Peter and His Anne

A snippet of a novel in progress.

And so it became custom. Every night Kwell would sneak into the Annex where Mari would be waiting, lightly dozing on the only bed. He was always meticulously quiet and careful of the squeaking boards, even holding his breath in order to keep Mari’s sleep sound. But it was his lack of sound that always brought her from whatever dozy dream she had been meandering through. However, she would never let him know that. Mari would only very subtly squint her eyes open, and through the slits she would patiently watch him make considerate progress toward her. It made her feel as she were watching through a window rather than her own eyes, the shades of her eyelashes were shadowy vines draped around the window through which she observed. Mari watched carefully this act of kindness.

            Kwell would ever so quietly then clean the room. He would fold her clothes and put them back into their proper place, in the trunk at the end of the bed. His tender attention to the creases in the fabric was almost motherly. Then he would pull the blanket all the way up to her chin, making sure that she stayed warm and essentially, with the greatest of grace, tuck her in. Mari would feel his feather weight touch as his hands would brush past her, leaving the blanket snugly at her neck. At last he would take her one arm that always dangled off the edge of the bed and he would hold her wrist so gently she could hardly feel him there. She wasn’t sure at first what exactly the act meant but soon understood. He was feeling her pulse. He was feeling the kick drum solo in her veins and he would know that though his was slower and slowing every day, he too had drums in his veins. Though there was more to his motives, Mari didn’t need to know anymore to feel the connection. So she closed her eyes here. She didn’t have to see the desperation in his face to know that he needed that moment to feel alive. To feel anything.

BUM

BUM

BUM

Then she would fall asleep into deep blackness where she dreamt only of that soothing sound, that sound which meant life.

BUM

BUM

BUM

And in the morning when she would awake to find him sleeping silently on the hardwood floor, sometimes halfway under the bed, she would think to herself one word…

together.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

I feel this is some first class writing, Little Blue. You seem a natural, in fact. I don't know what kind of story your novel will be, but this little piece of it is impressive.