Writing a Short Story After Reading "Axolotl” by Cortázar
Sexual awakening: The metamorphosis of a tadpole boy
After reading Cortázar’s “Axolotl,” I couldn’t shake off its haunting effect. The story revealed something profound about the blurred lines between watching and being watched, between our consciousness and that of other beings.
Follow this link to read “Axolotl” by Julio Cortázar.
Cortázar’s axolotl stares through the aquarium glass in Paris, questioning the nature of consciousness. My story takes a different path — exploring adolescence through a tadpole’s metamorphosis. Something clicked when I connected the amphibian’s physical transformation with the raw, confusing journey of sexual awakening.
The pond in my narrative mirrors Cortázar’s aquarium. It’s a space where identities blur and shift, where watching aquatic life becomes entangled with stumbling into adulthood.
I wanted to freeze the moment when childhood dissolves into something else, like a tadpole discovering its changing form. The story moves between human complexity and animal instinct, between thought and pure being.
Like in “Axolotl,” the line between observer and observed fades away. We’re all just creatures changing shape, trying to navigate these murky waters.
“The Tadpole Boy”
From a young age, I perceived a profound connection with the animal world. In the pond behind my house, I would observe the tadpoles floating blissfully, immersed in pure instinctual existence. I was fascinated by their detachment from the tumultuous earthly reality. They seemed to harbour an ancestral wisdom, an attunement to the natural ebb and flow of life.
In comparison, my adolescent growth felt so awkward and bewildering. Next to the tadpoles’ grace, my fumbling humanity appeared chaotic. In their presence, I could shed my confusion for a moment. By diving ideally into the pond, I could be reborn as a tadpole, rediscovering the serenity of unfettered instinct, free from convoluted questions of identity and responsibility.
I dove into the murky pond, immersing myself in the tadpoles’ world. As I peered through the greenish water, the tadpoles swam gracefully, their slender tails propelling them smoothly along. My imaginings grew so vivid that I could almost hear the tadpoles conversing. Their small voices bubbled up from the depths of the pond.
“Let’s swim over to the lily pads and nibble some algae,” one tadpole said to its friend.
“Good idea, I’m famished!” the other replied.
The pond plants danced gently around them, as if choreographed. “Make way little ones, but be sure to feast on our leaves,” a lily pad cooed affectionately.
A young tadpole nuzzled up to a leaf, nibbling algae with its tiny mouth. “Delicious! This leaf is the perfect blend of crunchy and slimy,” it remarked through mouthfuls.
Nearby, a group of older tadpoles rested on the muddy bottom, their newly sprouted back legs kicking languidly. “Our legs grow stronger every day. Soon, we shall leap through the air!” one proudly declared.
I watched, transfixed, as one began morphing further — its front legs bursting forth, tail shrinking. “The time has come, my friends. I go now to breathe the air above,” it announced to the others. Soon it would emerge from the water, a frog reborn.
In this hidden sanctuary, the tadpoles lived out their preordained cycle, oblivious to my wonder. For a moment, I shed the weight of my complicated existence to join their simple, primal dance of life.
Today I understand that escape was a naive way of avoiding the challenges of maturity. But I regard my younger self with tenderness, not judgment. Tadpoles too must learn to maneuver their novel limbs. The pond remains a place of meditation. It reminds me that we are all fellow wanderers on the path, although our trails may greatly differ. Observing the tadpoles glide placidly through the ripples, I reclaim inner quietude. By honouring each phase of my metamorphosis, I now know how to embrace life in its wholeness. I will continue regarding these animals as teachers and fellow travellers.
I must confess…
The air was hazy with smoke as my friend Jake and I passed a cigarette back and forth in the boys’ bathroom at school.
“So…did you and Sarah hook up yet?” Jake asked, leaning against the grimy sink.
I shook my head, taking a long drag. “Nah, man. We’ve made out a few times but I’m too nervous to go further.”
“I feel you dude. I get so in my head about that stuff too. Keep thinking I’m gonna screw it up and embarrass myself,” Jake confessed, glancing around to make sure no one else had come in.
“Right? Like what if I’m terrible at kissing and she realizes I have no idea what I’m doing?” I said, lowering my voice.
Jake exhaled loudly, the smoke mingling with the musty bathroom air. “Ugh tell me about it. I get freaked out about…you know…not being able to get it up or finishing too fast.”
We sat quietly for a minute on the radiator, lost in our anxious thoughts.
“It’s crazy, a few years ago this stuff seemed so far away,” I mused, flicking my cigarette butt into the toilet. “Now it feels like there’s all this pressure to grow up overnight. I don’t feel ready at all.”
Jake nodded, the bell ringing faintly in the hallway outside. “Yeah, growing up sucks man. But we just gotta remember we’re figuring it out together. As scary as it is, we’ll get there eventually.”
I smiled, giving Jake a fist bump before we left the refuge of the bathroom. “True that. One awkward step at a time.”
We stepped back out into the bustling school hallway, leaving the shelter of the bathroom behind. But at least we had each other as we navigated the confusing journey of adolescence.
I was 15 when I first locked eyes with the tadpoles. Their bodies spiralled lazily through the neighbourhood pond, tiny animate teardrops tracing mesmerizing patterns beneath the murky surface. I’d sit on the mossy bank for hours, skipping stones and watching them meander through miniature jungles of algae. Something primal in me felt drawn to those tadpoles. We were both suspended in our world, carefree and unbothered by the outside chaos. My body was morphing in ways I didn’t understand, skewering my senses. But the tadpoles just coasted obliviously through the depths, breathing easy through their frilly gills.
I envied their self-containment. They floated on as perfect little embryos as I struggled to manoeuvre my newly gangly frame. No bothersome changes disrupted their universe. They had one purpose and followed it absolutely, swaying mindlessly through currents only they could feel. I’d sit there till dusk fell, mimicking their delicate pulses and ripples with my fingertips trailing in the dark water. Their Zen-like existence became an obsession. I was more tadpole than a boy. So it’s no surprise what I thought about that muggy Saturday afternoon when Sarah Beth eased me back against the worn grass, the roar of cicadas drowning out our nervous giggles.
Sarah Beth gently guided my shaking hand under her shirt.
“It’s okay, just go slow,” she whispered, sensing my hesitation. I swallowed hard and traced small circles on her skin. She shivered at my touch.
I froze up as she reached for my belt buckle. “I’ve never…you know…” I stammered, my face burning.
“Shhh it’s alright,” she soothed, brushing her fingers through my hair. “We’ll figure it out together. Here, watch what I do.”
She guided my hand again, tenderly. Closing my eyes, I got lost in the softness of her lips on mine, the musky scent of grass and sweat mingling on our skin tenderly.
In the distance, a frog’s croak punctuated the buzzing chorus of cicadas. I pictured the tadpoles again, serenely aloof in their pond refuge.
“It’s better if you relax and just feel,” Sarah Beth murmured, her breaths quickening. “Forget everything else and stay present with me.” The muddy earth was still warm from the midday sun. As we kissed, I plucked a stalk of grass and trailed it slowly across her collarbone, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
As she grasped me with her cool fingers, I glanced left at the pond and imagined myself as one of the tadpoles, coasting blissfully through the water without a care. I glided through the cool water, propelled by my coiled tail.
The giants’ strange mating ritual continued on the bank. Their tongues writhed together now, an odd sight. “Surely that cannot be pleasant,” I mused. They finally pulled apart, connected by a rope of their shared spit. How revolting.
I coasted past languidly, untroubled by such curiosities. My feathery gills filtered out impurities, leaving only a refreshing life breath. The water caressed my skin like a loving embrace. The giants began removing their coverings, exposing bizarre lumps of flesh. The female stroked the male’s pink protrusion, evoking groans and spasms from his giant body.
“How peculiar, these rituals of theirs,” I thought. The ways of giants were unfathomable to my tadpole mind.
I floated blissfully as the male flailed atop the female, their cries and grunts overlapping with the droning cicadas.
Eventually, their frenzy peaked and ebbed. An air of tranquillity returned to the pondside.
The giants lay tangled together, their eyes closed, chests heaving with exertion. Perhaps they had found some momentary peace. I rippled my gills and glided on, thankful for the pond’s simplicity. My metamorphosis waited ahead, but for now, I drifted contentedly.
When I returned to being the boy, I pictured dissolving into a cloud of black sperm, fertilizing eggs in the sunlit shallows. Anything to distract from the uncomfortable strangeness of what we were doing… Only later did I feel ashamed at having treated Sarah Beth so carelessly in my head.
She had shared something special with me. But I’d been too immature to fully participate, instead imagining myself as a tadpole in the safety of the pond.
Panting, Sarah Beth rolled over and stroked my damp cheek. “So…did you like it?” she asked softly.
I paused, suddenly shy. “I, uh…” I stammered, avoiding her gaze.
She tilted her head. “Was it okay for you?”
“Yeah, it was…nice,” I managed awkwardly. But in truth, my mind had been elsewhere.
Sarah Beth studied me for a moment, then squeezed my hand. “We’ll keep practising,” she said with a hint of a playful smile. “It gets even better, I promise.”
I flushed, grateful for her patience. We lay back in the scratchy grass, fingers interlaced, listening to the pulsating drone of cicadas. I knew then that I owed her more presence and care next time. She deserved my full attention. I had more growing up to do, more steps in my fumbling metamorphosis. But Sarah Beth’s wisdom was guiding me, gently illuminating the way.
In truth, it would be years before I developed the confidence and skill to be fully present during intimacy. As a teen, everything felt overwhelming and unfamiliar, my changing form something alien. But I now view my younger self with compassion, not judgment. That boy was a tadpole becoming a frog, learning to manoeuvre his new limbs and impulses. It’s no wonder he sought refuge in fantasy when faced with the raw reality of adulthood. Adolescence is a time of clumsy exploring while finding our footing. Looking back, I accept those awkward chapters as necessary steps in my metamorphosis. When I see tadpoles swirling obliviously in the pond muck, I’m grateful for the gift of awareness, however uncomfortable at times. Consciousness allows me to take responsibility and choose integrity.
The tadpoles and I are fellow travellers on the journey of growth. I watch them with reverence, knowing they too will develop mature abilities. Their time in the sun will come. For now, I float blissfully as a tadpole, my tail propelling me through the cool pond. “Croak!” My throat pulsates with the primal frog song. Yet now my human self also sits frog-like on the muddy bank. “Hello there,” he calls his bearded face crinkling into a smile. He watches me coast by, waves gently lapping at his webbed feet. Though anxieties still lurk within, he breathes deeply, greeting life with an open heart.
I sense his growing awareness and feel hopeful. Perhaps one day my spirit will mature into wise acceptance too. For now, I drift contentedly, trusting each phase of transformation. My human half and I are two souls entwined — anxious tadpole, cautious man, croaking frog. We are learning in our own time.
“Croak! Hello!” Our twinned voices harmonize across the waters. Within me, past and present commingle. I swim through murky depths, yet begin to see the light.
Growth takes patience, but the journey continues. I surrender and flow on.
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