We Will Become Silhouettes

Krisserin spent the day head down admiring her shoes. She admired the snake skin texture, it was the small distinction she was looking for when she was shopping for her new black flats. She admired them while she walked out to take a smoke break. Sitting down on the concrete planter she peered down at them and lit her cigarette. It was the last one she was going to smoke. She hoped she enjoyed it.

It was one of those Fridays that never seemed to end. Sure she had work to do, but she didn't want to do it. She was distracted. Tired maybe. Ready to start the weekend and curl up on the corner of the couch she favored when reading a new book. She imagined tucking her toes between the cushions trying to keep them warm.

Would she be interrupted? Would she have to mindfully put her book on her lap and look up at her husband, try to follow his excited mumblings about physics, math and the incompetence of his classmates? Would she have to try hard not to seem like she wanted to find a hasty retreat back into her book? Would she have to pretend that she wouldn't rather escape into story land?

When she escaped into a book the story formed a veil over her. Time and place disappeared when she read the story. She could paint a vivid picture of the landscape of her book. Could feel the pine needles crack under the feet of her heroine. Could imagine using her own inexperienced hands to pull back the wires of the bow. Focus on her target, shoot and kill even though she'd never held a bow and arrow in her life.

She preferred living in story land--couldn't really conceive of living without it. It was her saving grace. She wanted to be Katniss, that bold hero who could face any challenge. She figured if it were her, she could fare the same. She liked to imagine it that way.

Could she write something as compelling and perfectly crafted? Why couldn't people get as excited about these stories as she did? Would they get excited when they read her stories? When would the seed of inspiration be implanted in her own mind to blossom into a story like The Hunger Games? When would she compose her own opus? Or would she always be on the sidelines, watching as others won the race? Would she be old and withered? Too weathered to appreciate her success? Or could she accomplish what she wanted—to be a published and successful by 30?