by Bill Tiepelman
Ribbit in Bloom
The Blooming Problem Floberto was not your average frog. For starters, he hated mud. Absolutely despised it. Said it squelched between his toes in a way that felt “improper.” He preferred things clean, colorful, and dramatically fragrant. While the other frogs were happily ribbiting under lily pads, Floberto dreamed of finer things—like rose petals, rainwater champagne, and just once, being serenaded by a jazz quartet during a thunderstorm. His dreams were a constant source of eye-rolls among his pondmates. “You can’t be serious, Floberto,” hissed Grelch, a grumpy old bullfrog with a croak like a flat tire. “Roses? They have thorns, you idiot.” But Floberto didn’t care. He was determined to find a bloom that matched his... ambiance. So one dew-drenched morning, he leapt from the pond’s edge and set off into the Great Garden Beyond. Legends said it was ruled by a monarch named Maribelle the Cat, who once ate a squirrel simply for looking too nervous. Floberto, with all the swagger of a frog who moisturized, was undeterred. Hours passed, and he hopped past fields of forget-me-nots, ducked under hydrangeas, and narrowly avoided becoming a bee’s accidental booty call inside a tulip. He was about to give up, mid-hop, when he smelled it. That perfume. Spicy, citrusy, the kind of smell that said, “Yes, darling, I am a bit much.” It was there—gleaming in the morning sun like a royal summons. A rose. But not just any rose. This one was massive, with petals like velvet dipped in sunset, unfurling in warm spirals of amber, gold, and just a hint of menace. She looked dangerous and fabulous. Just like Floberto liked his romantic prospects. Without hesitation, he leapt into the center, nestling himself deep in the bloom’s luxurious folds. And just like that, he vanished. From the outside, you couldn’t see him at all. It was as though the rose had swallowed him whole in an act of floral flirtation. From inside, Floberto grinned. “Finally,” he crooned, “a throne worthy of my thighs.” Unfortunately, what he didn’t know was that this rose wasn’t just a flower. It was enchanted. And not in a sweet, Disney sort of way. More like “cursed by a flirtatious horticulturist with trust issues.” The moment Floberto adjusted his bottom on a particularly plump petal, the rose shuddered. Vines curled inward. Pollen shimmered like glitter caught in a spell. And with a final burp of magical energy, Floberto the Frog was fused with the flower in a way that no amphibian therapist would ever be trained to explain. He blinked. His legs were still there. His froggy features, intact. But so were the petals, now a part of him—wrapped over his shoulders like a cape, blooming out of his back like wings, and curling around his head like a fashion-forward bonnet made by a deranged florist with dreams of Paris. “Okay,” he said to the sky. “This is not a problem. This is branding.” Somewhere in the hedges, a squirrel watching the whole thing dropped its acorn and whispered, “What the actual frog...” Crowned in Sass, Drenched in Destiny Now, some frogs might panic when they find themselves fused with an enchanted flower. Some might scream, hop uncontrollably in a flurry of pollen, or launch into frantic ribbits while demanding an audience with the nearest wizard. Not Floberto. Oh no. He adjusted his petal-collar, gave his shoulders a smug little shake to test the bounce of his newly acquired floral frill, and declared, “I am officially stunning.” After a brief moment of self-admiration and two more just for safety, Floberto did what any self-respecting frog-flower chimera with a flair for the dramatic would do: he struck a pose and waited to be discovered. Which, as fate and garden politics would have it, didn’t take long. Enter: Maribelle the Cat. Now, Maribelle wasn’t your average backyard feline. She wasn’t here for belly rubs and laser dots. No, she was the self-appointed Queen of the Garden—a sleek, smoky-gray tabby with golden eyes and a penchant for biting the heads off garden gnomes. Legend said she once held an entire standoff with a hawk and won with nothing but a sarcastic yawn and a claw swipe to the face. Maribelle didn’t rule the garden. She curated it. She edited it. Anything that didn’t suit her aesthetic was peed on or buried. So when whispers reached her twitchy ears that something “weird and colorful” was blooming in the west patch without her permission, she padded over with the slow, deliberate menace of someone who had never once been told ‘no.’ She arrived in a rustle of leaves and contempt, her tail high, her pupils narrowed like judgmental slits. When she saw Floberto—perched in his glorious rose-throne, all eyes and petals and smug self-satisfaction—she stopped. Blinked. Sat down with a thud. “What in the organic, compostable hell are you?” she drawled. Floberto, unbothered and blooming, tilted his head. “I am evolution, darling.” Maribelle sniffed. “You look like a salad bar with an identity crisis.” “Compliment accepted.” The cat’s tail flicked. “You’re not supposed to be here. This is my garden. I approve the flora. I nap beneath the ferns and occasionally murder voles under the moonlight. You’re... chaos.” Floberto gave her a slow blink that rivaled any feline. “I am art. I am nature. I am the drama.” “You’re a frog in a flower.” “I am a floral icon and I demand recognition.” Maribelle sneezed in his direction, then began licking her paw aggressively, as if washing away the very concept of his presence. “The aphids are going to unionize over this.” But as she licked and side-eyed him, something peculiar began to happen. Bees hovered near Floberto but didn’t sting. The winds shifted softly around him. Even the usually snobby tulips bent ever so slightly in his direction. The entire garden, it seemed, was paying attention. “This isn’t just enchantment,” Maribelle muttered. “This is social disruption.” She paced in a slow circle around Floberto’s rose, tail twitching like a WiFi signal in a thunderstorm. “You’ve fused plant and animal. You’ve blurred the ecosystemic binary. You’ve created something… unsettlingly stylish.” Floberto let out a demure croak. “Thank you. It’s not easy to be groundbreaking and moist at the same time.” And that’s when it happened. The change. The first true moment of transformation—not just of body, but of status. A caterpillar, previously known in the garden for his severe anxiety and refusal to molt, climbed shakily up a daisy stalk and squeaked out, “I like it.” Then a hummingbird zipped by, paused mid-air, and murmured, “Sick drip, my guy.” And then—then—a dandelion puffed itself up and whispered on the breeze: “Icon.” Maribelle stood stunned. For the first time since she’d declared herself queen (following a particularly dramatic standoff with a weed whacker), something had shifted in the power structure of the garden. Floberto hadn’t just inserted himself into her kingdom—he had begun to redefine it. “Fine,” she growled. “You want recognition? You’ll get it. Tomorrow, we hold the Garden Assembly. And if the creatures vote to keep your fancy froggy behind here... I’ll allow it. But if they don’t—if they choose order over petal-draped madness—I’ll personally punt you back into the mud, no matter how dewy your couture is.” Floberto smirked, utterly unthreatened. “Very well. I shall prepare my speech. And my shoulders. They require shimmer.” That night, Floberto didn’t sleep. Partially because the rose tickled when he inhaled too deeply, but mostly because he was planning. His speech would need to be powerful. Transformational. He needed to speak to the soul of every underappreciated weed, every overlooked earthworm, every moth who ever wanted to be a butterfly but feared the judgment of dahlias. He would become the symbol of blooming where you were defiantly not planted. And if he had to wear a floral cape and flirt with a cranky cat queen to do it, so be it. “Let the garden try to contain me,” he whispered, striking a dramatic silhouette against the moonlit rose. “Let them bloom with me... or get left in the compost pile of irrelevance.” The Assembly of Bloom and Doom Morning arrived not with birdsong, but with murmurs. Whispered pollen gossip. The buzz of gossiping bees. A nervous rustling of leaves that said, “Something is happening, and we might need snacks.” Maribelle had summoned every living thing in the garden—excluding the mole, who refused to surface without a lawyer. From the regal daffodils to the existentially confused ants, all came to the Great Garden Assembly, held (somewhat inconveniently) beneath the raspberry trellis, which was known for its uneven lighting and thorn-related lawsuits. Maribelle perched atop a rock shaped like an accidental phallus and addressed the crowd with all the weary condescension of a monarch who had been asked to host a talent show against her will. “Creatures of the garden,” she yawned, “we are gathered today to determine whether this... amphibious flower accident stays among us, or is expelled for crimes against aesthetic continuity.” Floberto cleared his throat—or, more precisely, croaked with confidence—and leapt onto a dahlia podium someone had sneakily erected with twine and optimism. His petals gleamed. His eyes shone with wet conviction. And, as if nature itself were cosigning his vibe, a single butterfly landed on his petal-shoulder like a biodegradable mic drop. “Fellow photosynthesizers and pollinators,” he began, “I come not to divide this garden, but to bloom with reckless intent.” Gasps rippled. A dandelion fainted. Somewhere in the back, a pine beetle clapped and immediately felt self-conscious. “You see,” he continued, pacing in slow, regal hops, “we have been told we must be either plant or animal. We must choose dirt or dew. Legs or leaves. But what if I told you that we could be both? That we could leap and lounge in sunlight. That we could ribbit while smelling fantastic.” The crowd was rapt. Even the cucumbers, normally disinterested in political anything, leaned forward. “I was not born into a rose. I became one. By choice. By accident. By enchantment. Who knows? But in doing so, I became more than the sum of my slime.” From the dais, Maribelle squinted. “Is this... performance poetry?” “It’s a manifesto,” hissed a monarch butterfly, who once went to a workshop in Brooklyn and wouldn’t shut up about it. Floberto flared his petals and took a deep breath. “There are creatures here who’ve never known what it means to feel seen. The aphids who dance ballet in secret. The slug who writes romance novels under a pseudonym. The worm with a crippling fear of tunnels. I am here for them.” “And also,” he added, “because I look fabulous and you can’t stop looking at me.” A chorus of high-pitched squeals erupted from a cluster of teenage mushrooms. A squirrel clutched his chest. A ladybug whispered, “Is it possible to be... into this?” Then, from the back, came a voice—slow, sticky, and devastatingly sincere. It was Gregory the Snail, infamous for his questionable love poems and trail-based calligraphy. “He made me feel... pollenated... in my soul.” The crowd broke into chaos. Vines writhed with excitement. Bees accidentally high-fived in midair. A mole did surface—but only to declare, “I’m bisexual and this frog makes me believe in reincarnation.” Maribelle hissed for silence, but it was too late. A revolution had begun. Not of swords, nor claws—but of identity. Of glamour. Of unapologetic self-expression by way of botanical mutation. And so it was done. By a landslide vote—three grubs abstained, citing “confusion”—Floberto was not only permitted to stay, but was crowned the first-ever Ambassador of Floral Weirdness and Unapologetic Vibes. Maribelle, with all the grace she could muster, approached him. “Well played,” she muttered, licking one paw and gently adjusting a petal. “You’re still unbearable, but you’re... effective.” Floberto bowed. “Thank you, your majesty. I’m like mildew—impossible to ignore, and occasionally poetic.” And so, the garden changed. Just a little. Just enough. New blooms began to sprout in strange shapes. The caterpillar finally molted and became a butterfly with bisexual lighting on his wings. The slug published his novel under the name “Velvet Wiggle.” And Maribelle, although she’d never admit it, began sleeping under the rosebush where Floberto lived—just close enough to hear his nightly affirmations. “I am moist. I am magnificent. I am enough.” And in the moonlight, the garden whispered back... “Ribbit.” Feeling enchanted by Floberto’s floral fabulousness? Bring the sass and splendor of “Ribbit in Bloom” into your world with a variety of fine art products designed to bloom on your wall—or your coffee table. Whether you're vibing with a framed print that turns heads, a sleek metal print with attitude, or a luxe acrylic print that sparkles with drama—Floberto’s got you covered. For those who prefer a more interactive experience, try the jigsaw puzzle (it's like frog-fueled therapy). Or send a smirk by mail with a sassy greeting card. However you bloom, bloom boldly.
