A/N: This is based on a true story. And although it isn't inspiration as to why I started writing, it's inspiration for this particular story. I had fun writing this and hope everyone has fun reading it.

P.S My name's not Dana!

Inspiration from blowing bubbles? I bet that sounds weird. Inspiration from eating bubbles? I bet that sounds weirder.

When people are asked why they write, what do you think they say? Most say because it’s a release; others say they thought of something and just had to write it down.

I say I want to get emotions on paper- capture a moment, much like taking a picture.

My inspiration comes from my own backyard.

*****

It was me and him, dancing and sliding between the bubbles. Give any five-year-old a bottle of this stuff and they can be entertained for hours (or until it runs out). Me and Danny decided to play a ridiculous game of collecting bubbles on our tongue.

So simple, yet so much fun.

Despite the horrid dish-soap taste, we kept at it. Me on my own planet, hurrying to blow bubbles so it looks like an infinite amount. Danny, my best friend and a boy my mother couldn’t get enough of, was welcome to my home for hours doing the same.

As the bubbles floated above us, I saw something- something so spectacular that I disregarded everything else. It was a bubble. But not just any bubble, oh no. It was probably the size of a man’s fist. The plethora of colors made it a beauty so divine.

I had to have it. I, out of my stupidity, thought it looked scrumptious. I stuck out my tongue and waited for the newly renowned “Butterfly” (of course I named it!) to land.

Little did I know how close me and Danny were.

I shifted slightly because Butterfly was changing direction, and landed a huge wet one on Danny.

He was trying to steal my treat!

I jumped backward in disgust, and landed softly into a rainbow of leaves. Disappointment flooded my dark features. My snack was gone, ruined by the now unforgivable Danny.

“Danny! What the heck! That was mine!”

“Sorry Dana, I didn’t know!” And yet he had on a satisfied smirk.

I was infuriated. I would’ve been bright red if it were possible.

“Ugh! You big, fat, meanie face!” I bellowed. “I don’t have Butterfly, and now I have icky cooties!”

“Nuh uh! Both our Mommies said cooties are not real!”

“So. This is your fault, still. You did that on purpose,” I protested.

His smirk twisted into a grin as he retorted, “Yeah. I did.”

I believe the only word that could truly describe my feelings at that point is flabbergasted. That wasn’t what I was expecting.

“Danny? Danny, come. Let’s go!” his mom called in her thick Caribbean accent, much like my parents. I hadn’t even heard her arrival.

He leaned in close to me, stepping over the spilled bottle of bubbles. I felt his warm breath as he whispered, “Thanks for letting me come today, Dana. I had fun.” And with that he galloped away, leaving me motionless with my mouth ajar.

I tried to blink, but my eyelids wouldn’t budge. My lungs were deprived of oxygen, but the air just wouldn’t circulate.

What the heck was that? To this day, I still don’t know. I had sprinted up the steps of the house to my room, ignoring my mom’s calls.

I couldn’t control myself. My pink walls started to blur and fade into the distance. Writing was putting on a marionette act with me as the puppet. I grabbed a blank white sheet of construction paper, my favorite Winnie the Pooh pen, and sprawled across the floor, lying on my stomach to try and capture the moment and gain understanding.

I’m surprised the paper didn’t catch fire by the intense friction at the speed of my writing; my hands raced across the page. I had fetched several more sheets, for one wasn’t nearly enough. I constantly ripped the pages here and there.

And the feeling. Man oh man, the feeling. It was… exhilarating.

Years later, although I don’t write on construction paper, my handwriting isn’t chicken scratch, and the Winnie the Pooh pen is replaced by any regular old pencil, the tradition remains the same.

Inspiration works in odd ways.