The Adventures of Missus Myrna

Chapter 1

I've stood in lines all of my life. Whether it was to wait on an available restroom or to purchase an item, waiting in a line was inevitable; and here I was in yet another. Occasionally, I craned my neck outward and watched as each person happily sauntered away from the front of the line with a smug grin plastered on their face and their signed book firm within their grasp.

Seventeenth in line, I'm seventeenth in line, I inwardly repeated.

My name's Quinn Anderson. I'm a 23 year-old art college sophomore. I'm about 5'3" and chubby with brown skin and brown eyes. My curly black hair sits under an itchy knitted beanie, which I tried to desperately avoid scratching at, but I can't stop fidgeting. I loosened my scarf, adjusted the messenger bag slung across my chest and gently tugged at the hem of my frumpy mustard cardigan. In a graphic t-shirt, ragged flare jeans and hemp Saucony's, I did my best in hopes of looking presentable for when I approach the author's booth. Taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, I now appear calm and ready, but within, my heart pounds out of control. I have been looking forward this moment since my freshman year in high school. Myrna Tulach, writer of the novel series "The Adventures of Missus Myrna," was in town for a one-day book signing event. She had released her eighth and final book in early June, and by mid-August, every book seller in town was stripped bare of all literature she'd ever written. Thankfully, I was lucky enough to snag my own copy before the books went flying off the shelves. With a last minute decision to hold a book signing at the end of September, fans of "Missus Myrna" scrambled to the location: a tiny bookstore just outside of Maryland.

Public appearances by Mrs. Tulach are rare. Being a very private individual, she would never give personal input about her writings or what prompted them. Never has she appeared on a television program nor has she ever been interviewed in person. There was only one other instance of her making a public appearance, but that was ten years ago in Ireland when her first book was released. No reader knows where she lives or how to contact her other than e-mail. The only details we do know about her is through the short biography located on the dust jacket's back cover. She's a 40-something brown skinned English woman with sun-bleached copper dreadlocks that stretch down past her collar bones, decorated with small, intricately swirled cuffs. Dark brown freckles dot the hazelnut skin of her forehead and cheeks; two beautiful amber eyes are settled beneath dark brows, fixed in a judgmental knit; and a flash of white teeth peer through the slightly parted lips of a half-hearted smile.

Suddenly, the line lurches forward. I flow right along with it, taking those few awkward steps I'm allowed as it moves then stops. Again, I peer out from my place in line to count how many people are ahead of me only to discover that I am now tenth in line. Excitement causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. The realization begins to settle - I'm just moments away from meeting Mrs. Tulach! I fiddle with my hair, patting down the curly edges of new growth in a last minute attempt at appearing formal.

Fifth in line...

Third in line...

As the last person before me leaves, I am now face to face with the author. The radiant fluorescent lighting from the ceiling casts an eerie, angelic countenance about her. She stares up at me, impatience furrowing her brow, yet she attempts to mask it with a smile. I stare back at Mrs. Tulach in wide-eyed bewilderment, in awe of being in her presence. Oh, God, what do I say? I open my mouth, yet nothing comes out! Not a single syllable! I may have given a flick of my tongue, but I produced no sound.

"I suppose you'd like for me to sign your book?" buzzed the author with a quirked brow.

The heightened anticipation leading to this moment was full to the point of bursting, and I nearly exploded when Mrs. Tulach spoke.