When a character or two pops out of my head, sometimes they hang around for a while. Others become part of a bigger project which makes them disappear from here. Some drop in and don’t show themselves again, or after a lot of blogs have passed by.
Griswold and Melita seemed inextricably linked to Tale Weaver. Griswold’s language does fit well with nonsense words, and the prompt of mythical creatures. Hopefully this is a stand-alone. I’ve repeated situations and phrases from previous posts and a longer version I am working on. To give you an image of Griswold: think of big, blue Sully in Monster’s Inc. and a small character in Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are who wears a blue and white striped sweater. Griswold is somewhere in between. His fur is a funky brown and he isn’t all that big. Read and you shall see?
Oh, and Melita wonders if Griswold adopted her as friend or a pet. Either way, monsters living upstairs with a rather precocious kid keep Melita’s life from becoming mundane and boring. As her circadian rhythms match their night-time schedule, she often plays with Griswold under the waning or waxing moon. Just suspend your cynical, human beliefs and enjoy another Griswold and Melita adventure.
Slam. Thump. Thump. Thump. Bang. Bang. Bash. Crash. Well, at least Griswold knocked as he was flinging open the door to my apartment.
“Melita, Melita! Aucosin visit.” When he was excited, his grasp of humaneze dwindled while my Griswoldian vocabulary still needed refining.
“Aunt? Cousins?” He nodded in agreement, smiling his jaggedly-tooth grin, and bouncing up and down on his splay-toed feet. Gaggly-jumbly laughter bubbled out his ears; there was no mistaking when Griswold was happy. I grabbed the books he was about to swipe off the coffee table with his tail. “You say HELLO, I teach!,” his fur rippling. Skip-shuffling, clapping his hands, ears laughing.
So his aunt and cousins were coming for a visit. Not so strange, I suppose. At his drontify, (birthday party), I discovered there was an “alternate” community, some of whom led mundane, human-like lives. Visits from relatives a part of such a “normalized” life.
I groaned. This would mean Mrs. G. would be cooking up double batches of her “primordial stew.” The smell of which was so horrendous, it couldn’t stand to be in the same room with itself. The smell slurped down the stairs, burbling under my door. I never asked Griswold what was for supper.
There would be dancing, threatening to bring down my ceiling. The music was a combination of squeaky hinges, injured bag pipes, squealing tires, with Barry Manilow and Wayne Newton types crooning in the background. Dancing required a lot of stomping, and leaping. There are some difficulties having monsters in the upstairs apartment.
So, I started to learn the traditional family greeting. Griswold found this extremely funny. Chuffle-chortling out his ears, he would shout: “LOL. LOL.” He hadn’t learned ROFL yet. The helloing dance was no better; my feet got tangled in each other and thus I gruff-grimbled when I should grimble-gruffed. At least Griswold was enjoying my misery.
Slam. Thump. Thump. Thump. Crash. Griswold extended his neatly groomed paw. “Time to go. Hurry. Hurry.”
That explained the strange, even for the Griswolds, noises earlier. Mrs. G. dragging him into a bath, a kind of Formula race car coupled with a jackhammer. His reaction to his fur being brushed out, a chiffle-shiffle of shrieks. Then a typical Griswold temper tantrum with growly, grambling, gnaraling foot stomping, and tail discontent, as his mother told him to wear the dreaded horizontally striped blue and white sweater.
I took his paw, avoiding his now thoroughly scrubbed long talons, and let him bounce me down the stairs. Bump. Buffle. Bump.
The fullest of full moons wrapped the back garden in silvery light. Our vegetable garden looked neat and orderly at night. I taught Griswold the difference between a tomato plant and a weed. He decided, after tasting the first ripe tomato, he preferred the weeds.
The Griswolds were assembled at the foot of the garden. Aunt G. had to be Mrs. G’s sister. The resemblance was striking, even if Mrs. G.’s fur was green, her sister’s bright orange. The cousins ranged in size from small to rather large. Same pointy ears, same swishy tail.
Griswold kept pushing me forward. And, in a vote of confidence, he hid behind me. So, I do the fling-fungal dance steps without tripping, and then proudly announce: “Gontorlic Trubutions!!!!! .”*
“No. No,” Griswold whispered. “Melita got all wrong.”!
“What did I actually say?”
“I grate your private . . .”
No wonder his cousins sniggled and his aunt looked distressed. At least, I wouldn’t be invited for dinner.
* Gontorlic Trubutions if pronounced properly means “Greetings and Tickle Toe.” Go figure!
Written for Tale Weaver # 17: Making Sense of the Nonsense: Gontorlic Trubutions
@ Phylor 2015