Finding

Maturity: A bit; death, and very minor drug and alcohol references
Fantasy: None
I have a introduction! Heh, I dunno, it seemed to need it.

Introduction:
Where to start? Maybe with a bit about me. My name is Samantha Alice Davids, but I go by Sam. I'm 17 and a high-school student. My story is a
complicated one and it's hard to trace back to the beginning. But,
really, it all started with a book. Yes, that is where I shall start.
With the book.

Chapter 1-The Book:
“Slowly, quietly, hardly breathing, I crept closer. And closer. The gonku flicked it's ear and continued chewing. Then I stumbled the tiniest bit and moved too quickly. The gonku startled and bounded away. I cursed and threw a rock as far down the valley as I could. That's the third one today that I've missed! How am I ever going to help support the village if I can't even bring down one gonku? Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to-”BRIIIIING!
When the bell rang a collective groan went up from the class around me, myself included. Everybody reluctantly got up and started shoving stuff in our backpacks, chatting, and spilling out of the room into the massive hallways beyond. I was not one of the ones chatting as Susanne was home sick today. I just plugged my headphones in and slunk out of the classroom.
On the bus home I wondered about Kyra, the boy in the story, and what he was going to do. I hopped on another bus and went to the library to check out the book and finish it. I never went home that night. I fell asleep over my book and the librarian let me. In the morning I went back to school and when I came home with my book, Mom didn't even notice. She didn't care that I never went home the night before. But that shouldn't surprise me; I should be used to this kind of thing now. Since Dad died Mom hardly is ever home and I've had to pretty much fend for myself. Sleeping in a library isn't new.
I walked around with my nose in the book all day. People gave me weird looks but I'm used to that too. I'm not the most “normal” person in Norton James High-school, and not the most popular either. I've kinda drawn into myself since that fishing trip.

Cool Harmony, can't wait for more.

Thankey, I'm writing more now! .-.

Alrightie. I'm looking forward to the second chappie!

Yay, I have a fan club! xD

Chapter 2-Dad:
One of the reasons I'm such a loner is my dad. Or I should say “was” my dad. You see, he was big on me being a tomboy and always took me hunting, fishing etc. I loved it and we went all over the place, often leaving for two weeks or more. My mom didn't appreciate it but we got out of the house whenever we could.
When I was 12 I remember packing to go to the Brown Leaf river (no idea where that name came from, it's a river, not a leaf) for a week to go fishing. Dad hadn't being feeling well but he really wanted to go and insisted he was fine. At 12 I was skeptical of his health but I wanted to go too, so we left on time. Everything was perfectly normal when we got there and we soon started scouting a camping site.
“Oh, look over there Daddy! Why don't we stay on that side of the river this time? Please!”,Dad looked where I pointed and agreed.
“Sure honey, that looks like a great spot.” I should have noticed something was off then, as he rarely deviated from our set camping spots, but I was too excited to pay attention. We set up camp and went to bed early that night.
The next morning we got up at the crack of dawn as usual and hurried to the boat. He seemed distracted as we sat there but I didn't think anything of it. About noon we started back for lunch when Dad started acting funny. He turned off the boat and sat down heavily on the deck.
“Dad? What's wrong? Why are you on the floor?”. He looked up at me with eyes full of pain and grunted that I would have to steer back to camp. Scared out of my wits, I fumbled with the key and tried to copy what I had seen him do so many times. When I eventually got the boat started again, I could barely keep it going in the same general direction, my hands were shaking so much. Dad was still sitting, breathing hard with his hand on his chest, face ashen. Even then, terrified as I was, I wondered at the gray color his face was. I've never seen that shade in somebody's face before.
I had no idea where we were as we had camped in a different place, so I never saw the rocks. The next thing I knew I was in the water, gasping for air. It filled my mouth and surrounded me; it was so dark I panicked. I was a good swimmer though and eventually I fought my way to the surface. I swam over to the rocks and huddled among the remains of the boat. Dad never came up to sit with me. I managed to cry myself to sleep on the rocks that night, waiting for him.
The next morning I dragged myself back to camp and only then did I wonder about getting back home. I couldn't drive the pickup back and there was no way I was going use the boat now. I wound up packing everything that I could and walking home. It took me three days of walking and dragging all my stuff along the side of small country roads, but I made it. When I got home I just walked in the front door and fell into Mom's arms sobbing.
“Oh darling, what's wrong? Where is your father? Why are you carrying all your things?”, I tearfully explained, and Mom left. I don't know where but she screwed her lips tightly together and stomped out the door. She didn't say a word, she just left. Somehow I went to unpack, silent tears coursing down my cheeks the whole time. I couldn't stop crying for weeks and at the funeral I bawled unashamedly.
Now at 17 I still can't cry. It's like I used up all my tears that month.

Wow. Sad chapter.

Yesh :3

Aww, that's so sad!! When I was reading chapter two, I had these tingles going through me. xD Idk why I get those feelings, but it's a good thing about your story, lol, and I'm pretty sure that means I was feeling really bad for the MC. xD Keep writing. :3

Thankeys! ^_^ I'm writing more now :3

Awesome so far. What was her dad sick with?

He had a heart attack, I think. Anways, Chapter 3
Chapter 3-Freewrite:




“Samantha Alice! Get your nose
out of that book!”I sighed and shut the book. My Art teacher
insists on calling me by my full name, which I hate, but I can't do
anything about it. Everybody calls me Sam, or face the consequences.
But she's my Art teacher so there is no consequences. And now
apparently if I've finished my painting before time is up, I can't
read.


I've read my book several times
now and I'm still not satisfied with the ending. I'm tempted to
re-write it but I've never tried to write anything before. Well, that
short story about my pet dog when I was 5 doesn't count. But I know I
could make the ending better, or at least continue the story so we're
not left wondering about what happened.

The evening when I got home, I
just changed out of my school clothes, grabbed a notebook and a
pencil, and left. Mom stayed staring at the television. I went to my
favorite place in the back of our property. It's a huge tree towering
over a brook in the very back of our woods. Over the years it's been
almost my second home and I've furnished it well. I have seats and
shelves, and they're very well worn. I scrambled up into my favorite
of the seats and opened my notebook. I heard somewhere that a
freewrite helps when you first start writing so I put pencil to page,
and wrote.

Three hours later I was still
writing and sobbing. I poured my heart out onto those pages and it
felt good. I must have written a thousand poems, and a lot of
disconnected words that didn't make sense. I didn't care about my
awful spelling, or poor grammar, I just wrote. At about 11pm I ran
out of words and crept back to the house. And I was crying.

Sad chapter as well, but it's nice. I think I'll go post another chap for Cages.

Yeah, the whole thing is turning out sad :3 Ooh, yes! Post another chapter!

Awww. xD Sad again, but I liked that chappie. Keep writing!

Oh my garsh! I love this keep it up!

Chapter 4-Looking:





The next morning I decided that I
loved to write and promptly went out and bought the proper tools. I
got a bunch of colored notebooks and glittery pens; I felt great. For
the next couple of months I threw myself into writing and didn't
notice anything else. I applied myself to my characters and withdrew
even more. I'm sure the few people who noticed me minded but I was
happy. Happier then I'd been in a long time.

Person who used to be my friend:
“What are you doing Sam? You know a pen and a book is no substitute
for a life. Come to my party on Saturday! Lot's of fun!” I just
stared at her as she flipped her bleach-blond died hair, sending a
wave of expensive perfume up my nose, and left. Yeah, people think
I'm weird already, and most think that this “writing crap” just
pushed me over the edge to the outcast level of geekyness. But I
don't really care, I like being an outcast; nobody bothers me. I can
be alone and think. Or write.

I created my own world it seemed
like, and it's much better then the real one. But writing had opened
my tear ducts again. It's odd how I can cry now. Even my mom noticed
it, the day when she found me weeping in my room over a book.

“Oh, darling, you're crying!”I
gave her as sour a look as I could muster while sobbing.

“Yes, Mom, I'm crying. This is
a sad book...” And she gave me a hug. Which is just about the
oddest thing that has ever happened to me. But I hugged her back and
found it wasn't so bad. Later I wondered if I was turning into a sap.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

About 6 months later I noticed
that I was bored. That's right, I was bored. My writing didn't
satisfy me anymore and nothing else was interesting. I started to go
to parties with people I hardly knew just to do something on Saturday
night. One thing I noticed was that there was almost always lots of
drinking, and sometimes even drug trafficking, etc. That did not
float my boat at all so I soon stopped going to those. But I was
still bored. I tried a lot of stuff over the next two years or so,
trying to find something interesting to do. I must say, that I messed
myself up a lot during those two years and I have the scars to prove
it. I went back to my writing eventually and found it gripping again
after discarding everything else.

I finished my first book about 3
years after I started it, as during the process I moved twice and
quit writing in the middle. I never tried to get it published though;
I was too lazy I guess... I named it The Abduction Of Me and happily
sent it to all my distant relatives instead. None of them ever
responded in regards to the book itself so I'm guessing it wasn't too
good, despite what my mom said. But I was hooked.

I then went on to start and
discard ideas for about a thousand books and compilations. Mom was
actually very supportive throughout the tedious process, in spite of
me being 300 miles away in college. Eventually after much teeth
gnashing, hair pulling, and throwing notebooks across the room, I
finished my second novel. Hesitatingly, I presented it to my friends
and family. Some exclaimed over it; “Oh, that is a wonderful story!
You have a beautiful talent! Never stop writing, this is perfect!”
and others turned up their noses at it; “Oh, that's alright.
Childish and crude, but it might sell.”

So I chopped up my poor bitty novel
according to the wishes of everybody else, and sent it out like a
mutilated puppy awaiting it's sad fate. Every single editor I sent it
to said something to the effect of; “Oh, new writer, huh? Well this
isn't quite what we're looking for, come back later”, and sent me
packing. I must have submitted that stupid book to a hundred
magazines, newspapers, and websites. I got 0 to take me up on it. I
felt like I would never break out.

Wow. Just...wow.

Is that a good thing? Cause wow can mean a lot of different things...

Its AWESOME

Hehe, thank you :3

Awesome! I hope she get's published!

Me too! That's what I'm trying to figure out x] I think I like the way it's turning out...

The newest chapter was great! It's cool to read stuff about writers. :3

I finally have the next chapter! xD

Chapter 5-Peter:
After that first failed attempt, I
wondered if I should continue with this notion of writing novels. But
it seemed like my characters were real people, like they would die if
I wasn't there to put them on paper. So I returned to the world of
Alex, Matthew, and Johanna to try to bring them back to life. I
signed up for a writing class at a local college, hoping it would
inspire me to write these people out of my head.

I arrived at the first class
almost bouncing with excitement. Walking in the door, the first thing
I noticed was the seeming lack of people. Only about 6 people sat in
the room in front of me. Glancing at the clock to make sure I wasn't
too early, I plopped in the empty seat by the only guy in the room.

“Hi”, I said un-originally as I
opened my notebook.

“What's up”, He replied, more
as a statement then a question.

After a few moments of silence I
asked, “So how'd you find this place? Doesn't look like too many
others did.”

“I found this on the Internet,
actually. I was hoping more people would be here too.”, He said
casually, twirling his pen between his fingers.

“Me too, actually. Google is my
friend.” We traded smiles. “Oh, how silly of me. My name is
Sam.”, I said, extending my hand.


He seemed a bit taken aback at
the gesture, but returned the handshake warmly. “I'm Peter. Nice to
meet you Sam.”I suppressed a smile and let my eyes wander over
Peter's features.

My gaze was greeted by a pleasant
composition of steel gray eyes, a wide, lazy smile, and thick, curly
hair the color of chocolate. A thorough dusting of freckles blanketed
an impish nose. His eyes intrigued me. At first glance, they were
warm, soft, open, but when I looked deeper I could see a hard edge to
his glance. I wondered why there was this sharpness to the gray of
his eyes. The coldness seemed out of place in his soft face.

He must have felt my stare, for he
raised his head and our eyes met. His gaze carried a questioning air,
and I ducked my head in embarrassment. Feeling my cheeks burning, I
glanced his way again. But then his head rose again as our instructor
entered the room.

For the next hour we listened to a
Mrs. Sonata drone on and one about the mechanics of writing. The only
thing that kept the lecture interesting was passing notes with Peter.
It almost made me laugh, to be back in a classroom, passing notes.

When the class ended, Peter and I
went our separate ways. I returned to my apartment feeling drained,
and more confused then ever.