The Cricket and the Frog

Deep within the heart of the forest, where wild creatures roamed and insects crept through every crevice, lived two unlikely champions: a cricket and a frog. Now, before you rush to judgment, just hear me out—for theirs is not a tale of weakness, but of extraordinary courage.

In this forest, there was a sacred place known to all: the Pond of Sacrifice. It wasn’t exactly the kind of name that inspired a warm welcome, but trust me—it was something remarkable. The pond held the purest, clearest water in the entire forest. Yet none dared to drink from it, nor swim in its depths. The reason was etched into the nearby Tree of Life, a towering, ancient sentinel of bark and wisdom.

The carving read: Each spring, a creature must offer a sacrifice of what it holds most dear.

Some gave their cherished belongings. Others, their children. And some, unable to bear the loss, offered themselves. The predators, however, had it easier. They brought sacrifices not of their own—but of others. None more notorious than Skal, the great black panther, and his bloodthirsty mate, Tia.

When they arrived, silence fell. Parents wept. The cries of mourning echoed through the trees.

“Ah, shut it! You all know what must be done,” Skal roared.

“I’m sorry—but it’s your babies or mine. And I intend to keep mine,” Tia snarled, her cold stare sharp enough to pierce bone.

The smaller creatures could do nothing. The insects, living lives that were nearly sacrificial by nature, never understood the point of it all. That is, until one insect—a curious and defiant cricket—dreamed of something more.

A world without chaos or cruelty. A life free from fear.

“You’re monsters!” the cricket shouted, his voice tiny but full of fire.

Skal dropped the spider monkey he had clenched in his jaws. It hit the ground like a ragdoll, the final cry of its mother fading into the wind.

“Who said that?” Skal bellowed.

“I did!” came the cricket’s proud response.

Skal snarled, scanning the ground until he spotted the bold little bug by his paw. He laughed.

“A cricket? One of my cubs could squash you for fun.”

But then came another voice.

“He’s not alone! You smelly cat! Everyone knows it’s Tia who does all the hunting.”

Skal froze. The air turned hot. Tia rolled her eyes and licked blood from her paw.

“Oh no... You’ve really done it now,” she sighed.

“WHO SAID THAT?! You dare insult me—me! The king of this forest!” Skal roared so loudly the trees trembled.

The animals scattered—except one.

A frog.

“What is this? The Day of the Misfits?” Skal growled, unimpressed.

But the cricket and the frog stood their ground, side by side. They didn’t know exactly what they were doing, but they had one goal: no more sacrifices.

Tia stepped forward.

“So, you want us to offer our own children instead? Is that it?” she hissed.

The cricket glanced nervously at the frog. Taking on Skal was suicide. Facing Tia too? That was a nightmare with a heartbeat.

Skal, grinning, stepped aside. This was Tia’s specialty. She said just one word:

“Run.”

The cricket leapt onto the frog’s back. It was a slimy, bumpy ride—but the frog could hop like no other.

Tia and Skal gave chase, claws slashing and jaws snapping. But the frog’s slick skin made him impossible to grip—like chasing a bar of soap in the rain.

Soon they reached a river, swirling and wild.

“Nowhere left to hop,” Tia smirked. “Let’s make this quick.”

She lied, of course. Nothing about Tia was ever quick or painless.

“The cricket can go,” Skal added. “I hate bugs. Funny story, I once met a lion who ate bugs with a warthog and a singing meerkat. Weird trio. Never got it.”

Neither the cricket nor the frog were listening. They nodded to one another, turned around, and slapped their tiny behinds at the two predators—just before diving into the river.

Skal and Tia roared in frustration as the river carried their prey away.

The cricket and the frog had survived.

They awoke on a strange bank, somewhere far from home. Before them stood a bizarre creature, bulky as a bear but walking upright, with sweat soaking a tan shirt down his back. Hairy arms, beady eyes, and in one hand, a long stick with string like a spider’s thread.

“What is that?” asked the cricket.

“That... is a man,” said the frog. “And trust me—he's worse than Skal and Tia combined.”

The man moved suddenly—yanking the string, pulling something heavy from the water.

A massive fish emerged, hooked through its mouth.

“Please, don’t hurt me!” the fish begged.

The man only smiled—angelically—and ripped the hook free, tearing the fish’s face. Then he reached for a knife, slicing it open, gutting it alive. The fish’s cries faded as he was hung over a fire.

The cricket was frozen in horror.

“Who could do such a thing?” he asked.

“Someone who smiles while they destroy,” replied the frog. “Survival of the fittest. And that fish... wasn’t fit.”

They watched, silent and shaken, as the man feasted—teeth sinking into charred flesh with blissful abandon—then drove away, never to be seen again.

The next morning was beautiful.

But the hunt was far from over.

Skal and Tia were still out there.

The cricket and the frog stuck to the river—it was safe. Cats didn’t swim. But there was another reason. A painful one.

Years ago, Skal and Tia had a son. Grim. Born to rule, fearless and fierce.

He had the eyes of his mother and the strength of his father. By his teen years, he had already made ten kills in one night.

He died chasing a spider monkey named Gatsby.

He was warned not to chase near the river—but pride drove him forward. Gatsby swung across with ease. Grim tried to follow, but the muddy ground betrayed him. He slipped, fell, and dangled from a rock.

Gatsby offered him a vine.

“We’ll pull you up! Just grab it!”

“By monkeys? Never!”

Grim fell to his death.

Skal watched it all.

“You killed him!” he roared.

Since that day, they’ve hunted spider monkeys endlessly—Gatsby most of all.

But for now, the cricket and the frog will have to do.