I wrote this story not because I am a very good writer, but as a vent. In that function, it worked. It's up to everyone else to decide if it's a good read. Or, if it is a horrible read, if the story was only bad because I effectively mimicked the gist of Meyer's abysmal writing style.
Maureen Stanley has just moved to Forks, and is thankful for it. Feeling compassion for human beings can be very painful—especially when human beings go out of their way to damage each other through horrific acts of murder, rape and theft on a small scale…or extortion, slavery and genocide on a grand scale. Being somewhat unhuman herself, Maureen doesn't feel obligated to live in a world like that.
So she's moved to Forks, Washington…a place where the only suffering people feel is the kind they inflict on themselves, which they blow out of proportion in order to pretend that their pain is real. It's the perfect place to focus on her personal passions, and let the world go past her. The only problem is actually living, second by second, with people who make their lives into a pointless drama.
A Place Called Forks
August 25th, 2003.
Maureen slid into the front passenger seat of the cab, the scent of chemical spray strong in her nose. It mingled with the natural odor of the slick leather seats, making the whole cabin of the car smell like sour, tangy fruit. The pine scented air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror only added to the smell, instead of masking it.
The flight from Sacramento to Seattle hadn't been the most pleasant for Maureen. The pressure had played havoc with her sinuses, and a baby had been sick in the row behind her. While the stench was awful, the usual infant screams were blissfully absent. Mostly the baby just whimpered.
Poor little b*stard was probably more than jut airsick. Maureen thought, scrubbing a hand through her short, dishwater blonde hair. I bet he didn't want to be on that plane any more than I did, and he had the flu on top of it.
Maureen was only fifteen years old, and knew she wasn't the sharpest card in the deck. But she was pretty sure that having fewer babies would do the world some good. It would do the babies some good, too. You couldn't be miserable if you weren't alive to feel anything.
Which was a dumb, improvable sort of logic in its own right. But it felt correct to her.
After the plane landed, Maureen had taken a coach bus to Port Angeles. This was much more comfortable, as she could crank open a window. But by the time the bus reached the town, Maureen was fidgeting. She smoothed the fabric of her pants over her thighs, and fiddled with the buttons on her white cotton shirt.
She'd put her knitting needles away, worried that she'd mess up the tension of the stitches. When it came to her work, Maureen was a bit of a perfectionist. It had taken her years to turn natural talent into real skill, and she hated throwing what she'd learned away, just because she got impatient.
Normally, Maureen liked to take the time to work through her impatience—but what was coming up would take more than a little concentration. She wanted it over and done with. She wanted out of here.
As soon as the bus reached the Port Angeles bus depot, Maureen called the cab service her Uncle had recommended. Both he and her Aunt were working that day, and didn't want to make the two-hour round trip to come pick her up. So they'd persuaded her Father to give her money for a long-distance cab drive, with the assurance that her cousin would be home, to help her settle in.
The cab showed up in less than twenty minutes. Maureen walked out of the bus depot to flag him down, eyes averted from the depot's HAVE YOU SEEN ME? corkboard, plastered with the faces of missing children and teens.
How many were dead? How many were suffering fates worse than death?
Maureen shut her eyes, willing herself not to think about it.
The driver helped her load the two giant steamer trunks and one giant duffle bag into the cab. Only one steamer actually fit in the cab's trunk—the other trunk and the duffle bag were awkwardly wedged into the backseat. Maureen kept her backpack with her, dropping it on her feet as she belted herself in.
The cabbie slid into the driver's seat. He'd introduced himself as George, and he seemed pleasant enough.
"Long trip?" He asked.
Maureen smiled. "Ah, long enough."
The drive was fairly quiet. George asked a few more questions, and Maureen's responses were polite, but brief. She'd come from Sacramento, California. She was going to stay with her Uncle, his wife and daughter. Yes, it was more permanent than a simple visit. Yes, Washington was pleasant enough.
Soon the pair descended into comfortable silence, George driving while Maureen watched the world fly by. Her fingers itched to be purling, pulling, untangling—something, anything. But Maureen kept her hands still.
After forty-five minutes or so, Maureen began to take slow, careful breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Over and over, never speeding, never slowing.
Her fingers twitched. She clenched them into fists. This was no time for spun fiber. This was an altogether different sort of thing.
A different sort of thing. A different sort of place. Maureen thought. She touched her tongue to the roof of her closed mouth, continuing her full, even breaths. She blinked when she had to, but otherwise kept her eyes open and focused, concentrated on the road before her, beyond the road itself.
To deny reality is madness. Madness is a different perspective. To deny reality is madness. Madness means a different perspective.
Maureen's palms were sweaty. Find a new perspective.
It took less than ten minutes. Between one blink and the next, it was done.
George glanced over at his fare as the girl beside him let out a shuddery exhalation.
"You okay?" He asked.
Maureen nodded, raising a hand to her cheek. "I'm fine." She said. She blinked rapidly, looking around. "We're almost there, aren't we?"
"Another fifteen minutes to the address you gave me, at most." George said.
"Thank you." Maureen said. Her tone was more than just polite—it was full of gratitude, and unshed tears. Glancing at her again, George saw that her eyes were wet.
"Hey, you sure you're okay?" He didn't really want to get involved—but the girl was crying in his cab.
"Yeah." Maureen said, wiping a hand across her eyes. "It's just so…so green."
"Yeah, lotta woods." George agreed awkwardly. "Come mid-September it'll all be different colors. But even at the end of August, it's plenty green."
Maureen smiled at the forest speeding by. Green indeed. The vocabulary here is endless. Viridescent, virescent, olive, lime, pea green, glaucous. A mosaic of jade, a study in emerald!
And it was so verdant…grassy, leafy, verdurous.
Maureen bit back a grin. The words came so easily, but she had no desire to speak them. She'd have to watch that her tongue remained her own, and didn't pick up the ridiculous syntax of this place. She might fall in otherwise, and take everything she saw seriously.
That was the last thing Maureen wanted. There was no point to peace of mind, if one's mind forgot what peaceful really meant.
It's green. And numb. Everything is numb here. Nothing has to suffer, not really.
From around a curve in the road, a sign came into view. WELCOME TO FORKS.
Maureen settled back in her seat, smiling.
Please Read and Review. I don't care if you hate it, or if your reaction is lukewarm. I just want to know what people think about it. The archives here are pretty big, but I think the angle I'm coming from is fairly unique.
Next chapter tomorrow.