What Pegman Saw: Penthouse

The view cost and arm and a leg. Ok maybe just a hand and a leg, suspended in mid-air, but it was worth it. And I’m not finished yet; I’m putting a garden up here: Flowers, vegetables and a bee hive for pollination. Then I’ll add a five-piece rock-jazz-funk-fusion band and a barbeque. Why not a pool too?, with a submerged pool table so guests can get snookered under-water. Afer the bar’s been been open several hours, drunken guests are welcome to play honey-raid, which is initiated by lifting the lids of the bee hives. Some will run screaming and leap over the edge, others will fall into the pool, escaping the bees only to drown miserably behind the eight-ball.


© Grumpy Axolotl.
Written for What Pegman Saw
Image: Google StreetView

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Teapots

10 minutes of free-writing. No editing, save for fixing spelling-mistakes (most of which were made by iOS Auto-incorrect).


People walk around teapots. There is nothing wrong with that. Nothing to be scared or really, but they often skirt around the edges as if there is something sinister afoot As if maybe the lid is about to pop off and a hairy arm should shoot out and grab them, dragging them down into the bottomless pits of despair and endless cups of tea. Enter Bob, Bob is a dingbat. Bob enters teapot. That’s right. Off with the lid and he jumps straight in.  A coffee plunger is far more dangerous. Imagine hopping in to a coffee plunger . There’s plenty to drink,but then some smart-ass puts the lid on. Is it just me, or does the room seem to be getting shorter? They should execute criminals by coffee plunger. Squishy squashy. If they erect a giant plunger on a scaffold in the square behind the coffee-cart, it can serve a double purpose. People will come from miles around . “Hey let’s go the square and have an espresso while we read the paper and watch Roger-The-Rabid-Rapist get plunged”

Back to bob, well .. What can I say? He’s swimming in tea. It’s slowly tanning his hide. Have you ever been swimming in the sea when it’ full of seaweed. It’s horrible! Seaweed is so slimy, but one-time, we were staying at the beach and there must have been a storm out at sea, because masses of sea-weed washed up. Not just the small frilly stuff either. Great swathes of leathery plant, several meters long. My Mom is incredible right … She takes some of the big seaweed and turns it into sandals. Sandals, from seaweed. I wore them up the road to the store and back, and on the beach, but when I went into the water they went all limp and slimy and lost their shape, returning to drifting seaweed. What can Bob do in his tea-pot? There must have been in a great storm, considering all the tea-weed. Hey Bob?, Bob?, oh. Bob is living up to his name. Damn.


© Grumpy Axolotl.

Tantrum

I really enjoy writing, and I suck at it. I hate most of what I have written. I hate what I’m working on at the moment and I hate the stuff I haven’t even written yet. Actually, what I really hate is that nothing I write is as good as I think it should be, and the icing on that shit-cake is that I don’t know how to fix it.

But I’m not going to stop. Because I know the only way I can get better is to write, write, write, write, and then write some more.

I’ve realised something. I’ve been too nice. I want people to read my blog, so I hold it all in and don’t end up writing the things I want to write. That sux. It’s not good for me or for you. 

I have some stories on the way. I don’t expect anyone to like them, but I can’t go on hiding out of fear that people are going to think I’m some sick weirdo and unfollow me if I publish the stories I want to write. Fear may be merely a product of the mind, but publishing stuff is fucking scary! People read, make assumptions. Well, if I suck, so be it. I need to stop letting fear hold me back. I need to grow.

Writing this has made my cry a little. So sue me.

A big thank-you to everyone who has read, like or commented on my work. You are gold. No-one likes preaching to an empty church.

Smithers, release the axolotls!


© Brave Axolotl

Frustration

The blank page leapt out from the computer screen and slapped him across the face. Alt least, it felt like it had. He’d been daydreaming again. Doodling. He always had a tendency to draw on himself when he was naked. Being naked was supposed to help with the uh, the thing. Hemmingway used to write naked, or was it Hugo? Someone famous. The top of his right thigh bore the fruits of a brown felt-tip pen. There was a skull and crossbones, a race car, a topless women with impossibly huge knockers. He put the pen down and forced his hands back to the keyboard. He was ready to write now, but the story wasn’t coming. It was supposed to be a horror. But he didn’t understand horror. Oh, he’d read the class-notes, but it just didn’t feel natural. Why couldn’t they have a fantasy assignment, or at least the option. He’d rather write about fire-breathing dragons and little green goblins dancing in their caches of ill-gotten gold. Well maybe he could get away with trolls and dwarves if they got loose with their axes and some heads rolled. And it could be set in a castle. That’s a good start. His fingers wriggled. “The night was Dark and stormy” appeared on the screen. “Oh holy fuck!” He yelled. “Son of a bitch! To hell with this, and to hell with Poe’s Raven in a fucking pear-tree!.”  

Back at the computer with a strong cup of coffee. Extra sugar. Perhaps he should bang out some poetry first. Simple verse. He wasn’t too bad at that, although he had nothing on the young brunette at the night-class. She had a rare talent and made it look so easy. Pity she had a boyfriend, or was it a girlfriend? Her poems were not about sex; they were about the most mundane things – Bricks, teapots, a pack of playing-cards – And yet they could only be about sex; when she spoke of tea-pots, the words seemed to drip off her sweet quivering lips like erotic pearls of moisture; the lyric cadences rising and falling like her breasts. When she spoke of playing-cards, her voice seemed to emanate from some dimension of orgasmic bliss. Building up. Swelling. He was masturbating now. “Damn – this isn’t helping!”

The coffee wasn’t helping. Pacing the room wasn’t helping. Cursing the Norse Gods had little effect. Ditto, the Greek Gods. He didn’t have the nerve to try summoning a demon, although that wasn’t a bad idea: Demons were pretty horrible. I wonder how the brunette is doing. Sitting in front of the computer again. He cleared the screen and the blank page seemed to sneer at him. Typing. “The brunette was dark and sultry” materialised. “Oh for fucks-sake.” He imagined her sitting in front of her own computer. Did she get frustrated? Did she ever find it hard.  Words just seemed to pour out of her effortlessly. Did she get undressed to write? Her skill is so … her skin is so clear and she speaks golden light as the long hair cascades off her shoulders rolling down the slopes of her breasts mmmmmm. His hand had slipped off the keyboard again. Well, Fuck it –  may as well finish one thing tonight.  


© Grumpy Axolotl

Too Late

I got to see my father a few days before he died. I got there the day after he lost the ability to speak.

He’d have made age 65 if he’d had just a few more days.

Life can be a cunt sometimes.


© Grumpy Axolotl
Finite