The Unneeded Story by Pat Hellens

The dust of the room that had been closed off for years made the author cough as he fought the door, just trying to get it open. Finally, after pushing for what seemed like at least ten minutes, he fell into the room, and admired the place that he had once sworn he would never enter again.

Books lined shelves that sat on every wall of the room, giving the room a colorful look and making it seem more homey. The wooden boards creaked under his weight as the author turned to look at the object that he had been avoiding feasting his eyes upon from the second he entered.

A desk sat on the far side of the room, a bumpy object with a sheet over it sitting on top of it. The author crept towards it, looking around guiltily, and finally tore the white sheet off of the object.

Dust particles flew in every direction as an old typewriter was revealed. Its buttons gray and blurry from the covering that it had required after years of not being used. A stack of paper sat next to it, ready to have countless stories printed and reprinted on their surfaces.

“Wow,” the author said out loud, pulling the seat out in front of the desk for him to sit on.

Years before, the author had sat in front of this typewriter for countless hours, the sound of the words being put onto the paper filling the air with wonder and bliss. But after he had met his wife, he had to give up that life, and concentrated on providing a stable life for his family, something that writing couldn't realistically do. A car crash had taken her away from him. The author was determined to tell her story, one of an immigrant who had come over to start a family with the love of her life.

A tear came to the author’s eye and a smile spread across his face as he took a wipe from the container and started to clean the typewriter. A sense of closure came over him as he swept his hand across the keyboard, each wipe revealing more letters to be used.

After a couple minutes of wiping, the author was done, and he took a seat. A window sat in front of his face. It was the only source of light in the room, so thank God that it was a sunny day out.

Children ran on the street, and jumped rope on the grass. Birds sat in their nests, chirping for their mother to bring them food. A stray dog sprinted down the street passed the kids, who turned and squealed in glee as they reached out to try to pet him. The sun was high in the sky.

“Okay,” the author said out loud. He typed: CHAPTER 1.

And then he paused. How was he to begin a story that meant so much to him, a story that he had been waiting to write since his wife’s funeral, months before?

The author decided to take a walk, and went out to join the kids who played in the street. They were all elated to see him, as he knew they would be. The author was the most popular man of the neighborhood, and occasionally would join the children for a game of basketball or soccer. Of course, he always let them win.

Today it was basketball, and the children dribbled around the author as he stood there, pretending to be confused.

“I miss Jen,” said one of the little kids, after they had scored and dribbled the basketball back to the top of the court.

“Yeah,” said the author. “Me too.”

 When the game was over, the author started back towards his home in order to start writing his biography.

The man pushed into the room once again, and sat in front of the typewriter. “Here goes nothing,” said the author, and started to type.

After what seemed like a day, all the author had was: THERE ONCE WAS A WOMAN. 

I don’t have milk, thought the author. I better go get some before I start this book. Then, once I have returned from the grocery store, I can really get into the story.

The author got up again from his chair, and this time went to his car. He turned the key and drove to the supermarket to buy a carton of milk.

Once there, the man walked straight to the dairy aisle and then straight to the cash register, where an old friend stood behind the cash register. 

“How’s Jen?” asked the old friend, sliding the milk across the scanner.

“She passed away,” answered the author. “Car accident.” 

The cashier's eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. She was loved so dearly by so many people.”

“Yeah, she was,” said the author. He picked up the bag within which laid the carton of milk. “Thanks.”

The author retired back to his car, and for the second time that day turned the key.  A random rock song started to play on the radio.

Now I can get to that book, thought the author. He reversed out of the parking lot, and drove slowly back towards his home.

The car pulled into the driveway, and the author exited it and walked through the many rooms of his house and into the one within which he was going to write the story of his wife.

Getting writers-block again, the author swore out loud. What couldn’t he do this? He had known his wife for so long, and yet he couldn't even write a novelette to show the world how much she meant to him… how great she was?

Suddenly, as if being hit with the memories, the author started to remember the people that he had interacted with that day. The little kid he had played basketball with and the old friend who had rung him up at the supermarket.

He thought about how all of them had had such fond memories of Jen, and how they had loved her so much. The author leaned back in his chair. Why am I writing this? he thought.

Who cares if the world didn’t know who she was? The author remembered her! The little kid who lived down the street remembered her! The cashier at the grocery store remembered her! At that moment,  the author realized that there was know need for this biography. So many people loved and admired her already, why would he want to jeopardize that by telling the world the story of such a beautiful, important life? The story of Jen should be exclusive to the people who actually cared about her.

Finally, the author stood up and walked over to the sheet that laid on the floor at his feet. He picked it up, and with a huge WHOOSH! laid it back over the typewriter.