(no subject)
Taylor had imagined herself into all kinds of odd and elaborate scenarios in her life. With so much of her childhood spent alone, she'd turned to the comforts of a vivid imagination and there had been no shortage of exhilarating escapades.
There was, however, a vast difference between the things a nine year old girl conjured up when left to her own devices and the utterly bizarre truth of living on a magical island in the middle of nowhere, inhabited by people who had once lived only on the page, on the screen and in her mind. As relieved as she was to be away from Newport, the possibility of running into her mother and the looming disaster of going to see Henri-Michel's lawyer -- although the Summer-provided revelation that the divorce had indeed gone through was a relief in its own right -- it had taken her a week or two to feel absolutely certain that this was not just the product of a mental breakdown brought on by severe stress.
Of course, seeing just who all lived around these parts certainly didn't help. Once she'd started to settle in, even finding a place of her own, Taylor had turned to back issues of the local paper to get a better idea of just where she'd landed herself. Doing a bit of research into island history seemed like such a good way to know the place better. The trouble with that was, she found, the newspaper read like the most demented fan fic Taylor had ever had the misfortune to come across.
Not that it was poorly written so much as the events chronicled therein were simply a lot to believe. Even the names in the bylines were enough to make a girl starstruck at times, nevermind those in the articles themselves. Sprawled out on her stomach, laid flat on a towel down by the beach, Taylor leafed through yet another issue, making her way closer to the present. A small stack of the papers -- newsletters, really -- beside her, she scanned the next in the pile with her legs swinging overhead.
"Caperer isn't even a word," she scoffed. "And that's totally not Spider-Man --"
A wind off the water caught at the papers and, before she could stop them, a few began to blow away. As she slammed a hand on top of the rest and struggled up to her knees, she glanced over at someone walking nearby. "Excuse me, sorry, hi, ooh, can you help me just grab those back real quick?" Just because there were no littering laws didn't mean there was no room for being conscientious.
There was, however, a vast difference between the things a nine year old girl conjured up when left to her own devices and the utterly bizarre truth of living on a magical island in the middle of nowhere, inhabited by people who had once lived only on the page, on the screen and in her mind. As relieved as she was to be away from Newport, the possibility of running into her mother and the looming disaster of going to see Henri-Michel's lawyer -- although the Summer-provided revelation that the divorce had indeed gone through was a relief in its own right -- it had taken her a week or two to feel absolutely certain that this was not just the product of a mental breakdown brought on by severe stress.
Of course, seeing just who all lived around these parts certainly didn't help. Once she'd started to settle in, even finding a place of her own, Taylor had turned to back issues of the local paper to get a better idea of just where she'd landed herself. Doing a bit of research into island history seemed like such a good way to know the place better. The trouble with that was, she found, the newspaper read like the most demented fan fic Taylor had ever had the misfortune to come across.
Not that it was poorly written so much as the events chronicled therein were simply a lot to believe. Even the names in the bylines were enough to make a girl starstruck at times, nevermind those in the articles themselves. Sprawled out on her stomach, laid flat on a towel down by the beach, Taylor leafed through yet another issue, making her way closer to the present. A small stack of the papers -- newsletters, really -- beside her, she scanned the next in the pile with her legs swinging overhead.
"Caperer isn't even a word," she scoffed. "And that's totally not Spider-Man --"
A wind off the water caught at the papers and, before she could stop them, a few began to blow away. As she slammed a hand on top of the rest and struggled up to her knees, she glanced over at someone walking nearby. "Excuse me, sorry, hi, ooh, can you help me just grab those back real quick?" Just because there were no littering laws didn't mean there was no room for being conscientious.