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napoleonherself) wrote2002-03-24 10:59 pm
napoleonherself) wrote2002-03-24 10:59 pm
(no subject)
I wrote this story once; sort of a Dark Tower fanfic, in a way, if you ignored the fact that it didn't involve Stevie's characters at all, nor even very much of his world. I rather liked it at the time. Haven't read it in about a year, though, so for all I know it really sucks. However, someone emailed me expressing curiousity in it, and since I'm too lazy to format it for the web and mess with ftp...
This is only the first draft. I don't know where the final is offhand. There were only minor changes anyway. I suck at doing drafts, I can't seem to make enough changes to really warrant calling it a rewrite at all.
And I hate the last line. But then, I've always hated the last line. I think it's different in the final version, but if so, I hated it there, too.
-----
Finally, after months of work. Finished.
She stumbled away from the wall, the paintbrush slipping from her limp hand and falling onto a wad of old newspapers. She seemed not to notice how badly she was reeling as she stood there, gazing at the final product of all her efforts. God, it was beautiful. Better than she ever could have hoped. The only question was, would it work?
She reached towards it, then stopped, realizing for the first time how much that final spurt of creativity had taken out of her. She would have to wait before she could try it, before she could hope to see that sky, so like his eyes --
Her knees unlocked, and somehow she managed to land on the pile of laundry instead of the hard linoleum floor. For a few minutes she stayed there, gazing up at what she had done, until she felt some semblance of strength return to her limbs. She rose and tottered shakily towards her masterpiece again.
The wood grain had been hell to paint, of course, but as she ran her hands over the patterns of dark and light, she had a hard time reminding herself that it was only oils on a drywall surface. The illusion was incredible. Finally, after all this time, she had found the Door.
It seemed almost to leap off the wall, as though she had somehow breathed into it a third dimension. A Door, made of fine oak (ironwood rare this far from the forests ironwood), standing absurdly in the middle of her bedroom wall. It led to nowhere. Were one to turn the delicately filligreed doorknob she had affixed in the proper place, the Door would not open. It was only painted, after all. It was not real.
Not yet, anyway.
Trembling now, she stripped away the stained painting clothes that had protected the jeans and t-shirt she was wearing. She put on her boots, clapped her dad's old cowboy hat on her head, and hefted the jug of water that she'd set aside for this day. Finally she was almost ready. One last thing left to do.
Her shaking hand pulled the black laundry marker from the desk drawer.
"This is it," she whispered to herself. "Oh, please, god, let it work."
She uncapped the marker and slowly, carefully, wrote three words on the door.
THE FORGOTTEN DREAMER.
"I won't be forgotten this time around. This time... he won't leave me behind." She picked up her tattered copy of the book one last time, hugged it briefly to her chest. "This time... there will be two waiting for him at the Way Station. And I'll be in his world at last."
She set it down on the desk again, and on its own it opened to the scene where Roland met the boy in the desert. The boy had died, but he had returned from the dead, because there were other worlds than these, oh yes; and she wanted to be in that other world so fiercely that it had driven her to this, to spending thousands of hours constructing the Door that would lead her there. Finally she would be a part of the quest that she had read of so many times. She would help Roland reach his Tower. And she would be one with that world.
"There are other worlds than these," she whispered to herself as her hand reached towards the knob. "There are other worlds than these... other... worlds than..."
The knob turned in her grasp. The door, no longer painted now but real, swung open. And there it was, as it had been in her dreams: the desert stretching for what might have been parsecs in all directions, the sky faded like the gunslinger's eyes.
And, in the near distance, the Way Station.
She ran through the door screaming joyfully, and behind her it closed silently on its jamb between worlds, and fell uselessly to the sand.
"I'm here!" she shouted as she ran to the Station, "Oh, I'm here, I found the Door, I --"
Her boots thudded hollowly on the steps of the ancient wooden structure as she mounted it. Inside, it was hot and dry. The floor was covered with a uniform layer of dust.
Except for two pairs of footprints: one large, one small.
"No," she whimpered, feeling the blood drain from her face. "No, they can't have left already. I have to go with them!"
She ran to the cellar. It was open to let the sunlight in and kill the mutated spiders which dwelled below. The gunslinger had done that. She didn't have her book with her, but she had read it a thousand times, and she knew. He had left the cellar open to kill the spiders, and then he and the boy had left. She was too late.
"NO!" She ran outside again, and whirled around in the sandy yard, trying to see somewhere, anywhere, the figures of a man and a boy walking together, walking away from the Station. They couldn't have left her behind, she had to join them, she had to see the Tower --
They were gone. She was alone.
"No," she whispered one last time, and then she felt the tears come. She had found her Door, she had entered the gunslinger's world at last, but she was too late; he had already passed the Station, he would not come again, and she was stranded here, in the middle of a desert thousands of miles wide; she was stranded without food and with only the water in the gallon jug she had brought with her. She would never see the Tower. She would die here instead.
"Oh, god, it's not fair!" she screamed into the rising wind, but there was no answer.
She stumbled blindly back into the building to begin the wait for her death.
This is only the first draft. I don't know where the final is offhand. There were only minor changes anyway. I suck at doing drafts, I can't seem to make enough changes to really warrant calling it a rewrite at all.
And I hate the last line. But then, I've always hated the last line. I think it's different in the final version, but if so, I hated it there, too.
-----
Finally, after months of work. Finished.
She stumbled away from the wall, the paintbrush slipping from her limp hand and falling onto a wad of old newspapers. She seemed not to notice how badly she was reeling as she stood there, gazing at the final product of all her efforts. God, it was beautiful. Better than she ever could have hoped. The only question was, would it work?
She reached towards it, then stopped, realizing for the first time how much that final spurt of creativity had taken out of her. She would have to wait before she could try it, before she could hope to see that sky, so like his eyes --
Her knees unlocked, and somehow she managed to land on the pile of laundry instead of the hard linoleum floor. For a few minutes she stayed there, gazing up at what she had done, until she felt some semblance of strength return to her limbs. She rose and tottered shakily towards her masterpiece again.
The wood grain had been hell to paint, of course, but as she ran her hands over the patterns of dark and light, she had a hard time reminding herself that it was only oils on a drywall surface. The illusion was incredible. Finally, after all this time, she had found the Door.
It seemed almost to leap off the wall, as though she had somehow breathed into it a third dimension. A Door, made of fine oak (ironwood rare this far from the forests ironwood), standing absurdly in the middle of her bedroom wall. It led to nowhere. Were one to turn the delicately filligreed doorknob she had affixed in the proper place, the Door would not open. It was only painted, after all. It was not real.
Not yet, anyway.
Trembling now, she stripped away the stained painting clothes that had protected the jeans and t-shirt she was wearing. She put on her boots, clapped her dad's old cowboy hat on her head, and hefted the jug of water that she'd set aside for this day. Finally she was almost ready. One last thing left to do.
Her shaking hand pulled the black laundry marker from the desk drawer.
"This is it," she whispered to herself. "Oh, please, god, let it work."
She uncapped the marker and slowly, carefully, wrote three words on the door.
THE FORGOTTEN DREAMER.
"I won't be forgotten this time around. This time... he won't leave me behind." She picked up her tattered copy of the book one last time, hugged it briefly to her chest. "This time... there will be two waiting for him at the Way Station. And I'll be in his world at last."
She set it down on the desk again, and on its own it opened to the scene where Roland met the boy in the desert. The boy had died, but he had returned from the dead, because there were other worlds than these, oh yes; and she wanted to be in that other world so fiercely that it had driven her to this, to spending thousands of hours constructing the Door that would lead her there. Finally she would be a part of the quest that she had read of so many times. She would help Roland reach his Tower. And she would be one with that world.
"There are other worlds than these," she whispered to herself as her hand reached towards the knob. "There are other worlds than these... other... worlds than..."
The knob turned in her grasp. The door, no longer painted now but real, swung open. And there it was, as it had been in her dreams: the desert stretching for what might have been parsecs in all directions, the sky faded like the gunslinger's eyes.
And, in the near distance, the Way Station.
She ran through the door screaming joyfully, and behind her it closed silently on its jamb between worlds, and fell uselessly to the sand.
"I'm here!" she shouted as she ran to the Station, "Oh, I'm here, I found the Door, I --"
Her boots thudded hollowly on the steps of the ancient wooden structure as she mounted it. Inside, it was hot and dry. The floor was covered with a uniform layer of dust.
Except for two pairs of footprints: one large, one small.
"No," she whimpered, feeling the blood drain from her face. "No, they can't have left already. I have to go with them!"
She ran to the cellar. It was open to let the sunlight in and kill the mutated spiders which dwelled below. The gunslinger had done that. She didn't have her book with her, but she had read it a thousand times, and she knew. He had left the cellar open to kill the spiders, and then he and the boy had left. She was too late.
"NO!" She ran outside again, and whirled around in the sandy yard, trying to see somewhere, anywhere, the figures of a man and a boy walking together, walking away from the Station. They couldn't have left her behind, she had to join them, she had to see the Tower --
They were gone. She was alone.
"No," she whispered one last time, and then she felt the tears come. She had found her Door, she had entered the gunslinger's world at last, but she was too late; he had already passed the Station, he would not come again, and she was stranded here, in the middle of a desert thousands of miles wide; she was stranded without food and with only the water in the gallon jug she had brought with her. She would never see the Tower. She would die here instead.
"Oh, god, it's not fair!" she screamed into the rising wind, but there was no answer.
She stumbled blindly back into the building to begin the wait for her death.