint peeling from nearby walls and small children being traumatised with life long nightmares.
But Artichoke Norman had found himself in the garden of a grey haired woman who tested his patience as well. He hadn’t quite understood the notion that as a garden frog patience was all he had.
He found himself in the garden of a grey haired woman who kept everything neat and tidy including him. Once a week she’d pick him up and give him a jolly good dusting and scrub all over. By all over he meant all over. The indignity of it all he thought as she’d turn him over and gently rub the little bumps between his back legs, the sensations were amazing but as he was ceramic on the outside there was no way she would ever know what impact she was having on the inside him. All it did was generate memories of better days when the girls in his neighbourhood were more than willing to experiment and play with all Artichoke had to offer. He had, he was told a lot to offer.
Once she’d finished with his underbelly she’d chat to him about her garden, her plans to put a few every greens in here and a few succulents in there. Artichoke couldn’t have given a rats to be honest, it was all the same to him though he did dislike the ferns growing over his face and tickling his nose, which was irritating.
At least his owner moved him about the garden.
It was now autumn and the leaves were turning in colour which he thought was always pretty to behold but soon he knew the winter would be setting in and it was likely this year like every other year so far that the Psycho Wicked Witch of the West would call by and laugh at his predicament of being either up to his neck in snow or sitting in an pool of ice, his rear end numb from the cold.
She’d come by, look him up and down, lick her lips, cackle as only she could and ask him if he had changed his mind about becoming her life lover. Inside his ceramic shell Artichoke would vomit, never a pleasant thought or action and refused to engage with her. He was happy to be freezing his tiny bumps off in the cold. It was in the winter that his owner became his one great love. She’d come out, pick him up and gently rinse off his rear end with warm water warming up what he had left of his precious bits.
Artichoke was determined to never succumb to the Psycho Wicked Witch of the West under any circumstances. And he didn’t. The little old grey haired lady who tended to him was far better than the alternative. After all despite his ceramic nature inside he was alive and she knew how to keep him that way.