Mermaid Dreams and Centaur Wings

I slid onto the oak chair and scooted up to the long, white table. Stacks of my new book stood to my left and right. I reached out and adjusted one that was slightly off-center before a woman marched up and slammed a tome in front of me.

"Four-hundred and sixty-two pages is too much for a book," she grumbled. I flashed my teeth, giving her the smile I'd practiced in the mirror for two, long weeks, and popped the lid off a black pen.

"Who would you like me to make it out for?" I asked, ignoring her sullen scowl.

"Oh," she glanced at the pen and snatched the book back. "I don't want an autograph. That'd ruin the book even worse! No, I just came to give you a piece of my mind! Nobody wants to read long books anymore. Not enough time!"

My agent bumped against the table and nodded at the woman. "Thank you for taking the time to stop by," he said. I fought the urge to roll my eyes as the woman threw one last, daggered look my direction and marched out of the bookstore. Another woman took her place.

"Did that other lady say this book was too long?" she snorted. "Because it's not. It's too damn short. How in the world can you expect to convey such a deep message in so few pages?"

"Would you like me to sign —"

The woman shook her head. " No thanks. Anyone who can't take the time to complete a novel shouldn't be a writer. I've actually come to get my money back." The book fell to the table with a thump. I poked it with the end of my pen, like it was a dead body, and bit my lip.

"Are you sure...?"

"Definitely!" she held out her palm and wiggled her fingers in a "gimme" gesture. I glanced at my agent, who sighed and reached for his wallet.

"The customer is always right," he grimaced and forked over a twenty dollar bill. The woman didn't bother giving us back the penny we were owed. As she stuffed the bill in her pocket and sauntered away, I rubbed at a headache beginning to form behind my left eye.

"That woman just made money off of my book!" I hissed. My agent patted my shoulder. His smile looked strained as yet another woman stepped up to the plate. I assumed this would be my strike-out, but the woman's eager little hop gave me sudden hope that I wasn't an utter failure in the writing world.

"Your book absolutely changed my life," the woman gushed, adjusting the turquoise glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. I held out my hand to take her book and add my John Hancock, but she hugged it to her chest and shook her head.

"I have a thing about germs," she admitted, leaning close to whisper. Her eyes flickered around the room of men and women, waiting to have their book signed. "The germs come from outer space, you know. They just fester and grow. It's how they plan on taking over Earth..."

"Okay," I forced a smile. "Well, it was, uh, nice to meet you..."

"Watch out for the germs!" she shouted. Spinning on her heel, she ran out the door.

"I think I need a break," I murmured. My agent shook his head.

"You just started and this signing is in your contract. You have to deal with the critics and loonies, along with the rest."

I sighed. "Fine, fine, fine!"

A man stepped up to the table and gently set a copy of my book in front of me.

"I must admit, I'm a bit disappointed," he grumbled, "You'd think a book like, Mermaid Dreams and Centaur Wings would have pictures. I'm a very visual sort of guy, you know?"

I swallowed back a smartass response and lifted my pen, "And who would you like me to make this out to, sir?"

My agent grinned and settled into a seat beside me to watch the show.