“Your stories give me nightmares.”
“Good.” A thick fingered hand ran through the mess of fine dark hair on his head.
“Why is it good?” a plaintive whine hovered at just the edge of the woman’s voice, “Don’t you know that your books are so well done I can see the images of the violence you portray in my head?”
“Well, then I’m doing something right.” He leaned forward folding his arms in front of him, resting against the book-laden table, “Did you want me to sign something?”
She tugged on her pastel pink t-shirt, and looked behind her. The line for the Author’s signature was growing, but the question she wanted to ask, still burned just behind her lips.
“Uhm, yes,” She picked up his latest best-seller, “Sign this one.”
He regarded her for a moment.
“That’s not the book you want me to sign, is it?” He reached toward the end of the table and picked up another book, his name emblazoned on it’s cover, “It’s this one, isn’t it?”
The book cover was a bit out of style. Maybe even a bit ratty around the edges. He tapped it loudly.
“Ask the question, do it please ya.” He said quietly.
She leaned across the table, ignoring the murming throng of people in line behind her. She rested her right hand on the book, as if it were the Bible, “There be other worlds than these?”
He opened the book and scribbled in his now famous handwriting. He gently closed the book, and slid it across the table at her, “There always are.”
He didn’t smile, and for a moment the heavy dark brown that shaded his eyes, creased as if trying to remember something. But he shook his head lightly, as a pesky memory tickled his mind for a moment, but was gone.
“Thank you,” she said.
She turned and walked away, clutching the book, as if it were some kind of holy text.
The writer watched her go, and then muttered under his breath “Go then, there are other worlds than these.” (The Dark Tower, Stephen King)
Thank you Stephen King. You give me Dark Dreams of Otherwhere and Otherwhen.