The well was perfect. It had always been perfect. There were two snakes. This kept things manageable. There was also a reliable rotation of the same seven insects. This kept things fed. The frogs called this stability. The snakes called it lunch planning. Nobody asked the snakes.

One frog climbed out.

She came back glowing. It wasn’t literal, though the upper world had softened her eyes. She told them about puddles with invisible edges. She described plants that were neither brown nor dying. She also mentioned an insect she couldn’t name because no word for it existed at the bottom of a well.

The other frogs listened politely.

Then they returned to the snakes.

“At least,” said one, adjusting himself comfortably against the damp stone, “we know what the snakes want. Out there, who knows what wants you.”

This was considered wisdom. It was repeated often. It was eventually carved into nothing. No one down there carved things. However, it had the energy of something carved.

The explorer frog tried again. Then a few others began climbing. They moved slowly and painfully. They were cheered from above and jeered from below. Their knuckles whitened on the wet stone. The deep frogs watched with their mouths open. Their expression was the kind that shows a person is both appalled and desperate for something to happen.

Something happened.

The lead climber, gripping the rim with everything she had, lost control of something else entirely.

Gravity, indifferent as ever, did the rest.

The recipients croaked. They thrashed. They looked for someone to hold accountable. The climbers, pressed against the sides, were untouched.

The deep frogs, having swallowed their part of enlightenment, settled back into the silt.

They did not climb after that.

But they did, for a while, look up.

Which frog are you? And please, for everyone’s sake – look before you open your mouth.