She would only read fantasy novels. No other genre would appeal to her. Not romance novels, with their over-muscled men, glistening women, and euphemistic words. Not science fiction, whose cold and sterile environments reminded her of the doctor's office. Not horror, whose bloodstained pages and visceral scenes made her recoil in fear. Only fantasy held her attention. Only in fantasy could she lose herself within the paper sheets, enveloping herself in the pages; wrapping herself between the words.

Fantasy, with its strong, virile men, powerful wizards, and damsels in distress, did something to her. Within its pages she could become the dragon-slaying knight, the impish thief, and the brave Amazon, willing to cut off her own breast in order to string her faithful bow. Fantasy made her into a hard, strong woman--a fierce being trapped within the soft and flabby casing of reality.

Every week she would step into the library, arms full of books, and steal away to the fantasy section to gorge. Each shelf was a buffet of realms. Each book was another escape--another place to run to and hide in and find seclusion. Each book meant one more day that she didn't have to face the harsh unhappiness of her life. Each book was one more moment of happiness, joy, and irresponsibility.

This week was different. This week she stood in front of the bookcases riveted to the spot. The fourth and final installment of her favorite series sat on the top shelf, next to a small sign reading "new." She felt her heart skip a beat. Her pulse quickened and the blood rushed to her head. A bead of sweat appeared on her brow. Her trembling hand reached up to take down the book. She stopped. Did she dare touch it? Frightened by her own thoughts, she retracted her hand.

No, she would read it. She would check it out immediately, forsaking any other book. It would be the only story read today. She would go straight home, curl up in bed and devour this book. Licking her lips greedily, she reached up and tore the book down from the shelf. The binding was new and unbroken. The pages were crisp; a fresh stamp ran along the tops of the pages: City Library. Slowly she opened to the title page. It was as if a million literary ghosts poured from its pages, moaning to be set free. She held the book up to her nose and smelled the pages. Both the paper and the ink smelled fresh and inviting. Clutching the book to her breast, she made her way to the checkout desk.

She watched with anticipation as the librarian did his business; eyeing him closely. Was that a hint of jealousy? Did he want to read the book first? Didn't he crease the first page just so? Didn't the librarian, coveting the book, mar the first page in an attempt to take the book's virginity?

Frowning, the librarian handed back the book. She snatched it and quickly left the library. She made her way to the bus stop, caressing the novel gently, as if she was afraid that too much pressure on the cover would erase the precious words within. On the bus, she held the book as if it was a newborn baby. It seemed like hours before the bus pulled onto her street. As soon as it stopped, she shoved her way through the doors and found herself on the firm but cracked sidewalk.

Once home, she stepped into the dimly lit apartment and waded through the fumes of her mother's cooking. As her left foot touched the first rung of the stairs, her mother's kindly face appeared from the kitchen.

"Is that you?" she called.

"Yes, Mama."

"You are having more books to be reading?"

"Yes, Mama."

Suddenly the concerned mother faded away and the kindly face morphed into the visage of a banshee. "Reading is not what you should be doing! Studying you should do! Working you should be doing! Reading is being a waste of time!"

The shrill voice was left behind, echoing through the kitchen and dissipating as it wandered slowly up the stairs.

Reading isn't a waste of time, it is the creation of time, she thought, I am the book and the book is me. Nothing will stop me from this.

She sat upon a cushion and gingerly peeled open the book. At last she could return to the white castle by the river. She could be fawned over by strong and handsome men. She would fight alongside her father, the King, and slay evil. Together they would take back their kingdom and reign forever supreme. She settled comfortably into the pillows.

She would drink from the Northern River and feed the birds that made their nests in the nearby fruit trees. She would learn the mage of the Nature Wizard and gain the talent to call to the animals. She would command the earth to move and the grass to grow. She would be the very realm that she ruled.

She would live happily ever after.

Hours later, when her tired mother climbed the stairs and came to drag her daughter down to dinner, all she found were some cushions and a library book, pages turning on their own; pushed by the metal blades of the fan sitting on the floor.

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