My big brown dictionary usually sat undisturbed on its shelf, free to gather dust, but today I took it down, and cracked it open. Blowing off a thick coat of grime, I flipped through gold edged pages, straight to the F section. After a quick scan of the elaborate text, I saw it. “Friend, someone who freely supports and helps out of goodwill.”
Wiping my eyes, I remembered my friends, and how much they had helped we had been through together. 7 years ago today, I had finished writing my faerytale. Well, what everyone thought was faerytale. It took tweaking and imagining giving my story to the children of England. Accompanied by Tink, Slightly and Nibs, I invented the pseudonym of J.M Barrie I proceeded to write my story.
To me, this was how I felt about our lives. They were supernatural. Lives full of faeries, pirates, and giant Neverbirds. This story was a part of me, and I of it. Writing was my art. To Webster, art was “the use of imagination to create things of human creativity.”
I wrote my story, called it Peter Pan, and submerged into a quiet life. Still, this wasn’t satisfying enough. The real story sat like a stone in my stomach, never told, never set free. I needed to tell my story. The real story, the one pretended to write 7 years prior to today, but today, I dig up memories, skeletons in the closet if you will, and I give you, readers my story, the story of Dahlia “Tink” Samuels, Jack “Slightly” Davis, Journey “Nibs” VanHess and I,Dakota Darling, Peter Pan.