Love is All You Need - A Paul McCartney FanFiction

I've been reading a selection of fan fictions as of late and I haven't found many that I really liked! So, I thought I'd try my hand at a fanfiction :) I haven't written one in a while. But I absolutely adore Paul McCartney! A bit about this story that you should know. The main character is twenty-one years old. I also bend reality quite a bit, because she is also George Harrison's sister. It's going to be a bit of a different story, but I love what it has become thus far! So, I hope you enjoy it as well!

Created by brittcoop on Tuesday, June 01, 2010

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I laid under a large apple tree that grew unruly in the yard behind my large, white, Victorian house. The sun was warm, the shade cool. I was deep into my favourite novel, living in a fictional world far, far away.

It was peaceful. No cars driving about, no sounds of the busy city--miles and miles from my home. It was a restful, relaxing day, all to myself.

Until four o’clock, at any rate. I finished up the last couple pages of the book before closing it triumphantly. I pressed it close to my chest, and smiled.

I waited a couple moments before propping myself up and climbing back to my feet. I waltzed through my large backdoor and into the bright kitchen at the back of the house. The walls were painted a vibrant yellow, which began to dull earlier that summer.

I glanced upward at the ticking clock on the wall: 3:54.

I placed the hard-cover gently on the kitchen counter before setting my sights on the refrigerator. I grabbed the carton of milk and placed it, temporarily, on the granite. I reached up to the cupboard and took down a glass, filling it with cold milk.

I heaped a pile of cookies onto a small glass plate and placed the milk next to it at the circular table in the center of the large room.

I had just put the milk away and sat down atop a chair when I heard the door slam shut at the front of the house. I leaned back and waited.

“I hate school! I’m never going back!”

I smiled, “Why do you hate school?”

“I just do!” my little brunette growled, throwing her backpack onto the floor.

“Cali, your bag doesn’t go there. Take out your homework and then put your bag away--you can have your snack once you do that.”

She rolled her big green eyes, “Fine.”

The frustrated little girl through her books onto the table before shuffling down the long hallway, dragging her bag effortlessly behind her. She threw it into the front closet and then quickly returned to the kitchen to snack on her cookies.

“Alright,” I sighed once she’d sat down, “Let’s hear it, then.”

“The girls are all mean to me.”

“Mean?” I frowned, “Why?”

Cali shrugged, sipping at her milk, “Because I have no father.”

I studied her silently for a fleeting second, she didn’t seem personally bothered by the information.

“No, but you have Uncle George! And you’ve got me! That’s close, right?”

“Sure, Mum.”

I groaned, “What do the children say?”

“That I’m a freak.” The youngster stuffed a cookie into her gaping mouth, “They say that their mums call you a tramp. Whatever that is.”

I gasped, “A tramp? Cali, don’t repeat that word.”

“What’s it mean?” she asked me curiously with big, innocent eyes.

“That’s unimportant.” I reach across the table and stroked her cheek gently, “The main point is that you may not have a father, but you’ve got me. I love you very, very much.”

She swallowed hard, chasing down the snack with milk, “Yeah, I love you, too. I like not having Dad around--I didn’t like him.”

“How do you even remember that?” I snickered, “You were just a baby!”

“I don’t,” she explained stubbornly, “I just remember always hating him! But, I don’t anymore. It’s just, like, accepted.”

At five years old, my daughter was sometimes more mature than myself. I wished she’d just be a child, sometimes. She knack for knowledge; she was well above the average of her peers. She loved to read and she retained information very well. A very smart girl.

“So,” she continued after another cookie, “are you really a tramp?”

I choked, “Calico Hannah Garrioch! What did I just say about repeating that word?”

She shrugged uncaringly.

“Finish your snack and then get started on that homework,” I ordered strictly. “What have we got this afternoon?”

“I need to colour squares,” she whined, “And write my weekly journal. I never have anything exciting to write about, Mum.”

“Sure, you do! We, um,” I faltered, wracking my brain, “we went and saw a film last weekend! Write about that!”

Cali rolled her eyes, “That’s so boring, Mum. Most of the other kids write about their fishing trips! Or dinner parties their parents have! Or, Claire’s parents just had a baby boy two weeks ago. They named him James.”

I laughed at my daughter’s short attention span, as well as her undeniable attention to detail.

“Anyway,” she continued with a sigh, “Claire can write about that for the rest of the school year, Mum! I’ve got nothing!”

I threw my face into my palm, shaking my head.

“What?” Cali asked, clearly annoyed.

I looked up at her through my fingers, “You have a lot to write about. Write about me! I’m exciting, am I not?”

“No, you are not.” she argued.

I narrowed my brows, “Cali, you’re being picky.”

I rose from my chair and over to the calendar.

“And besides,” I called over my shoulder, “you’ve got a lesson with your uncle tonight--so just pick something to write about and get it done.”

She groaned, “You and Uncle George are so boring!”

I chuckled, “We are, are we? Well, perhaps I’ll ring him and tell him he’d best not come over tonight.”

“No!” she rushed, “Don’t! I’ll just write about my lessons, I guess.”

I smiled triumphantly as she got to work.

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