Tag Archives: monkey

Monkeys and Puppies

29 Apr

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I heard a while ago that some monkeys will kidnap puppies – not as food – to raise them as pets. Supposedly, it’s a symbiotic relationship, where the baboons will feed and protect the puppy, which will grow up loyal to the primates. The dogs then provide protection for the baboons, when they grow larger. Now, it’s probably not (strictly speaking) a ‘True’ story. But it’s a good one. And it set my brain off on a fun adventure.

Woof woof!  Eek! Oop! Eek!  Ruff!

Like a lot of my creative friends and colleagues, I have trouble going “back to the well” for sustenance. It’s a lot easier to bang my head against a wall, I guess, than to withdraw, review, and reflect. Or, at least, that’s how it feels. I know how to smash myself against the wall – I do that every day. Going “back to the well” is scary, on some level. I’m giving up direct control and letting the spirit of inspiration carry me.

But, of course, I’ve gotta do it. Eventually, I’m going to collapse from all this wall-smashing anyway. It’s wiser (and easier on the head) to take a break. My favorite way to recharge the creative energies is to play. Playing is something I can understand. There’s no risk, there’s nothing to lose, it’s just a fun time in my mental playground.

With the baboons and puppies idea, there is no shortage of toys to play with. If you extrapolate from the pattern thus far – from lesser primates, to humans – what do you suppose a further extension might be like? Monkeys are to us, what we are to… what? Some super-primate, alien species maybe? What if our first contact with sentient, alien life-forms is like that? They would probably be very condescending.

My brain smooshes these ideas together and it is pretty revealing and fun. If animals start domesticating other animals, maybe they’ll get a head start down the evolutionary road. Could dogs be the spark of sapience? Maybe dogs are messengers from our alien space brothers, sent here to elevate us from our common monkey-hood? Yeah, that’s kind of nice.

The odd-shaped puzzle pieces of story and weirdness start to click into place. Ideas for fantasy, horror, pulp adventure, and science fiction all compete for available brain energy. Settings, characters, and conflicts play out in my thoughts. It’s a good feeling, keeping the juices flowing – the pot simmering.

Will I ever DO anything with this? No, probably not. But that’s not the point. This is a lesson that I have to learn, over and over again: Relax, play, have fun. I forget and fall into the rut of feeling like it’s all work. Soon, it feels normal to bang my head into a wall, every day. It’s so ridiculous, especially when it is so easy to bring myself around. All you need to do is give yourself permission to chase those phantoms and see where they take you.

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Unnamed Monkey Tale

5 Apr

The following is part of a series of stories I refer to as my Wonder Tales. They usually involve a younger protagonist, a strange situation, and (I hope) some humor. I wrote this one using the same prompts Patrick used for his Dr. Zero & Mr. X: Codename Monkey story. 

 

One night, while Milo Zephyr was watching a nature show about aardvarks, he turned to his mother on the couch and asked, “Mom, can I get a dog?”

His mother shook her head. “No.”

“Why not?” Milo asked.

“Because they sniff you in embarrassing places.”

“How about a cat?”

His mother wrinkled her nose. “No.”

“Why not?” Milo asked again.

“Have you ever smelled a cat fart? They’re horrible.”

“OK, what about a goldfish?”

His mother shuddered. “No.”

“Why not?” Milo asked, without much hope.

“Because they freak me out, with their bug eyes and breathing underwater and such.”

Milo decided to try one more time.

“Can I have a monkey?”

His mother, who worked for NASA and was the smartest person Milo had ever known, looked at him for a long moment and then simply said, “We’ll see.”

Two weeks later, Milo had all but forgotten about wanting a pet. It was his tenth birthday and all his friends came over for a huge party. They played the Bite My Arm game, knocked down the sneaker-shaped piñata filled with sock-shaped candy, and ate the entire bottom half of his layer cake. But after everyone left, Milo’s mother sat him down at the kitchen table and gave him one more large box, wrapped in comic pages from the newspaper.

Milo opened the present slowly and carefully. Inside, underneath the bubble wrap, was a silver monkey statue. Milo put it on the table so he could see it better and his mother reached out to press a switch in the back of the statue, pushing it up and to the right. The monkey suddenly came to life, cried out in a yowl that sounded a little like gears grinding, and scampered up to Milo’s shoulder, where it sat with its long metal tail wrapped around Milo’s neck.

“Now, there is only one rule for this machine monkey,” his mother said, her face stern. “You must not switch him on unless I’m home. Ever.”

“But why not?” Milo asked, laughing because the monkey was digging in his hair for nits.

“Because machine monkeys are still wild animals and can be dangerous,” his mother said, but she was smiling as she said, chuckling at the monkey as it did a little dance on top of Milo’s head, and Milo barely heard her.

The next day, Milo’s mother had to go to work, even though it was a Sunday. Milo watched cartoons, played with the new toys his friends had given him, and danced to really loud music in his pajamas, but by the early afternoon, he was bored. The machine monkey sat on the kitchen table, where he had left it the night before when he’d gone to bed. It seemed to call to him every time he walked by, screeching in its metallic voice in his head. Finally, he gave in. He pressed the switch on the back, pushing it up and to the right.

The machine monkey shook itself, then blinked at him with its artificially beady eyes. It crawled onto his shoulder and Milo took it into the living room. He sat down on the couch and the monkey capered down the cushions, landing ungracefully in a heap beside him. Milo laughed and reached out to put it back on his shoulder, but the monkey was already moving again. Before he knew it, it was on the floor. Then it was across the room. Then it was on top of his mother’s bookcases.

“Come back here!” Milo called out, but the monkey ignored him. It had discovered his mother’s aloe vera plant on the top shelf, and with a vibrating squeal, it dug both metal paws into the dirt and started flinging it around the room.

“Stop that!” Milo yelled, but the monkey wasn’t listening. It slid down the shelf and raced into the bathroom. Milo heard the water turn on and he went after it. The monkey was in the tub, splashing ice cold water all over the small room.

“No! Bad machine monkey!” Milo said, but the monkey was already slipping between his legs into the hallway. Milo turned the water off and ran after it.

In the kitchen, the monkey made a bee line for the stove. Milo came in just as it lit the hand towel on fire and tossed it on the tile floor. Milo stepped forward and stamped it out quickly. Then he lunged for the monkey.

“Stop! I mean it!” The monkey paid no attention, climbing up on top of the cabinets and chittering at Milo. It sounded like a computer laughing, a strange monotone “ha ha ha ha.” Milo reached for the phone.

“Mom? I…you told me not to, but-“

“What? Who is this? I’m in the wind tunnel. I can’t hear-“ The phone roared like a lion and then went dead. Milo hung up, wondering what he should do now. Suddenly, an idea came to him.

“Stay.” He pointed at the machine monkey as he walked backwards out of the kitchen. As soon as the monkey was out of sight, he turned and ran down the hall to his mom’s home laboratory. He was back in the kitchen in a matter of seconds, carrying the long prosthetic arm his mom had built for the space shuttle the year before. It was as long as Milo was tall, with a lever on one end to work the clamp at the other. This was only a working model, of course; the real arm was bigger than a bus. Milo hefted the arm in his arms and started towards the monkey.

“Hold still, machine monkey. I won’t hurt you, I promise…” Milo said as he inched forward, but the monkey didn’t seem to believe him. It glared at him angrily with its artificially beady eyes. It pushed the clamp away with its silver paws. And finally, just when Milo was starting to think this whole plan wasn’t going to work, it screeched like a stripped brake and dove off the cabinets, heading towards the front door.

“Gotcha!” Milo said as the clamp closed on the machine monkey’s waist.

When his mom came home that night, Milo followed her into the laundry room. He had put the prosthetic arm on top of the washing machine, weighing down the lever end with a giant dictionary to counterbalance the monkey, which dangled out in mid air, still in the clamp.

“I tried to turn it off, but the switch is broken or something,” Milo said apologetically. His mom shook her head and stepped towards the monkey. It writhed in the clamp, making angry slurred metallic noises, as if its battery were wearing down.

“Large Mauve Underpants!” his mother said clearly and forcefully, and the monkey went limp. His mother turned to look at Milo reproachfully. He smiled and shrugged.

“Sorry.”

“Uh huh.”

They left the monkey dangling in the laundry room and went into the living room. His mom turned on the TV and sat down on the couch with a sigh. Milo sat down next to her. A nature show was playing, something about the extinct Dodo bird.

After a moment, Milo said, “Mom, can I get a dog now?”

“No.”

Milo was quiet for another moment, then asked, “How about a cat?”

“No.”

When the commercial came on a few minutes later, Milo tried one more time. “What about a goldfish?”

His mother, who also freelanced for the CIA and was still the smartest person Milo had ever known, looked at him for a long moment and then simply said, “We’ll see.”

END

 

In case you’re wondering, the prompts were: monkey, fire starter, machine, prosthetic, artificial.