Image© Mara Eastern (Used with permission)
Thump. Bagpipe wheeze. Trundle. Pot lid clang. Scuddle and scurry. Kazoo scales up. Kazoo scales down. Swish and splish. Dancing the two-step slay-foot shuffle.
Noxious, toxic-smelling aroma of rotten bananas, sulfur, burning rubber, dead flowers, compost, cheap red wine left in the sun for days, cardamom and allspice. Primordial stew from hades.
Language a series of grumps, gargles, grimaces, grinding teeth, growling, and grink.
Singing like fingers on a chalk board or blasts of static. Music like crash of bikes falling in a row while two tomcats wail and a lounge lizard croons. Dancing like jack-hammering to a ska beat.
By now you might be wondering if I have gone mad again. No. Just describing what goes on above, not in, my head.
You’ve met the Griswolds. You haven’t yet? Well, then you need to realize that when I say the Griswolds are like having monsters as neighbours, it’s no joke or exaggeration. They are. A splendid family of 3: Mr. G.; Mrs. G.; and Griswold who has adopted me as a friend or a pet. Still not sure which.
My circadian rhythms match theirs. Griswold is learning humaneze quite well, though my Griswoldian remains rough – often embarrassingly using the wrong word or phrase or dance step. Dance steps are important in greeting, don’t ya know.
Griswold and I spend full moons lying on our backs, watching the sky-blanket unfold. Like June’s Strawberry or Rose Moon. But that’s outdoors, not behind a door.
Inside – well Griswold is an assault team. Bang (his door). Thump three times loudly (stairs landing). Melita. Melita. Melita. Crash (Griswold is excited and forgets his manners). Thud times three (on my door.) Groan of hinges as he then pushes the door open. Usually, he arrives happy, tail-bouncing, cuff-chirp-chortling laughter bubbling out his ears, clapping hands, jumping from splay-toed foot to foot.
Even an unrambunctious Griswold is a danger. One swish of his tail, and living room table is wiped clean. A hand-clap hop too powerful, books tumble off their shelves. One of the reasons why Griswold outdoors was more pleasurable. I’d heard Griswold squalling and squeamishing with his mother, so I was expecting the crash and the sob.
“What’s up?” I asked a dejected Griswold.
“Mad and sad. Sad and mad,” with a foot stomp and a wail.
“Mad. Mother not let Griswold blog. Sad. Mother not let Griswold blog.” Griswold’s tail was in a frownish shape. He had a habit of talking tales with his tail.
Through connections, I acquired some neat tech for Griswold, opening the human (and unfortunately the inhumane) world to him. He loved WordPress, Tumblr and Blogspot. At first, he only teched down here, but gradually, he took some of his “toys” up stairs.
Mrs. G. had conveyed her disapproval by brewing a particularly stenchy primordial stew with an “aroma” that clung to everything, including me, for days. EPA and the FBI thought I was part of a toxic waste dumping scheme. Apparently, it was Griswold’s favourite meal.
“Not let you read blogs?” I asked, wondering what sites he might have stumbled or tumblred across.
“No. Write blog. Griswold’s Blog.”
“Now, Griswold, why would someone read it?” I asked, sighing internally, not sure where this conversation was going.
“You read it Melitta,” Griswold said in a hopeful voice.
“Of course. But why blog?”
The red-rimmed eyes peeking out from his tear-wet fur got a tiny sparklet back. “Because we have fun. Go on adventures. Grow gardens. DYI lawn swings.”
At this point, I knew it was going to be a long night – which was fine. I don’t wake up til 5 pm at the earliest – a good two hours before Griswold. First, he had to show me any blogs he bookmarked or followed. I needed to know what he was most interested in. And what to avoid. Second, we’d discuss blogging etiquette. Third, we’d make up names for ourselves, our street, our neighbours. Fourth, I’d help him set up a blog. Take that Mrs. G. Got anything more toxic that Griswold’s Gruel?
For other Griswold tales see:
There are at least another 5 Griswold & Melita tales than remain unfinished or were not quite right for the intended prompt.
For an idea of what Griswold is like, think of Maurice Seldak’s Where the Wild Things Are. Griswold is a small monster, orangish fur, tufts of hair on the tippy-top of his ears, amethyst eyes, large paws with long talons, swishy tail longer than he is tall.
Melita, well, she’s me
wRitTen bye ME (grisW0ld) Melita help for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie’s Tale Weavers # 69: bEhinD cl0s3d door5.
So0n I haVe 0wn bloG – secr3t yeT. grisWO1d