Hello all who know me from the Stand By Me fandom, I am trying out a new fandom and hello all who know me as a reviewer for the Narnia fandom- something that I have been doing for quite a while now. Well, I am FINALLY writing a Narnia fanfic so hope you like, please review!

Grass grew tall in the eastern countryside. Tiger lilies grew among the tall grasses. The wind, so strong and harsh, almost pressed everything flat. An angry gray became the sky, and loud thunder sent the small raindrops hurtling to the ground. A small child stood in the middle of it all. She stood on her tip-toe and strained to see the great house beyond the bending grasses. She couldn't have been a day over five. Her face was twisted into a grimace, and her chest puffed in and out with huge sobs. Where am I? she thought. What am I doing here? "MUMMY!!" she screamed. "MUMMY!"

I glanced down at the sheet of paper I was doodling on. Frowning in concentration and discontent. It was there, all right. It had probably been always, but now it was clearer than ever. Everybody else had forgotten. But I hadn't. I would never forget for as long as I live. Fiddling unconsciously with the locket around my neck, (a habit I had picked up over the years) I wondered if they would've forgotten me, like this place did- in a way. I wondered what kind of welcome I would receive in the land of my birth- I had long since forgotten the name.

Heather is my name, and Finchley is where I have been living for the past ten years. Before that, I do not remember. I was the town's mystery. Apparently, when I was 5, I showed up on a random doorstep, owning nothing but my name and the silver pendant I wore around my neck. I still have that pendant to this day. It's the strangest thing, with some kind of eight-pointed star in the center of it. But, that's how I became a Rosenberry, even though I've been living so long with them, I may as well have been born into the family. Anyhow, seemingly a lifetime later, the town seems to have forgotten, or just accepted it and moved on. I was no longer the town's mystery. Now I was the town's pest. Let's just say I wouldn't take a load of rubbish from anybody. For these past few months, even years, it felt like my life was going both uphill and downhill, only at the same time. Everybody loathed me it seemed, except my family, who didn't really like me that much anyhow. Probably because I got into fights pretty often. Fighting was my nature. Fighting was my nature, and nobody accepted that. I was the odd one out, so if I had come from around here, why would I be so violent? Another reason my past wasn't worth forgetting about.

And now, something was going on. Something that I could sense millions of miles away, even though others couldn't. Finchley was no different, nor were the people of it. Some days I thought I was crazy, but today I know I'm onto something. It was something, speaking to me and me alone: my past. I doodled idly on my paper. This was it; I swear this was it. It was somewhere in the back of my head, and I only had a few single images of it, like single frames out of a damaged film reel. But, it was all here, or it all would be, very soon. I have never been so close to my past as I was now. These visions were almost as vivid as real life. The answer, the full answer, would be granted soon. The key to my past.

"Rosenberry!" My eyes shot up to the teacher's voice that had immediately changed from the buzz of a fly to a loud, booming vacuum cleaner. "Since you are obviously so intent on learning in this class, will you please tell us how Dickens began upon writing as a career?"

Hmmm. Dickens? Dunno. I've never read anything by him, and I really don't care to read anything by him. Why doesn't this class preach modern literature?" I yawned audibly. I couldn't help it. English really was such a bore. I wasn't trying to anger my darling teacher. English Literature really was that boring.

My teacher glared expectantly at me. Today I couldn't even remember his name. Dickens… let's see…

"Didn't he write A Christmas Carol first?"

Several people snickered. Some good-naturedly, (those of whom appreciated some good civil lack of respect) and the majority patronizingly. (those of whom thought I was off my rocker) Mr. Nameless Teacher bored into my eyes, tapping his pointer in his hand as if desiring very much to hit me with it. "Sir Charles Dickens began his career as a reporter." Oh no, the big speech. "His first published success was The Pickwick Papers, followed by Oliver Twist, which I am fairly sure the majority of you have heard of…" He glared conspicuously at me. Oh, so Oliver Twist came first! Or second, but I've never heard of The Pickwick Papers. Though I was just guessing by earliest age of the characters. How old was Tiny Tim? Ten?

...

I get off with a warning, basically nothing to me. I growled, grabbing my satchel from under my desk and leaving the now-almost-deserted classroom. I was in a pretty lousy mood about this. Usually he hit me with a ruler. I don't care to avoid anything, thank you very much. Why couldn't he just hit me and that be the end of it?

"Heather, have you worked on that frou-frou accent of yours?" A voice growled in my ear, menacing, intimidating.

I was not in the mood for this. "At least I don't sound like an idiot like you do, Bennett."

Charlie Bennett was one of the most annoying kids in my grade. He would make the stupidest comments, probably meaning them to be insults, and then expect to get everybody riled up. That never worked. He would never make it as a bully, no matter how hard he tried.

"Oh, and before I forget, Mr. Lynch wants to see you again in his classroom, Rosenberry." Ah... Mr. Lynch, that was his name.

Bennett smirked and walked away, and I rolled my eyes again. I really didn't mind when people made fun of my accent, because it's not as bad as all the other things they've said about me. A sock in the face and a purple bruise on my cheek aren't worth getting because of the way I talk.

But I've never heard anybody else with an accent like mine. I don't even know what it is. There's not a bit of English in it. A slight lilt, people (aka Bennett) tell me, yet no Spanish accent, either. And I was sent away to America with my siblings last year when we all had to leave, and I came back to Fincheley even more confused. So, I eventually decided that it wasn't worth pondering about and incriminated it on my unknown past.

I was up in my room, trying to read a book for English class. Incidentally, it was called A Christmas Carol and incidentally, it was by Charles Dickens. Apparently, the assignment was unbeknownst to other classmates, and incidentally, I had a 1,000 word essay on why the book was a classic. Incidentally I apparently had to read said essay aloud to my entire class. Okay, so my teacher had punished me after all, but why the bloody hell is he making me read a children's book? This is so humiliating! He could hit me with a ruler ten dozen times and I wouldn't look like such a fool! I fumed. Why is this book a classic anyway? I'm no novelist!

I fumed for another good ten minutes, and to describe that would be an utter waste of time. Even I admit it, I can be very repetitive sometimes. That's how I know I'm not a novelist. Just one more time, let me say it was stupid. Very, very stupid and pointless. And then, what had happened just earlier that day began to happen again. I began seeing things. Trees, so many of them, tall, their limbs stretching high above themselves. A blue, cloudy sky, the sun peeking through a hole in a cloud, illuminating a path down from the sky. Flowers, and flower nymphs that floated around and whispered in your ear, if you came close enough. A lush and beautiful place… just like a child's dream. I scrambled on my feet and grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper, quickly scribbling out the beginning of my English essay. Lord knows I would have abandoned it long ago if I hadn't been so young when it began. I scowled imperiously, as I always did. I was no child. I had no time for fairy tales. But I did have time for where I once was, where I never had the chance to live. If people had to defend themselves on a regular basis there, it couldn't be all that bad. In fact, if it's such a contrast from this place I inhibit now, it'd be great. If only…

"Heather! Dinner time!"

"Coming!" I rose, cursing under my breath at being interrupted… again. Every time I began getting these visions, something got in the way. The only time I could ponder without limit was at nighttime, when the whole world was finally kind enough to stop pestering me because it was asleep, and it was too tired to scold me to do the same.