This is unfinished as I said and I haven't looked it all over so it's gonna be kinda rough, I just felt like posting it. Anyway, tell me what you think.
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Peter sat slumped over his wooden desk; head resting on his hands folded one over the other on the cold, hard surface. He was managing to keep his eyes open, but was still very near to dozing off. The boy felt the hard wrap of a wooden ruler upon the back of his hand. Jerking alert and upright he looked up at the woman before him dressed in black and white robes, a dark hood obscuring all parts of her head except her crude old face.
“Sit up straight and keep your eyes to your books, you ungrateful boy!” barked the nasty woman, the wrinkles of her skin becoming more and more creased in disgust.
“Yes, Sister Mary Anne,” replied Peter, after unwillingly situating his back flat against the hard wooden chair, his spine already beginning to feel sore. The old nun walked away, surveying the rest of the classroom more like a military sergeant than a teacher of young children.
The boy did not want to be there, that was certain. As he was of nine years of age, Peter had been attending Catholic School since he was only three; always being told to sit up straight and to stop his pointless daydreaming. He could not even begin to count the number of welts his poor hands and fingers had received from that damned wooden stick, but never the less, he was stuck there; forced to stare at a dreadfully boring book containing no pictures of any kind. Nothing like the colorful ones he would read by the candlelight of his room that told such wondrous tales of far off worlds bathed in fantasy. His father, of course, disapproved of reading such material, but Peter had never been able to comprehend why he must live his life in such a monotonous fashion.
The boy looked back into his book, but something had changed and he could tell something peculiar was happening, because instead of the text telling of how one should worship the Lord, the letters began to bump and scurry about as if alive. Peter merely sat still, eyes wide so as not to attract the attention of Sister Mary Anne while the letters began arranging themselves into words.
The boy watched as an “F” placed itself on the far left of the page followed by two “Os,” an “L,” an “I,” an “S,” and a lazy “H.”
Why I do believe the letters have spelt out FOOLISH, thought Peter to himself. He then noticed that the remaining letters were beginning to spell out another word. “Truths.”
How odd, remarked the boy soundlessly; for all down the page the letters were organizing themselves to repeat the phrase.
“Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths.
Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths. Foolish Truths.”
And so on and so forth so that even when Peter turned the pages there were still only those two words repeating over and over again.
Foolish Truths, cited Peter in his mind, contemplating the two words, but no matter how hard he thought, he could not understand what could possibly be meant by the phrase. It simply does not make sense, he thought in frustration. How can truth be foolish? Truth does not have personality. Truth is not a man. Truth is . . . actually I’m not sure what truth even is. And then Peter became very frightened for he thought that Satan must be sending him evil signs.
To his relief the school bell rang and Sister Mary Anne dismissed the classroom to lunch. Peter stood up slowly and closed the book, trying to rid the incident from his mind, or at least fold it up and tuck it away. He wandered down the small, bustling hallway full of excited children to the bathroom at the end where he crept inside.
No one else was inside at that time to Peter’s enjoyment, for he was not a very sociable boy, even at age nine. Everyone around him appeared but a blur. He wandered over to the old metal sink in the corner of the room and put his hands on both sides of the rusted bowl, hanging his head down. The sink had not worked for years, but it mattered not to him. Old things were more interesting to the boy than newer and he liked the smooth and beautiful Victorian style the sink displayed. The way the metal was carved to look like a plant, with the perfectly oval bowl sprouting from three parted leaves and the graceful curve of the sink head rising high and arching back down like a stem. The handles resembled leaves as well, where they folded inwards like a tent to create round bulbs that one would turn for both temperatures of water. It wore a very ugly brownish orange color caused from the accumulation of rust over many years, but underneath it was cloaked in brilliant silver. The sink was once elegant, but now it sat in its lonely bathroom corner, dejected and humiliated.
While leaning over the bowl Peter heard a light snap followed by the ‘tink’ of metal against metal. Glancing down he saw the tiny gold cross than once hung around his neck quickly slide down the contours of the bowl and slip into the dark circle drain.
“Oh dear!” Peter said out loud, now certain that Satan was up to something. If he did not retrieve the pendant, Sister Mary Anne would surely paddle him until his bottom bruises. After all, they had been told to have it with them at all times to avoid being tempted by sinful thoughts or worse yet, possessed. Worried and breathing heavily, he tried in vain to peer down the sink, but was only met with blackness.
Why does the Devil want me? thought Peter. There are much more sinful people than I, even in this very school. Why does the Devil not want one of them? He stood still for a number of seconds waiting for any more signs of Satan that might be about, but since none presented themselves he looked down the drain once again. I simply must TRY and get it back, there’s no sense in not trying. So Peter slid his finger into the dark drain.
However when he attempted to pull it back out, he found to his horror that his finger was stuck, and would not budge. Quickly the room became much warmer and a funny feeling started to come over young Peter. He felt himself being drawn towards the hole in the sink, and his feet were lifting off the floor, like he was weightless. The sink slowly became much larger to where Peter could stand in the bowl, and the room kept growing hotter and hotter. Then the boy realized that it was not the sink that was enlarging itself, but that his body was shrinking.
Poor Peter tried to scream, but his mouth felt dry from the heat and he very much wished for some cold water, but the force pulling him towards the drain soon sucked the young boy straight down into the blackness. Peter felt that at any moment he would be surrounded by fire in Hell and have to gaze upon that dark throne where his sins would be fully punished. Why me. He asked himself.
But when he felt solid ground underneath his feet once more, it was not hard like rock, but soft and inviting. And when he looked around he did not see himself encompassed by jagged red rocks peeking up from a river of fire, but a lovely green wood with large, ancient trees that grew so close together that their branches entangled with one another, forming a leafy ceiling above the boy’s head. The leaves, being so close together and so thick, obscured the sky so that only small rays of bright sunshine peeked in through the canvas of thick leaves, creating a very calm green and golden haze about the entire wood.
“Curious,” said Peter as he looked about. He was standing on thick green grass and the soil was cushioning his feet underneath. The trees all around him grew in odd fashions, curling and twisting their thick trunks about, up into the sky. Very knobby and old, Peter immediately liked them. The forest was warm and moist, but not quite warm enough to feel uncomfortable.
This certainly does not feel like the Devil’s doing, thought Peter. Shifting his weight, he felt something hard underneath his foot and as he stepped aside he found the small golden cross, glinting in a bit of sun. The boy reached down to pick it up, looking at it intently between two fingers. “It’s only a chunk of metal,” Peter remarked and let it fall from his hand back down into the grass below him, but he found when he went to walk away, he could only think about picking the pendant up off the ground and storing it in his pocket. Peter turned and looked back at the small, shining gold cross lying peacefully in the grass. “But what if I am to lose it again?” he asked himself. “I always lose important things so this time I will just simply leave it here and come back to get it when I find my way out of this place.” And he took out a wooden pencil and placed it in between the roots of one of the trees so that he could see it sticking up when he walked away. As he did so the boy made note of what the tree looked like, just to make sure he would be able to find it once again and avoid being paddled.
After walking for a number of minutes, enjoying the quiet tranquility of the wood, Peter noticed a small dirt path in front of him and walking up to it, found that it winded and disappeared into the trees in both directions. “I might as well follow it,” said Peter. “A path must always lead somewhere.” And so he set off to his left, wandering slowly down the odd road. After a bit of walking the boy noticed something ahead of him. An animal of some kind, and he quickly darted off behind a tree for fear the beast might not be friendly, but as the animal continued to walk toward him, Peter noticed that it was only a mouse. But not an ordinary mouse, a rather large mouse, three feet high, carrying a walking stick beside him and a thin scarf wrapped around his furry neck. Having never seen any mouse of the sort Peter cautiously stepped out from behind his tree into the path of the mouse.
The mouse let out a tiny screech and jumped backwards, being startled by the boy’s sudden appearance.
“Ey boy, it’s not polite to sneak about off the path and startle little creatures such as meself. You’ll stop my poor heart,” said the mouse, furrowing his brow and giving his walking stick a shake at Peter. The boy, having never heard a mouse speak was startled himself, but figured it would be quite rude to not say anything back.
“My apologies mouse, I did not mean to frighten you. I am . . . new to this place,” said the boy. The mouse looked at him and twitted his large ears. “Speaking of such matters, where is here?”
“Where’s where?” asked the mouse in reply.
“Here. This place, where is it?”
“This is the wood foolish boy, can you not tell what a wood is for yourself?” said the mouse raising a furry eyebrow.
“Yes I know we are in a wood,” said Peter. “I mean what is it named?”
“Named? Why would the wood be named? Seems such a foolish thing to do.” Peter was beginning to get very confused by his nonsense.
“Why would that be foolish? Everything has a name,” said Peter.
“Every creature has a name, yes. I have a name, you must have a name, but why would someone give a single name to the wood? There are many apart of the
wood who will call it what they wish. We could not simply give it one name that we all be pleased with. The wood can be named whatever you wish it to be named boy, we just decide to refer to it as the definition,” said the mouse twitting his ears again and looking up at Peter.
“Oh yes, I understand,” said Peter, not really understanding at all.
“I must be on my way now,” said the mouse after a few brief seconds of silence. “Please refrain from startling anyone else on your own boy.”
“Oh yes, I will Mr. Mouse,” said Peter as the mouse shook his whiskers and continued down the path, walking stick in hand. “Could you tell me what I will find farther down this road?” asked Peter. The mouse stopped and turned.
“Further down,” he scratched his chin, “you will find the home of Mrs. Muriel and Mr. Gilbert. Married folk, quite kind beings.”
“Oh, thank you then,” said Peter. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” replied the mouse with a quick wave as they both went their separate ways down the dirt path.
Peter continued to walk until he came to a small round cottage built of stones and plaster. Small shrubs had been planted at the front of the house and he could smell the sweet aroma emanating through the windows as he approached. It was then when Peter realized just how hungry he was and the scent was very enticing to an empty stomach. The boy crept up to the small wooden door and gave it a couple knocks.
The door swung open to reveal an old white sheep, standing on its hind legs, wearing a pair of rounded spectacles.
“Hello my dear,” spoke an old, motherly voice. “What are you doing out there all by your lonesome?”
“I don’t mean to intrude,” said Peter politely. “But it has been quite a while since I have last had something to eat and whatever it is that you are cooking smells rather tasty. I was wondering whether you could spare a bit for myself?”
The sheep blinked her beady black eyes behind the spectacles and smiled.
“Oh yes, yes, of course my dear, there’s plenty to go around. Please, come inside and have a seat.”
“Thank you very much ma’am.” The boy hunched over to fit through the small door frame and took a seat at a miniature table against the wall in the back of the room. The entire cottage was engulfed in delightful auras of food and home and even though Peter was a bit large for it, he still enjoyed the quaint little house. “My name is Peter.”
“Hello dear Peter, you may call me Mrs. Muriel,” said the white sheep, turning to her stove where a thick soup was boiling.
“Oh yes, a mouse told me of you and your husband,” said Peter.
“Mouse?” she asked questioningly. “Oh! Of course, that would be Eustace then. Carried a walking stick, yes? He said something to us about going to visit his daughter, on the East side of the Wood.”
“Yes, that was him.”
“Of course, of course.” The sheep then peered out the window and called “Dear, supper is almost ready!” Peter turned and glanced out the window as well, spotting an old goat working in a neat little garden, using a hoe to uplift the dark soil.
“Yes, I will be in in just a moment!” the goat called back. Mrs. Muriel poured a large spoonful of the hot soup into a bowl and set it on the table for Peter. The boy sat with his hands in his lap, knowing it was only good manners to not start a meal until every member of the party has arrived. Soon, a door in the back opened to reveal the scruffy grey goat known as Mr. Gilbert.
Squinting his tiny eyes against the steam rising from the stove, the goat sniffed at the air and said. “
“Mmm, smells rather good dear.”
“Thank you, I know you’ll like tonight’s meal.” The sheep replied, then turned to Peter. “We have a guest today, this is Peter, Peter this is my husband, Mr. Gilbert.”
“Pleased to meet you Sir,” said Peter, shaking hands with the goat, which was a bit strange because Mr. Gilbert wore hooves instead of hands and one cannot grasp a hoof as easily as a hand. They don’t fit together so easily you see. The goat took a seat across from Peter and was soon served his own bowl of soup. Finally, Mrs. Muriel came to sit down and everyone soon started to enjoy the food.
Peter thought the soup was simply delicious. He did not know what went into it, but it didn’t matter to him. It was a creamy broth with a number of fresh vegetables thrown in, but still had a sweet flavor that was like nothing he had ever tasted before and he felt very content as he sat quietly and ate.
“What did you do to that garden of ours today, dear?” asked the sheep. You spend more time out there than you do in the house; you’re always out in that garden.”
“I was plantin’ the carrots and beets again. S
