A Shelf of Worlds

It had been like this for a long time, for as long as Griffin remembered. The room was now cocooned in the dust from the last month.

His father’s study, as he’d called it. Really a closet off the second floor, badly named, that his father had once thrown linens and sheets out of and then knocked the shelves out of too.

There was hardly room for more than the little tv tray his father had written on, every night before he went to bed. Piled on it were a typewriter, a black notebook, and an envelope, sitting up jaunty near the front.

The only shelf that remained was eye height, and the papers on it sagged ominously.

His father’s life’s work. The reason he’d seal himself off in this little room, ignoring Griffin and his sisters as they sprawled and wandered past on the weekend nights. Didn’t even have to sneak home late from a date, which was nice then.

A whole shelf of worlds and stories that his father had dreamed of publishing.

Well. Look at it now.

Griffin wanted to avoid the room, wanted to call for Susie and insist this was hers to do — maybe he’d grown allergic to dust over the years. But it would all be going to the recycling then, wouldn’t it? Not too hard to do, and he didn’t want his baby sister dragging heavy stacks of paper downstairs herself six months pregnant.

Dispatching the stories was easy. Manuscripts, some of them stapled, a couple passed round with rubber bands that snapped on the first touch. He lost count after twenty, some of them neatly categorized Books 1 and 2 of the Dragon Torching series, or the Snivellers of Rhyme’s short story collections.

It made Griffin sad the same way it hurt to remember how his band almost got signed thirty years before. The ache of unrealized dreams sitting heavy in the chest.

So instead, he made a game of dispensing with the pages as quickly as possible, of guessing the year the manuscript had written on it just by the yellowing of the pages. Down to 1982, a slim manuscript - Sunset After Time. It’d been a short story their father had told them when they were kids, about a father who ripped apart time and space to save his kids.

Griffin sat abruptly on the little chair he’d pulled half out of the way. Tears swam in his eyes a bit as he read quickly over the first couple of paragraphs. The prose was sparse but warming, and Griffin set just that story aside for himself for later.

Susie came by just then, of course. “I know, but we’re almost there.” She put a hand on his shoulder, the other riding her rounding baby bump. “Anything good?”

Griffin wiped at his eyes, stuffing down the allergies explanation again. “He was prolific.”

“That’s polite. It was more like obsessive, right?” She poked around the box. “1984, really? Before I was born even. Maybe we should read them.”

Griffin wasn’t sure he was ready for that. What if they were great, but all ended in the middle? Or worse, what if they were terrible, and their father had locked himself away for nothing?

“We can decide later.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna hit the guest bedroom. Might be some very old soaps I could take with me.” Susie clapped her hands together as she did to build up some motivation before a task. “There may be no money and a reverse mortgage, but I can smell like the finest three-star hotel in Indiana."

"At least we'll have that to comfort us." His smile was hopefully convincing.

Only four things remained in the writing closet: the tv tray, the typewriter, a small black notebook, and an envelope.

Griffin reached for the little notebook first. Pages and pages recording the day, the pages written, and a snippet about the writing. “The children won’t adventure — too scared.” “0 pages. May join Ms. Woolf.” “7 — it was her before she was turned into a tree.” It made Griffin smile to look at.

Maybe his old guitar was waiting somewhere.

The letter was from New York, a Mrs. Martha Klein. It still felt strange opening his father’s mail, the same thrill from sneaking ones from his wallet as a kid to buy pop for his Susie and Lily, and himself.

Dear Mr. Matthews,

I am delighted to let you know that your book, Sylvan and the Cloud-Riders, has been accepted for publication.

Griffin’s heart leaped in his chest, scanning quickly down the letter. A $20,000 advance. More than enough to set Susie’s kid up with a college fund like the kid would need.

And Griffin could take less. He could buy a guitar with his share. The thought was the first light thought in this dark week. There were worse ways to spend your time than collecting dreams.