The Ubermensch

flash fiction

While out on the boat, my dad pointed out a frog resting on my foot. As if recognizing its discovery, the frog leaped from its place and scrambled around the front the vessel. It jumped about until it finally climbed under the railing.

Its movements were so desperate; the animal took each jump as if it were making a life or death decision. Watching this creature haphazardly fleeing from an unknown enemy in an alien environment, I was keenly aware of my superiority, but no matter how sure I was of this, how completely I understood and could articulate this simple fact, I could engender no indifference for the frog. I could understand what it meant to flee for your life.  I could feel its desperate panic.

But once again, it was just a frog, a simple amphibian among millions with no distinguishing merit, and despite all of his panic, the animal would never know the actual peril he had encountered.  He could never truly understand how far he had wandered. All it would take is for the frog to carelessly jump from the boat and he would be gone. Nothing would miss him; nothing would feel his absence or long for his return. He would be utterly and completely lost in the endless liquid limbo he found himself surrounded by, and all that would remain of him would be my cursory memory, soon forgotten or misplaced. An absurd end to an absurd life.