She twiddled her thumbs absently, contemplating. So many worlds, so many stories, and such an unbearably large allotment of time to read them all.
She had a sheet of recommended books, and after she collected all of its suggestions, she picked a few more with interesting covers. Ignored a particularly lengthy tome with a lit candle on its cover. Picked up a book with a pretty brunette on the spine. Sat at the table in the center of the library, the stack of books next to her towering dangerously high. She looked down at the collection of paper cuts accumulating on her hands, heaving a sigh. She didn't want to do this. A bit of light reading once in awhile was fine, but she had to stand on her tip-toes to reach the top of the stack. Pushing her chair out, she stood and slid the top book down off of the stack, causing it to wobble precariously. She stilled it with a hand before sitting back down and taking a swig of her tea. The plastic binding on the outside of the book made a satisfying snapping sound as she cracked it open. Stifling another sigh, she flipped past the acknowledgements and got to work. It was time to find a muse.
........................................................................
Disgust was the general reaction. She glared down at her recommendations list before tearing it in half. She read every single book on that list, and every single one was filled with sniveling damsels and ridiculously overpowered protagonists. There wasn't a single character in any of those novels that she would want hanging around her for the next nine years. She was going to have to do some searching of her own. Draining the last of her coffee, she turned around in her chair to toss the crumpled recommendation sheet into the fireplace. She meant to watch the paper shrivel and blacken (a weird habit that bordered on superstition) when another book caught her eye, and she realized she might not have to search for very long at all.
Abandoning her stack at the table, she wandered over to the coffee table sitting before the fireplace. On it lay a small book, no thicker than the side of her thumb, with a deep emerald cover, cut with painted flames, and a girl. It was difficult to tell if the girl was running from the flames, or if she had started them. Either way, she was intrigued. She picked up the book (it was heavy, despite its appearance,) flopped down on the couch, and opened the book. She didn't even bother to read the flyleaf.
YOU ARE READING
Muse
Short Story"Stay here for awhile. Read as many stories as you can, then pick the one that meant the most to you. Make sure you choose well, because you won't get to pick another one."
