Mysterious Mr. Wolf
:Chapter One:


"The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!"


1.

Observers, welcome to the mind of a sixteen-year-old anomaly. My name is Kinden Olsen. My parents, as intelligent as I assume they must be, still had a bout of idiocy while naming their only daughter - stuck with a male name, and not even a normal male name. The kind of weird male name that is reserved for late-night soap opera heartthrobs and male models. I had quickly come to the conclusion that I was most definitely not a boy, and therefore did not deserve a male name. And yet, they seemed to think it was humorous to have me attend schools where teachers thought I was a boy, and where kids called me Kinney Dinny like it was such a cool thing. Ha-ha, real funny, guys.

And then! Well yes, then, I would retaliate by smacking them upside the head like they'd stolen a cookie from the cookie jar. Those tactics never really worked all too well, as the result was either "You're grounded." or, "We're moving, again." And you see how the last sentence doesn't make any sense? Yeah, my fathers work demands that we be available to up and moving whenever the company gets bored of sitting in one spot for two years.

So, I get all acquainted with the Neanderthals that roam the classrooms, and then my bald father comes to tell me were leaving. For the ninth time. I gave up kicking and screaming all of a million years ago, when I was seven and was angry at the universe. I mean, what else could I do? I was only seven, I couldn't (obviously) get a job, and I had some weird form of separation anxiety.

My fathers company has an obsession with places beginning in the letter F. I know, because of all the thirteen times I've moved, we'd been to: Fackler, Fagan, Famoso, Florida, Fanchers Mills, Fane, Fancy Hill, Falcon--Texas, Fall Branch, Fall Creek, Falls City, (A lot of Falls, there.) Fabyan, and Forks.

Forks, Washington.

The place I've (So far), detested the most. No, not detested, loathed. Okay, so there's this season called summer; the season filled with pools, tanning, beaches, shopping, and oh! The sun. I've discovered that Forks, Washington, lacks a sun, and therefore a summer. There's too many trees, too much green, too much shade, too many deer. This whole place lacked everything. It seems like there's only three people in this whole town, and I can't surmise how much they lack clothing stores, shops, or anything in general.

So, I summarize by saying: yes, I detest Forks with a ruthless passion. Once I turn eighteen, which will be in two years, I can run away from this death pit and go work my life away at a fast food restaurant. Somewhere else.

"Kinden!" I heard a call from somewhere downstairs. My room was upstairs, down the hall, and the second door to the left. I like to memorize details; not that it should've been to hard to remember where my own room was. The voice of my mom--and I cringe at the sound--did not stop shouting until I was down the stairs and in the kitchen, grabbing an apron. My mom had this thing about mother-daughter bonding. Her way of bonding was forcing child labor and letting herself laze around while I cooked dinner. Her excuse, always the same, was "Oh, Honey, you're a much better cook than your father and I can ever hope to be." And she'd slither off with this tiny smile on her face, like she won because she'd complimented me, and there was absolutely no reason at all for me to yell at her.

I grabbed a pot and poured some water inside, putting it on topof the new oven to let the water boil. I was reaching for the pasta when my mom came in with a magazine in hand, sitting down at the island counter--thing, where there were bar stools and abounding amounts of alcohol cabinets. I figure the other family origionally here had a drunk grandmother, or something.

"So Kinden, the school you're going to is called, um--La Push High School?" I cracked a smirk, just laughing at the fact that she never really knew what she was talking about. "You sure there mom? Oh no, don't bust a vein thinking too hard!" I cracked, grinning my possessed smile and watching the steam fly out of her ears. Not literally, of course.

"Okay, so when does school start?" I asked, stirring the water (there was actually no reason to), and adding some salt. It still wasn't boiling. She flipped through a page of her magazine--Cosmopolitan, I think--and shrugged.

"It starts on September 7th, I believe." She mumbled. I think she was mesmerized by the lovely picture of Jude Law. I sighed, pretty glad that school didn't start for another month or so. There was still time to, you know, hunt deer. Yeah, because that's all there is to do here.The water was boiling by now, so I added the bowtie pasta.

I closed the lid on the pot and sat down next to my mom. She ignored me, of course, in favor of her magazine with 'delicious man hunks'--"Ew! Is that guy wearing a thong?" I shrieked, pointing at the photo of a blond guy, my age, no less, with this weird like, string thing on.

"No, Honey, that's a speedo." She said, putting a hand on my shoulder to what, calm me down? I rolled my eyes, unbelieving, though she didn't see, and walked back to the pasta pot, staring at the floating noodles. I was begging them to cook so I could leave the kitchen.

Honestly? It creeps me out when my mom gazes hungrily, yes, hungrily at sixteen-year-old blond guys. And she has the weird liking for blond males, yet--her husband has red hair; and I happened to inherit that physical trait. The good thing was that I didn't get the freckles, thanks to the motherly genes from--my mom, who else?

The timer on the over signified that the pasta was done cooking, so I emptied all the water out of the pot and put the pasta back on top of the counter, to use later. I knew there was no chance of getting help from my mom or dad, so I put out a cutting mat, and got my ingredients out of the fridge. And since my mom and dad didn't help, I decided to make nothing special. I cooked some peas, onions, garlic, pancetta,--yeah, and the rest, I'm not going to blab on about. But in the end it came out looking and tasting decent, and we all sat at the table like a lovely family. Ha-ha, not really.

My mom decided to release her paranoia, and asked if my dad was cheating on her, when we all know that my dad is the nicest human being on the planet. He got up in a fit, after spending fifteen minutes of convincing unsuccessfully, and retreated back to his office, his dish left unwashed at the table.

I sighed, getting up to grab the plates--my mom was finished a long time ago--and took them to the sink. After cleaning everything, I left to go to my room, calling it a night between myself and my messed up mom.

My room was still in the process of being unpacked. Or, my stuff was, for that matter. My bed was up, there were sheets, there was a desk, a dresser, and closet, and a few other things. Some of my clothes were unpacked, and the rest were in those brown boxes. I still had to put all my posters up, too. It was way, way too hot in this room though. There was a window to my left, and another one by my bed. So I opened to one by my bed, the window parallel to another home where I could see a mother scolding her kid, and then I opened the other window.

Now, I don't know if it was because I was tired, or if I was hot, but there was this thing outside my window. I can't even call it an animal, because what I saw was large, furry, and as big as a horse. But I swear to God it looked like a wolf. And it was in the trees in our yard, and I wanted to scream; but I couldn't. There was something, something, holding me back. I paused, standing on the outer edge of the forest and our front lawn, and stared at the moon. And in the light I saw this magnificent color of honey, its fur sparkling and waving in the wind like it was dancing.

And as I stared, I came across an expression. And as I stared, I realized it was looking at me. And then it was gone.

Forks, Washington, was no longer what I had presumed from the start.


A/N: First chapter. Uhm, I don't really know what to say, except this is a Seth Clearwater story. Not Jacob, or Edward.(obviously) But, I lost my Eclipse book, so if someone could give me some information on Seth than I'd be really grateful. Uhm, comments, reviews, ect. are greatly appreciated!! Thank you! - Alex.