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You know that certain stench, as if someone just had sex in the motel room before you settled in? Like sweat and mildew and a hint of cigarette sweetness. Because at least the scent of smoke smelled way better than that particular B.O. that makes your skin crawl. Since a deep part of you knows that foul odor better than anyone else. Sick, ain't it?
That's how I knew Jennifer was cheating on me.
Curled up in a sheet cocoon, undeniably naked beneath the silk fabric. I couldn't believe she was pretending to be asleep. Knowing full well I wasn't a complete neanderthal.
I was just dropping by on my lunch to try to make amends, honestly. I shouldn't have cancelled the flight.
But in a moment of pettiness, I did. And I regretted it, offered to drive all the way to San Antonio myself- no sleep! Fruitless.
She was right, there were no flights available before the night of the concert, and it was impossible to drive 780 miles in less than 18 hours.. I think the band was Twenty One Pilots- or something I never paid too much attention, but enough to know she really liked them. And now her shot to see them was crushed because I was impulsive. And I'll give her this, it was all over the fact that I felt she was constantly nagging me... I should have paid more attention to everything...
I sat beside her, hoping she'd feel the weight of my body as it sank into the memory foam. I wasn't particularly huge, but I'd been going back to the gym. I knew she would feel my presence, and the dip her lower waist rolled into. Sighing heavily, I was surprised how empty I truly felt inside. My hand grazed the apex of her hip, and despite what I knew I still caressed her gently.
"Jennifer, I know he's here", I cleared my throat.
"I know he's currently shitting bricks in the closet".
Her eyes shot open, as soon her whole body followed. She sat straight up. Her arms reached out to not harshly, but firmly grasp at my shoulder blades while she rasped,
"Fuck Erik!".
I raised a brow, through a deadpan expression and questioned her not very enthusiastically,
"Fuck what, Jenny?", then I shrugged,
"Seems like who ever he is in there has got you covered on that."
Then she slapped me, and in that moment I knew.
Fuck you too, Jenny.
BANG! BANG!
Two 9mm shots. Two steaming holes burned into the lower half of the closet door. The ringing in both our ears matched the same tone the sound of the bullet casings bouncing off the wooden floor boards made. But his screaming was muffled as if we were wearing earmuffs.
I felt Jennifer's finger nails like daggers piercing me through the cotton button up I wore to the office that morning. In a way they were kind of grounding, I almost forgot about my Grandfather's 1945 Luger I clutched white-knuckled in my hand. With a deep sigh, I moved to stand up, her nails sliding out of my back like a sheathed blade but she was stiff like a doe caught in the headlights when I glanced at her.
I strode to the closet door that after the blast hung slightly ajar. Nudged it with the tip of my shoe, and there behold a moaning, groaning, nude-
" Fucking Tyler?".
My fucking brother. Laying there, blood seeping out of two entry wounds. One in his gut, and out the other where the bullet lodged itself into the meat of his thigh.
My stomach sank, how much betrayal could one man handle? My blood ran cold, as if I hadn't already succumbed to my fate, yet I wasn't expecting to take my own down with me. I would have never guessed it would be him... Memories flood like a jigsaw puzzle finally coming together. Every Christmas gathering, every birthday, every wake.
Tyler wheezed,
"Was that really... Grandpa Dick's gun?".
I choked on my own spit.
Jennifer began sobbing hysterically.
"Is that? That's what you're saying to me right now?", I blurted out.
Tyler stared at me as if unbothered, though wincing as he tried to shift his weight to get up. But he gave up half way and collapsed painfully back into the shoe-rack. Letting out a moan he hissed with sarcastic venom dripping off his tongue,
"What do you want me to say Erik? You caught me. I'm so sorry. Didn't think you would Ughhh.... Fucking shoot me". He inhaled as deep as he could.
"No less do so with Grandpa Dick's gun of all things", he rolled his head around in anguish whining, "Come oooon!".
I was in disbelief. Utterly shattered spiritually with nothing left but molten hate boiling in my veins. I then scowled and turned to Jennifer. If she couldn't see the flames of rage that war on invisibly around me, I was sure she saw them now. With blazing ocean eyes I stared into hers, all while I reached for the dial-phone and drug it off the vanity it sat on for years. Perfume bottles and make up clattered to the floor. Shoving it into her grasp as I growled,
"15 minutes. Then call for an ambulance, or a hearse I don't particularly care which. But not a millisecond before 15 minutes. You will know, when that door slams shut and the sound of the rusted out muffler in our Lincoln Continental tears gravel out the fucking alley way.
Understood?."
We bore into the pupils of one another. It kind of felt like it was the first time in a while that we'd truly seen each other. For what we really were.
Fucking monsters.
I tore my gaze away after that. Despite her desperate, soaking pleas, despite Tyler's blood gurgling, pitiful sounds.
I hurriedly gathered the essentials. Snatching the keys to the Lincoln off the kitchen counter, my trench coat off the clothes rack, yet not before double checking my pack of Marlboro reds were in the inner breast pocket. Then out the front door I slammed.
I couldn't tell you much that transpired while I had been packing. It was boisterous and dramatic, screaming, and dying, and just so fucking much. I suppose somewhere in the madness, my brain turned it all off.
When I came back, and well aware of my surroundings.
I landed here. Journaling into the back of an old English bible I found in a dresser's drawer while I nursed fiercely off the teat of a cold stout; Somewhere in Arizona, in a rank motel room.
God the awful smell of regret, burned holes in my lungs.
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Hi Le Frog, Smell of Regret is just that...scent and regret...and revenge. It grips you with its fast movement and surprises especially when it comes to the brother and the grandfathers gun. Family in both ways. Clever! Its pace moves you through and you read on because you just have to find out what the end holds. Well done!
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This story comes at you fast, raw, and unapologetically messy, like the emotional wreckage it portrays—and that’s a strength. L’e Frog reads like a contemporary pulp-noir revenge spiral soaked in betrayal, cigarettes, and bitter humor. It’s chaotic, violent, and deeply human in its own fractured way.
✦ What Works Really Well:
1. The Voice — Unfiltered and Scorched
From the first line, the narrator’s voice is visceral and loaded with attitude:
“You know that certain stench, as if someone just had sex in the motel room before you settled in?”
That’s a bold opener, and it works because it immediately sets the tone—emotional rot, physical disgust, and intimate violation. The narrator is jaded, sarcastic, and reeling from betrayal, and the language mirrors that inner unraveling.
2. The Twist — A Deepening Gut Punch
What could’ve been a typical “my girlfriend cheated” setup becomes significantly more compelling when it’s revealed she cheated with the narrator’s brother. That choice elevates the emotional stakes and adds tragic weight. The gun isn’t just a revenge prop—it’s a family heirloom, creating a perfect storm of generational trauma, betrayal, and masculine failure.
3. Tone and Pacing — Fast and Dirty
The pacing is tight and jagged, especially during the confrontation:
“BANG! BANG!”
“Fucking Tyler?”
The way the story ricochets between shock, sarcasm, and sorrow captures the inner chaos of betrayal. It’s a tonal seesaw that mirrors real emotional whiplash.
4. Dark Humor and Irony
Lines like:
“Didn’t think you would… Fucking shoot me. No less do so with Grandpa Dick's gun.”
...are pitch-black hilarious. The way Tyler reacts to being shot with their grandfather’s gun—more focused on the weapon than the situation—is both absurd and perfect for the tone. That gallows humor gives the story its unique flavor.
✦ What Could Be Improved:
1. Grammar, Typos, and Flow
There are numerous small issues throughout that undermine the power of the prose:
“your very own daughter might stain her cheek” → not from this story (copy/paste error?)
“not harshly, but firmly grasp at my shoulder blades while she rasped” → should be “grasped” for grammar/tense
“drag it off the vanity” → “drug it off” may be a regionalism, but it’s jarring here and sounds unintentional.
A thorough line edit would clean this up beautifully while preserving the rawness of the voice.
2. Naming and Title
The title “L’e Frog” is intriguing but feels disconnected from the narrative. There’s no reference to frogs, France, or anything that anchors the title. Unless there’s a deeper metaphor at work (like frog in boiling water), the title may need reconsideration.
3. Scene Transitions Could Be Clearer
The story has powerful beats, but sometimes the tone jumps too abruptly, making it a bit hard to follow. For instance:
“Fuck you too, Jenny.
BANG! BANG!”
While that transition is shocking (which is good), we barely have time to absorb the emotional pivot before gunfire erupts. Adding a single line of breath or dread before the shots could intensify the drama without dulling the punch.
✦ Final Thoughts:
This is a gritty, noir-stained monologue of emotional ruin, and you’ve done something bold: shown a man shattered by betrayal and self-hatred, without tidying up the wreckage. It’s bleak, bitter, and compulsively readable.
If you polish it up (cleaner grammar, possibly a tighter ending or more symbolic closing line), it could absolutely work for:
crime fiction magazines (like Shotgun Honey or Pulp Modern)
dark literary zines (like Existere or The Deadlands, if tilted a bit more surreal)
or even a voice-driven true crime fiction podcast.
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