Doctor Who, Twilight If Only It Were True

**Chapter One**

**Cora**

When I woke up that morning, I thought it was going to be like any other day. Ordinary. I hit the snooze a few times, rushed around because I had hit the snooze button, and went to work in the bookstore on Main St. Same old, same old. But everything changed that cloudy morning in October.

I was unpacking a box of books donated by a rich family here in town who could read twenty books a week. Yes, we got a box full every week without fail. There were all sorts of books in the boxes. Historical, Science Fiction, Romance, you name it. This box was like all the others, neatly packed and had an assortment. But, one of the books was a bound leather journal. It was well worn and filled with writings.

At first, I thought it would be rude to snoop in their business, I told myself that I was going to drive to their house after work and return it. But then I got to thinking. This family intrigued me. How could they read so many books? Who has that much time? No one ever sees them. These boxes of books appear overnight. Who are these people? So I read page one. And then page two and three and four. I couldn't put it down. It was amazing. This journal told amazing stories of bravery and courage and friendship and love and passion and it told stories of things that weren't real.

I read the entire journal. Cover to cover. I wanted more. I wanted more of these awesome stories. But more than that, I wanted these tales to be true. Of course, I am a 22 year old woman; I know these stories can't possibly be true. But the way they were written, it made me want to believe in them so much more. So, after a lot of controversy between myself and myself, I decided to visit their house after work, return the journal, and ask about the stories.

I couldn't stop thinking about that journal. All day. Stories of vampires and space travel and extraordinary people flooded my thoughts. I couldn't wait until I got off work. I had googled their name and found their address. After the lengthy day, I got into my little bug and drove way out into the woods in hopes of finding this family's house and not getting murdered.

After about an hour and driving, getting lost and looking at the map, I pulled up to a three story Victorian mansion. As I parked my car, I noticed people sitting on the porch. Many people. Maybe ten? Oh goody. Just what I need. I put on my jacket, grabbed the journal and started towards the porch.

A handsome guy around the age of 27 met me at the bottom of the steps to the porch. He introduced himself, "Hello, I am Carlisle. What can I help you with?"

"Well, I work at the bookstore downtown and as I was going through a box of books you donated, I found this journal. Is it yours?" He made me so nervous. I felt the need to speak with proper grammar and be as graceful as possible.

"Can I take a look?" he asked with a charming smile. I handed him the book and he quickly flipped through it then walked up the stairs. I followed him, not wanting to let that journal out of my sight. He gave the book to a lady with chestnut hair and she then passed it to the teenager on her right and so on. There were twelve people on the porch and all of them took a look without saying anything.

After a few minutes of complete silence, one teenager—maybe early twenties—who was the last to look at the book, spoke up. She had a huge head of curly hair, curves in all the right places, and she was beautiful. Everyone on the porch was beautiful though. I mean, like inhumanly beautiful. I felt out of place among their beauty.

The girl with curly hair spoke, "The journal is mine. Those are my stories. It must have gotten mixed up with the books to be donated." She smiled politely at me.

Sometimes, I don't think before I speak. This is one of those times, "Are the stories true?"

"You read my stories? Why?" She replied in a harsh tone that implied she had NOT wanted me to read her stories.

Then the man I had first spoken to, Carlisle, said, "River, she did not do anything wrong. Calm down. You made the mistake of putting the journal in that box." He spoke with such elegance my jaw dropped a little before I reminded myself to close my mouth. I was very glad he was on my side of this.

"I didn't know you would be angry. The stories are quite good. They are very well written. At first I just read the first few pages to see what it was, but then I couldn't stop reading it. I truly am sorry." Another problem I had was realizing when to shut up, what I had just said had not helped my cause. She just grew madder.

"Thank you for returning it," Carlisle said and handed the book to the girl, River. That was my cue to leave

I was dying to know if the stories are true. If they weren't then why would she be so mad? She could just not want people in her business though. That's most likely what it was. But, I knew better than to ask so I thanked the family and headed back out to my car.

During that hour drive back out of the woods and towards my house, I kept thinking about the entire encounter on the porch. I had gotten a good look of everyone. They were beautiful. I had never seen any of them before. I would have remembered that. I wish I had just kept the journal. I still couldn't stop thinking about it. I wanted to turn around and go ask River about those stories. But I shouldn't.

By the time I had gotten home, it was dinner time. Crap. I had made plans with my boy friend. Yes, that would be friend who is a boy. His name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I know he would like for us to be more than friends, but I just don't feel it.

I unlocked the door to my flat, hung my jacket, and found him sitting in my living room. He does this quite frequently—I guess he picks the lock, I haven't ever asked—so I was not surprised. "I forgot. I am so sorry. I had to go drop off a journal. Long story." I said to break the ice.

He exhaled loudly, chuckled, and said, "I have nothing but time." He was too nice. Any normal guy would be pissed that I forgot. This isn't the first time I have left him hanging either. But not him, he was always calm and I didn't deserve that.

"Well, I was unpacking a box of books from that family I have told you about, and I came across this journal. I read the first pages to see what it was and ended up reading the entire journal. It was so good. The stories seemed real. They were about all kinds of things. Space and aliens and other worlds and vampires. I loved it. So, after work, I drove to their house and dropped off the book. Their house is an hour into the woods. The girl was mad that I had read her stories but it worked out okay."

"Why would she be mad?" he asked inquisitively. Sherlock always does this, tries to analyze every detail about the world around him. I took a seat on the couch next to him.

I knew it was rhetorical but I answered anyway, "I have no clue why she got so mad…..unless, the stories are true." I think that was just my heart talking because I want those stories to be true so bad.

"I don't think so Sweetie." He replied. My stomach jumped at his nickname for me, although he calls me that all the time, "I have seen a lot of this world and I have never come across aliens or vampires."

"Not that you know of. What if you didn't know they were?"

"I would know. I don't think I would miss the fangs or the green people." He sounded a little offended that I had just questioned his analyzing skills.

"It's just. The way they were written, it made it seem so real. So true."

"Why don't we go get some Chinese food? I'm starving" he suggested. He was too good for me. I loved him. I really did. But only in a friend kind of way.

As we walked out the door, he said, "Why didn't you take me with you today?"

The real answer to this question was that I hadn't thought to bring him, but for his sake and mine I said, "I didn't know your plans for this afternoon or if you were free."

"I can always clear my schedule for you." He replied. There goes my stomach, doing the jumpy thing again. But I don't like him so why would it do that?

We made small talk all the way through dinner, but in the back of my mind—more like the middle or closer to front—I was thinking about that journal.

"Do you think I should find out more about that journal?" I blurted out. I didn't know if he was in the middle of a sentence or what, but I just interrupted him.

"Well. The journal was never yours. It wasn't your thoughts and doesn't connect to you in any way except that you read it. So no, I don't think you should."

I didn't like his answer so I replied with, "But you didn't read it. The stories were so real. So alive. I felt like I was there."

"Sweetie, they couldn't possibly be real. Vampires and aliens are not real. They just aren't. I'm sorry." We were walking back home from the Chinese place. He put his arms around me and hugged me. This hug felt nice. More than nice actually. It felt wonderful.

"Okay. You want to watch a movie?" By this time we were back at my flat and it was Friday night. It didn't have to mean we were together or we wanted to be together or we were friends with benefits or anything did it? Because I just want to watch a movie with my best friend.

The Lion King was what we decided on. One of our favorites. I cried and I think he shed a tear he didn't want me to see. But I saw and I thought it was kind of cute. We sat right next to each other on the couch. By the end of the movie, I was lying with my head in his lap and he was leaning on the arm of the couch. He ended up spending the night but he slept on the couch and I slept in my room. See? Nothing sexual.

On Saturday, I had a shift at the bookstore which just reminded me of that blasted journal even more. I couldn't get it out of my head.

Here is an excerpt:

"_The Doctor flew the TARDIS into the time vortex with me at his side. I let him fly for once, even though I am better at it. But that's what marriage is about isn't it? Compromises. _

"'_Would you like to see a sea of sapphire on the planet of Ghedlifine, my dear wife?' He knows I will do anything with him. I don't care where we go. I just savor the precious moments we have together."_

It can't possibly be made up. The stories seem so real. I don't care what Sherlock said. I am going to talk to that family after work. Hopefully River will be more willing to talk this time or maybe another family member could tell me the real story.

So after another lengthy day—and making sure I had not made plans with anyone—I drove back into the woods, this time for answers. When I reached the mansion, only a few people were outside. Four teenagers, two boys and two girls. From the way they were standing, it looked like they were couples.

No one came to greet me and I walked up the stairs alone. I have to admit, I was nervous. What if they said no and shot me or something? Luckily, River was not on the porch, which was a plus.

"Hi. I was here yesterday to drop off that journal and…I, uh, came back… b-b-because I had s-s-some questions. I-I-I hope you don't mind." Wow, that was bad. They probably think I am so hillbilly who can't speak properly.

"Yes, we remember you. Thanks again for returning the journal." The girl who spoke was sitting on a guy's lap and she was very petite. Kind of fairy-like. She looked pleasant and like she wasn't going to hurt me. "What are these questions of yours?"

"Oh, uh," I hadn't been expecting her to be so open about all of this, "I was wondering about the stories. Could I talk to the girl, River?"

"I am afraid she has gone out as has the rest of our family. But we four would be willing to answer anything we can."

"Okay then. Are these stories true?"

This time a tall guy with bronzish hair piped up, "The stories are made up."

He said it so matter-of-factly and confidently that I wanted to believe him but I still couldn't. "Have you read them?" This guy was about my age so I wasn't quite so formal.

"Some of them, yes. Did you like them?"

"Truth is. I loved them. I can't get them out of my head."

"I will have to extend your thoughts on her stories onto River. I am sure she will be happy to know someone loved them."

"I didn't seem like she wanted me to read them yesterday. Does she not like her stories? Why was she so angry?" _Why_ is the hardest question to answer. When, where, what, who, and how all have definite answers. But, why, it involves emotion and feelings and thoughts. That's why I love it though. It makes you think just a little bit.

He took a moment to respond. "She doesn't like other people reading her stories. Not because she doesn't think they are good enough, but because they are her own personal thoughts. She was angry that her thoughts weren't just hers anymore. That you knew what went on in her mind."

"I understand that but it was her fault to begin with. I don't know why she was mad at me."

"Who was mad at whom?" The one and only River was walking up the front steps. It looks like she had gotten back earlier than expected.

"Oh. I, uh, I came back by to learn more about your brilliant stories. If they _are _stories?"

"Oh. I want to make an apology about yesterday. I was caught off guard that you had read all of them. I truly am sorry. Why don't you come in and we can chat a little more about my fiction?"

I followed her through the front door of the mansion. The inside was beautiful to say the least. It was modern but yet you could live there. You didn't feel like you were intruding on its beautifulness. Walking in, you saw a living room. There was a red couch and some plush chairs with dark wood furniture and bookcases filled with books. I spotted some of my favorite books right away. To my left was a spiral staircase which leads to the second floor. A bridge connected the two sides of the second floor. Through the living room, I could see a marvelous kitchen with a huge bar and granite countertops and marble floors. It was utterly amazing.

All six of us walked through the living room and gathered in the kitchen. I took a seat at the bar along with the fairylike girl and her boyfriend? and the guy and his girlfriend? River stood on the opposite side of the bar preparing drinks for us all.

6


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Doctor Who, Twilight, Adventure, Sci-Fi