I needed a change. I was eighteen, and I had yet to get my stories out in the world. Fear of not being good enough consumed me, like how a rattlesnake consumed its prey whole. I had this wonderful Star Wars fanfiction in front of me—Rey’s Inner Power—that I thought was my best work up to that point. It was Reading Day in my 12th grade Creative Writing class.

Mrs. Marshall, the best Creative Writing teacher I had, pushed the bridge of her rose-colored glasses close to her freckled-cover bridge. She examined the small classroom that had her nine Creative Writing students in it: all who wore khaki pants and navy blue shirts.

I sat at the front of the class, behind the wooden surface of my desk, with my short story printed out in front of me. There was no crinkle in it, because I had taken good care of it.

Wow, I never thought I would still be writing at this moment. I still had so few friends, but I could care less about that. Who needed friends, anyway? At least, that was the thought running through my brain. Friends were so overrated. All I needed was writing.

“Now, class,” Mrs. Marshall’s heavenly voice said, “who would like to come up and read one of their stories?”

Nobody moved. We exchanged glances with one another and studied each other’s dress code.

I felt like Spongebob, who always got so excited for boating school, much to Mrs. Puff’s disappointment. My legs shook impatiently under the desk. I told them to stop, by slapping them, but they refused. You had 200 stories under your belt, Vika. You only shared them with your dad and older brother.

“Is it time for me to take it up a notch? I thought to myself. No, Vika. You only write for yourself. You don’t write with publishing in mind. Your stories are private.

Were they? Was it considered “private” when I shared them with my family? Ugh! What should I do?

“Don’t be shy, y’all.” There she went with the “y’all”. Mrs. Marshall fixed her emerald green eyes on me. “I’m sure there’s one of you who wants to read.”

Oh, no! She was giving me the puppy face. Although, I didn’t blame her. She loved the idea of the Beast of the Bermuda Triangle.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

She pulled me aside one day, pushed me into her book-filled office, and said, “I will give you two more weeks to finish your assignment,” all while bouncing up and down on her heels. “You can even send it to me, and I’ll edit it!”

The Beast of the Bermuda Triangle ended up being twenty-six pages long—the longest story in the class. That was twenty-six pages via double space in a Word Document. Was 8,000 words even a short story? That seemed more like a novella.

I took a deep breath. Why did I do this? Why did I push myself into the unknown? I picked up Rey’s Inner Power and lifted my hand. “I’ll share.”

The damage was done. There was no turning back.

“Great, Victoria! Take the stage!” Mrs. Marshall moved away from the podium, which was in front of the un-decorated room’s Promethean Board.

I could smell the polish on the surface of the podium. The scent of hydrogen peroxide caused me to gag.

Shivers ran down my spine. I felt like somebody who had just been freed from a hundred-year ice slumber (Aang much?). Sliding out from behind my desk, I rose to my feet. That podium looked like something straight out of Hell.

The Demon King pulled me towards his throne.

Curious faces watched my every movement, as I gave myself to the Devil.

I plopped my story down on his throne’s armrest and gripped either side of it. Was Hell always this hot?

Sweat trickled down my temples. My mind returned to Grandpa’s funeral, when I spoke instead of someone else, because they couldn’t make it. Just like then, my knees knocked together, but I locked them and tossed away the key.

Were writers required to share their works out loud? Was there a place out there, where I could truly be myself, without shaking every time I tried reading one of my stories?

“Hi,” I said, my voice full of nervousness, as I stood up to the Devil and his peers (my classmates). “I wrote a Star Wars fanfiction for the class.”

The Demon King freed me from his clutches. He pulled that fire straight out of Hell, like how the AC ridded a house of summer heat.

My shoulders relaxed, dropping below my chin. I remembered my early years, when all I wrote were Star Wars and Pokémon fanfics. There was one, which was a horrible crossover of the two, called Pokéwars. After that, I started to write originals, because I think Pokéwars scarred me for life.

But then all of a sudden, in 12th grade, I returned to my fanfics, after two years of not writing one. Nostalgia of those early stories bumped my funny bone. Besides, I was already obsessed with Rey from The Force Awakens.

“This story is based on The Force Awakens,” I told the class. “It’s called Rey’s Inner Power.”

I fell into my own black hole, swirled around a few times, and popped out in a whole new galaxy, filled full of other Earth-like planets—the Unknown. My island of personality, like Riley’s in Inside Out,… There it was.

The turn of the century unfolded before my eyes.