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poot · 09-25-2003, 08:52 PM

Short story I wrote in the wee hours of the morning.

Peter and the blackness.

Peter stared at the incredibly large black horse that was staring back at him. Then he asked, "Why do I keep thinking about her? Why is it that I feel lost unless, every once in a while, I say her name or put it in a song or draw it on a little scrap of paper and fold it up and put it in my pocket?"

The horse was black, but not the terrible dark shade that makes one think of being locked inside the closet, but rather the soft blackness of a flaming log burning its last breath away. It grunted a little in response to Peter's inquiry. He was a little annoyed; after all, he was dreaming, and well expecting the horse to speak up and answer his question.

Eventually, it did. What Peter didn't expect is that it would speak in her voice.

"You want me to say something like, 'Because you love her,' so that you can wake up and run to her house and throw some pebbles at her window in order to tell her as soon as possible. Well you DON'T love her, you silly boy, you don't, you haven't the faintest idea what love is."

Peter was speechless. Then again, in the dream world, his mouth had been erased off his face and something inside his chest suddenly became very still. The horse spoke again.

"Oh you stupid little boy, don't get all depressed now. All you know is that being with her makes you happier than anything else. The only comprehensible idea to you is that you want to be with her more. 'Love' is too big and unwieldy, too worn and too consequential of a word. Stick with 'like'. Completely completing, fulfilling, unmistakable like. Now go along, I have other little boys to speak to."

On the other side of the universe, in his real world, Peter fell out of bed. He stood up, and realized he was wearing jeans and sneakers he didn't remember putting on before going to bed. Suppressing the strongest urge he had ever felt to whistle, Peter silently exited through the front door, strolled down the sidewalk, and casually picked up a few pebbles that he thought wouldn't make too much noise against a windowpane.

09-25-2003, 08:52 PM	#1 (permalink)
poot Upright	Peter and the blackness. Short story I wrote in the wee hours of the morning. Peter and the blackness. Peter stared at the incredibly large black horse that was staring back at him. Then he asked, "Why do I keep thinking about her? Why is it that I feel lost unless, every once in a while, I say her name or put it in a song or draw it on a little scrap of paper and fold it up and put it in my pocket?" The horse was black, but not the terrible dark shade that makes one think of being locked inside the closet, but rather the soft blackness of a flaming log burning its last breath away. It grunted a little in response to Peter's inquiry. He was a little annoyed; after all, he was dreaming, and well expecting the horse to speak up and answer his question. Eventually, it did. What Peter didn't expect is that it would speak in her voice. "You want me to say something like, 'Because you love her,' so that you can wake up and run to her house and throw some pebbles at her window in order to tell her as soon as possible. Well you DON'T love her, you silly boy, you don't, you haven't the faintest idea what love is." Peter was speechless. Then again, in the dream world, his mouth had been erased off his face and something inside his chest suddenly became very still. The horse spoke again. "Oh you stupid little boy, don't get all depressed now. All you know is that being with her makes you happier than anything else. The only comprehensible idea to you is that you want to be with her more. 'Love' is too big and unwieldy, too worn and too consequential of a word. Stick with 'like'. Completely completing, fulfilling, unmistakable like. Now go along, I have other little boys to speak to." On the other side of the universe, in his real world, Peter fell out of bed. He stood up, and realized he was wearing jeans and sneakers he didn't remember putting on before going to bed. Suppressing the strongest urge he had ever felt to whistle, Peter silently exited through the front door, strolled down the sidewalk, and casually picked up a few pebbles that he thought wouldn't make too much noise against a windowpane.