Viva Jacquelina! by L. A. Meyer

shallow water and despair of my fate.
    Peep peep, peep peep,
the tads go,
peep peep peep!
    I’ll let you go, Brother Bullfrog, on one condition,
says I, givin’ the rascal a good squeeze such that his eyes bug out even more.
    And dat is, Sister Girl?
he wheezes, unable to draw breath.
    THAT YOU TELL THEM TO SHUT THE HELL UP AND GET OUTTA MY HEAD!
    Peep peep, peep peep . 
.
 .
    Awright, quiet down now, chillun,
says Brother Bullfrog, and the swamp goes silent.
    I gently return Big Daddy to his pond and watch him as he kicks slowly back to his log, not hurrying a bit, oh no, as that is plainly not his style. He then climbs back upon it, in the same spot where I first laid eyes on him.
    Looks like you won, Brother,
I says, still on my knees in the water with my head down.
And I’ll prolly be joinin’ the heavenly band ’fore you, as I am feeling mighty weak right now, and I am gettin’ ready to slough off dis mortal coil and go be with the angels.
    Now, Sister Jacky, don’t despair o’ dis world jus’ yet,
says the Bullfrog, fixing me with his googly eyes and smilin’ all ’cross his face.
Y’know, under the flat rock yo see over dere? Yeah, dat big shiny black one . 
.
 .
    I looks over and sees the one he means.
    Now, under dere you just might find some crawdaddies—yep, the very same smartass crawdaddies what have been pinching at Big Daddy’s webbed feet after I told ’em not to, and you know dat ain’t right, no. See you later, Sister Girl, you keep well now, y’hear?
    Â 
    Later, as I trudge along, my mind now clear, I spot some more of those mushrooms and I pick them. I don’t eat any more of ’em, oh no. What I do is spread them out on rocks to dry when I stop for a rest, and it don’t take long for them to shrivel and dry up real small, so’s I can stash them in my bag. Specimens for Dr. Sebastian, I tell myself. But who knows?
    And, as I push on toward Madrid, I wonder just how much of the last hour was real. I dunno . . . But what I do know is that three nice crawfish tails now rest in my belly, giving me some sustenance, and three well-sucked heads now lie empty on the bank of the river.
    Thanks, Big Daddy.

Chapter 12
    I enter the city of Madrid on its southeastern side, still following the River Manzanares. The banks of the river change from earth and mud to the stone walls of a canal as it wends its way into the heart of the city. I would find it quite beautiful if I weren’t still so damned hungry.
    I eventually come to a large, open plaza that lies along the shore, and I see tall cathedrals in all directions, busy streets with many market stalls lining them. There are charcoal braziers smoking in some of the stalls and very good smells come from them. I am about to fall to my knees, ready to beg for something, anything, to eat. It’s been three days since the crawfish and they are now but a sweet memory.
    No. You have come too far in this life. You will not beg. You have no whistle, you have no guitar, you have no paints, no brushes, you have nothing you can sell . 
.
 . nada . 
.
 . But no, there is one thing that you can sell, and that is your body, and that is what you shall sell . 
.
 . and you will do it now.
    I duck into an alley and quickly turn back into a girl—black skirt and stockings on, vest in proper place over my white shirt, wig on head, with mantilla over that. Done.
    When I had first come to the plaza, I had noticed an artist sitting before an easel, painting a picture of the river and the flowering bushes that grow along the banks. He is pretty good, I notice. He is wearing a white smock and a floppy straw hat to keep the sun from his eyes.
    I go up to him.
    â€œYour pardon, Señor,” I say, hands clasped behind me, all demure and respectful.
    He looks up at me, suspicion writ plain on his face.
    â€œWhat do you want, girl? I am busy.”
    â€œMy name