Aspiring writer has always been one title that I’ve used to describe who I am. Although writing is a huge part of my professional career, I’ve really done little to support my fiction writing aspirations. In the effort to pursue dreams and remove ‘aspiring’ from that title, I’ve decided to leverage this blog and, at the very least, start writing short stories.

Below is my first pass at the start of a short story that has been in the making for years. It’s absolutely fiction, but inspired by a number of dreams and a few real life experiences. Since I’m using my blog as a publishing medium, I welcome feedback and promise to continue the story as soon as my creative juices return.

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School of Wonder

“I’m the doctor. You’re the patient. Now stop moving and keep your voice down.”

Daniel was over at my house, like so many times before, but this time we weren’t playing board games or rummaging through the backyard. This time we were in my peach-painted bedroom. My bed, perpendicular to the open window, was decidedly confused as was its sole occupant, me. I lay still under the pink covers with my Osh Gosh Bgosh overalls unbuckled and my blue tee pulled up to my armpits, revealing my pale white chest and navel to the pastel pink sheets atop my body and the intruding hand of a seven year-old boy, a hand that acted to separate the sheets from my skin. The door was closed and the air was thick with my unease.

With the pristine innocence of a six year-old girl I asked, “Why do we need to be quiet?” Daniel’s response was inaudible as he held the index finger of his right hand to his mouth. He motioned for silence and I acquiesced. What I didn’t know then was that Daniel’s hands, maneuvered by his male curiosity, were getting ready to explore the differences between my prepubescent body and his.

For me, six and sex were worlds apart. I wasn’t aware that my body parts were any different from a boy’s parts. A body to me was simply a vehicle through which I traversed the world. The naked body of a Barbie was my only frame of reference, but the only difference I could find between Barbie and Ken’s edenic state were Barbie’s boobs, which were nowhere to found on my body. So when Daniel stood beside my bed with his surgical tools, LEGO bricks and toy cars, my body was still but my conscience was turning a shade of ripe peach, not quite pink and definitely not blood red, but slightly exhibiting the first signs of guilt, of an awareness that something was not okay.

Before today Daniel and I had touched lips once in an experimental attempt at a kiss, and a mere replication of the behavior of our big kid friends and the adults on television. I certainly didn’t know to associate kissing with pleasure or touching with sexual desire. Those concepts were beyond my cognitive level of understanding. Daniel’s fascination with exploring an adult realm was perceived by me to be another game, like sticking our hands in dark crevices or holding our breath under water. It started with pure intentions.

The toy car, guided by the preciseness of Daniel’s hand, drove along the slight curvature of my undefined hips and skirted past the waistline border created by my overalls. Just as the toy car was inching closer to a garage of sorts, we both heard the unmistakable creaking of the stairs. We froze in terror as the steps on the stairs increased in volume and echoed throughout the two-story house. This time the steps would venture down the hall, past my room, and into the adjacent den. This time Daniel and I would have the presence of mind to pull down my blue tee, re-buckle my overalls, and re-make the bed. But this was just the first time and time would prove less fortunate for the both of us.

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