Dreams Ended By Memories
Adrenaline coursing, I sat, a permanent smile on my face, taking in every word of praise from my fans. My hand had long passed cramping and was going numb with every signature I penned inside the covers, across posters, on the fans themselves.. This was by far the largest book signing I’d had.
I was glad I was not claustrophobic, because the press of bodies was intense, the cacophony of sound as much a wall as the mass of fans. Some had been in line for 45 minutes, they said, sweating over their smiles, overjoyed to make small talk with me.
And who was I but a lowly midwestern writer who had never seen the ocean, never flown in a plane before this book?
As each face began to blend into the other, I noticed a commotion. I ignored it, knowing the bookstore had provided staff for arguments. Keep the event light and cheery. I focused on the young face before me.
Then a loud yell. A smack on the table. The crowd went silent.
“You stole my memories!” screamed my main character, the spitting image of her.