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Purple Frog (Nasikabatrachus sahyadrensis), female, family Nasikabatrachidae, endemic to the Western Ghats of India

Adult frog described in 2003, though the juvenile frog was described in 1917. (Though, of course, the adult frog was known by local people).

This frog spends most of its life underground, and emerges to mate during monsoon rains.

Unlike many burrowing frogs, which emerge to feed above ground, this species feeds on termites underground (as well as feeding above).

like. nothing clicked into place, there was no punchline or lesson learned, it was just "anyway everybody died. there is no solution, the monster is unbeatable byeeeee"

I dunno, it's just like, what was the point of any of that? a monster that can appear anywhere, do anything, and can't be harmed... it's just too much, like you can't go anywhere unexpected with that, that story only ends one way. nothing anybody says or does or is has any influence over the ending, so nothing goes anywhere, and there's no reason it couldn't have just taken whatever it wanted right away.

and why bother spending all that time trying to possess someone anyway when you already physically exist and are both immortal and all powerful and can take any form?

ugh it just makes every element feel so contrived.

“The first rule of love,” her mother says, voice crackling over the phone, “is to never take more than they can give.”

Finola’s eyes dart to the shoebox under her bed and then back out the dorm window. Her room is on the second floor this year and she can see more of the trees than she can see of the grassy space preceding the dining hall. “I know, Mom.”

“Remember.” Her mother’s voice is sharp and Finola can almost see her heavy, thick brows lowering until shadows cover her eyes. “No clothing. No bags. Never any jewelry.”

Finola wraps her free arm around her waist and closes her eyes. The light breeze rolling through the window smells like eucalyptus and mint. Her mouth waters. “I know, Mom.”

“Those are the big things,” her mother says, “but remember that too many of the small things can amount to a big thing.”

The shoebox under the bed gleams in a stray ray of light. Finola licks her lips. “I know, but—I need something. I have to. I feel like she’ll disappear if I don’t.” The words are inadequate for the sick fear in her stomach each time she loses sight of her. The horrible certainty that something bad will happen if she’s not by her side. She rubs a hand over her mouth.

Her mother’s tongue clicks. “That’s old instincts, Finola. Fight it. You don’t want your father and I to pull you out of school, do you?”

The memory of watching her high school fade out of sight surfaces and, in that moment, she’s sixteen again. She can feel her heart beating too fast, the scream ripping out of her throat, the way the ropes chafed her wrists. She can smell her first love’s perfume, cloying peach, in the air. She can feel their separation like a death in the pit of her stomach, radiating up into her chest, her throat, her head.