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a day in a life

this is a story based loosely on jacob blacks character, who is refered to as "jack". this is more of a wolftale but vampires are included. the lead girl will remain nameless to make the story more personal to the reader. the plot of the story will follow the native american traditions ; imprinting, shape-shifting, love, lust, friendship, betrayel, life basically. how much of your life would yu be willing to surrender willingly? How much would you fight for independance, just for the sake of having it?- against traditions descended from nature, mother earth herself? how far would you go before you questioned the morals of your decisions?

Disclaimer – I hope this doesn’t come as a disappointment to anyone but I’ve decided to change some things. Think of this as a wolftale. The character is still based on lovely, lovely Jacob but I won’t make complete references to ‘jacob black’. Jack will be his name; it’s a mixture of Jacob and black. It allows him a new identity but is still able to be tied to Jacob somehow. This character is the image of Jacob but not the actual him idk if that makes sense lol - for any male readers who’d like to place themselves in his shoes. As for the lead mistress role, I am not putting a name!! This is designed so that you ladies can connect yourself more with the story, adhere to her character more as yourself than as her (I know we all pretend =]). The setting sadly, but necessarily is still in forks and there will be no vampires until later on! But there are werewolves so be prepared for battle O.o

1. Chapter 1- smudge

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Chapter 1 - Smudge

I never could figure out how this thing works.

You know, someone does something different and that becomes the new cool, so naturally you’ll copy. And of course you’ll deny this profusely, wouldn’t want to compromise your individuality would you? Story of my life. But this is not the struggle I am referring to. I fully understand the ins and outs of glorious, glorious peer pressure.

It’s this unruly camera. Not completely digital like everyone else’s, the ones who’ve inspired this madness of a birthday present. There are buttons and knobs and things no normal teenager should have to deal with. Well actually, I’m not normal am I? I’m mysterious and sleek and unique aren’t I?

I almost drown out my own thoughts in an extremely loud snort. If I had to write a biography on myself, it would start and end with “A day in the life. “ I have the basic routine- parents, house, school and friends. Not as picturesque as it sounds, everyone has ups and downs but for the most part I’m just sliding along life’s banister, enjoying the ride.

Back to the camera, my object of disapproval for the hour. Picture taking is just about the only sanctuary I have in this forsaken place. And like all things pleasurable, it’s proving difficult to master. As if I could take any picture worth capturing in this wet, dull town. Who names a place after silverware anyway? I bet you it wasn’t always this way, this town. Someone damned it the very second they named it Forks.

I back up a few feet, focus the lens, and – click. The green street sign in front of my house is now staring at me not only from a few feet away on the corner of my block, but from the display in my camera. The picture in the screen has a black smudge, no doubt because of all this dirt. Is the earth really filled with this stuff? I turn the camera around looking for the little speckle of dirt but see none. I look again through the lens and then with my naked eye into the forest in the background, but in both the spot seem to have disappeared. Can being this far away from home make you hallucinate? The home in your heart, that is. My home right now is forks, but this wasn’t always the case. I used to live elsewhere, civilization. What I would give to go ba-

“You know, if it wasn’t written all over your face one might get the idea you kind of like this place”

“You always could read minds dad, I thought I’d make it easier on you” Sarcastic yes, condescending no. I love my dad, I do, but bringing me to this godforsaken place entitles me to a snide remark or two.

“America: Land of the free, home of the poor. You know this is hard on all of us but your mother is smiling again and we’re not going to ruin that for her. You understand don’t you?” This was more of a statement than a question. Respectfully but reluctantly I softened my jaw and relaxed the muscles in my face. After my dad lost his job and all the luxuries were gone, sold or forgotten, my mom went into a sort of depression. She was never good with change, which does nothing to explain why moving here would help her old self resurface. You learn not to question some things, well most things. Life just is.


“Thanks for the ride dad.” What I really meant was take-me-away-from-this-hellhole-asap.

“I’ll pick you up after school hun.” And after a kiss on the cheek he was off, no doubt to console or appease to my mother in some way.

Whoever thought I’d come to hate school so much. It used to be my element, my home away from home. The academics and the social life attracted me. If these people are what you call social butterflies I must’ve been a whole flock back home.

I spent most of the day observing people observe me. It’s the first day of school; you’d think I showed up in the middle of second semester or something the way people stared. I made it to lunch untouched and ignored verbally. You’d think I had cooties the way people looked but kept a distance. It was obvious I was in their thoughts, and for some of them in their conversation. As I turned a corner out of the lunch room someone caught my eye, then my arm, then my side, then my bag. Of course I would have tripped, actually not of course because I never stumble, I am always perfectly balanced physically and mentally. Well until now.

I turn bright red, easily outshining the most ripe of tomatoes, as I swivel to face my hero, so-to-speak. To my surprise I come face to face with nothing but a retreating back.

“Hey, HEY! Where are- who are you?!” if backs could speak I’d be having a mortifying conversation on my part. But they can’t, instead I stand dumbfounded for a few seconds staring openly down the empty hallway as if mystery person will come back. But I’m not that naïve, so I gather my things and drudge on to class and throughout the day.

When I get home I slip out my SD card to analyze the pictures I snapped that day. Boring, Boring, Boring. These pictures almost put me in a daze, how similar and dull they were. So much so that I almost skipped over the only picture that held any kind of remote interest. The street sign and mystery smudge. I squint at the screen, trying to make out a shape if any, but can make out nothing but the dark color. I zoom in until the spot takes up almost the entire screen, but its pixel appearance makes it almost as hard to make out as looking at it in the regular picture. Giving up I take out the card, close down the computer, and head downstairs. Mom is sleeping on the couch, dad is in the armchair watching TV, I am in the best situation possible.

“Dad, can I borrow the car? I really wanna put this camera to good use and here is just. . “ Before I could even think of a valid excuse dad was already reaching over to the table for the keys.


Maybe if I drive long enough I’ll find unicorns and rainbows and little leprechauns with pots of gold. .. This thought trails off as I drown myself out in my own laughter. Such a kidder I am. Magic and fairytales and such don’t exist. Just like Santa and the Easter bunny and ghosts and all of those paranormal stories. Things . . . they just are or they aren’t. Life just is or it isn’t. There’s no question or alternate motive. That doesn’t mean you can’t entertain yourself though.

That also doesn’t rule out coincidence.

Just as I finished amusing myself with thoughts of foolishness the rain which had been pattering lightly against my windshield began to pelt it, like someone with a super soaker in the clouds aiming straight down. I pull over momentarily to let the rain subside, I’m out for a photo shoot after all, I wouldn’t want the rain to blind me from the all-so-exciting landscape. I decide to turn on the radio, pass the time. Why the country yodeling coming from my speakers surprises me in this farmland they call a town I don’t know. I’m not the only thing appalled by the sound. Apparently the rain was too, as it subsides to almost mist. As I vacate the car I realize I’m near a house.

Completely unaccustomed to the unwritten rules of forest-home-etiquette, I stride to the front of the house looking for the perfect angle to capture this unusual yet alluring structure. It was then that I realized the petite old lady sitting on the porch. I pivot on one heel to hurriedly return to my car.

“Do not go, the rain will fall no more child. No worries.”

How strange, she thinks my concern was of the rain and not trespassing on her property. Even stranger that she had no concern of me being here uninvited. Well, she doesn’t look like anyone I’ve seen before anyway. She summons me closer and I comply, shuffling to the base of the steps leading to the porch. She is petite but plump, brown but pale, with black hair in a coil at her neck and a look in her eyes that makes you question any and every theory or fact you’ve ever known. Her hands were small and bent in the most peculiar way, no doubt from a lifetimes worth of work, and one outstretched with the palm facing me as if to say ‘stop’. So I do. But she continues to hold out her hand and I notice she’s staring past me, not at me.

For the second time that day, I turn to face the person standing behind me. But this person is not a person at all and is not directly behind me. Across the road and into woods there’s a blur of black when squinting, but once your eyes focus and the blur turns into fur, the black turns into dark brown; slick from the rain. I cautiously, because of the dampness and my own nervousness, descend from the step I had climbed before I stopped, only to stop again. This time out of my own will.

“Beautiful.” Is all I could muster up. Nothing could explain this majestic creature better in one word. The size, shape, color, and movements were all of that otherworldly extraordinaire. How graceful and quietly it moved for such big a size, slipping in and out of the trees as it shuffled side to side. It must be two times my size. The captivating serenade it held over me is what kept me standing there that long before it set in that this. . thing was indeed twice my size, and still a thing. I had no category for it in my label-savvy mind. No label objects made their own category. Beware. And with this I backed up the stairs, all my caution focused on the creature, so naturally I slip a little going up.

When I reach the top step I turn to ask this woman how she could stop a beast that size as if she was some sort of natural force. Then like a door opening for the first time in ages, it hits me. The brown weathered skin, flat nose, stout figure, dark hair and almond eyes together form a very subtly powerful being. An old Native American wise-woman is not a force to trifle with, she’s very intact with nature and all things natural, like brown beasts. Like the black smudge in the woods. Like the smudge on my camera lens.

I turn to begin my charade of questions when I notice the hand which was once suspended in the air is now in her lap. I turn quickly to see her influence on the beasts movements- prepared to flee, but it was gone. Facing the old woman again, I encountered a blank stare off into the distance, which I took as my cue to leave, my escape. And so I fled.