I’m in a flash fiction class this semester. That means it’s fiction and it’s short. Hey, guess what I don’t do.
(insert lesbian joke here)
Right you are, I don’t write fiction. Not normally. Not naturally.
But now I do. I’m working on this flash fiction piece right now that’s a little magical realism-ish. Well, I’ll just let you read it. YOU GUYS, I need suggestions. Also, I need an ending. Making shit up is hard. I mean, do you ever think? Is fiction harder for you guys, or easier? How much do you base your own fiction on real life?
Most importantly, WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH THIS STORY? It’s flash: it has to end. It has to be cohesive and tight.
READERS, lend me your insight. If it’s good, maybe I’ll run away with your suggestions, write them grandly, and then post about it next week. Make it good, baby cakes.
11:39 PM. January 26, 1999.
3500 STATESMAN DRIVE
WEST LAFAYETTE, IN
During a celebratory, end of *SiXtH gRAde* sleepover, Camille Wright touched the satin brass of Rachel Marshall’s bathroom doorknob and simultaneously became aware of the insides of her body.
For the full fifteen years of her life, Camille ’s organs, nestled within her body cavity, had functioned properly. Quietly. Almost subversively, in that she was not aware of their goings on.
Prior to this moment, Camille Wright could not have told you what her organs did. She could not even have told you, definitively, what organs she possessed. They hardly mattered. Her organs had no aspirations (beyond simply being organs), took little offense to being ignored, and carried out their roles without consulting her.
In this moment, they were equally incommunicado. For Camille, it was simply as if her insides had been asleep, and then awoken. She felt her esophagus. She flexed the striated muscles there, and knew the course skin that stretched over them.
She swallowed and did not know the word for her peristaltic contractions, but felt them pass through the upper and lower esophageal sphincters as easily as she would have felt your hand squeeze her thighs.
She knew the J-shape bend of her stomach, could trace the outline for you with her fingertips against the soft curve belly.
She could feel the finger-sized villi of her small intestine, the hair-sized microvilli budding off, and knew every centimeter of surface area they added collectively.
She felt the bacteria moving in her gut, fermenting the food there, as clearly as running her tongue over her teeth. She could run her mind over every portion of her body, even her ovaries, paired like peanuts, along the lateral walls of her pelvic cavity—and she suspected these were the culprits behind her awakening.
Once the initial shock of discovery had passed, in a moment, Camille assumed this new, Frankensteinian shock was mundane. Probably every young woman went through this. It made sense. She had been anticipating her first period for over a year now, because Amanda Kinsley had gotten hers while eating ice cream cake (on her own birthday) so really, it was about time.
When she left the bathroom and rejoined her friends at the sleepover, she felt older, mature, a part of the club in which they were already united. She did not know how to explain her transformation in words, so she did not. To her friends on that night, or to anyone else, ever. It was in this way that Camille Wright became aware of her internal organs and no one ever came to learn of it, not one soul.
Her first boyfriend suspected something, but what? He couldn’t tell.
Just that Camille seemed to have far above average orgasms. Body wracking, she sometimes gored holes in his chest, she would bite him so hard.
He was a timid boy, afraid of her animal-like fervor. He jacked-off into a sock before going on dates with her, and rarely invited her back to his place. When she invited him to her house, he would make excuses about dentist appointments and stomach aches, which Camille almost always believed—because she was in love and because she thought he was equally aware of his own body.