The line to get an autograph for Stephen King’s novel, Sun Dark, snaked all the way past horror and science fiction through dictionaries and cookbooks. King declared that Sun Dark, a novel about a family that discovers a second basement in their Maine home where antediluvian terrors live, was his last book. I waited patiently, cradling the six-hundred-and-ninety-eight page hardcover and daydreaming about becoming the next Stephen King.
I wish. Three short stories published in magazines that maybe a combined total of four hundred people read was not rocking and rolling me toward bestsellerdom.
When my turn came after waiting for two hours, I handed the great novelist his book and the Montblanc fountain pen I had purchased for this special occasion.
King didn’t appear weary or bored from having already signed hundreds of copies of Sun Dark this morning. His amber eyes glowed as if a fire roared behind them. “To whom am I autographing?”
My heart galloped, and my skin chilled as I croaked, “To me, Mark Weber.”
He uncapped my pen, and before I could blink, stabbed his left index finger with the nib. He unscrewed my Montblanc’s cap and squeezed three drops of blood into the pen’s ink reservoir.
“Hey, what are you doing? That’s a five-hundred-dollar pen,” I said.
King flashed me a toothy smile as he returned my Montblanc. “Now it’s a million-dollar pen, Mark.”
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If you enjoyed Stephen King’s Autograph, I think you’ll also like my story, Dark Hearts.