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Like This Story? There Are More Turners Lurking in the Flatland!
An excerpt from “Guarded Keepsakes,” available from Flatland Fiction...
“How is anything in this barn still that white?”
A glimmer from the barn's dim center attracted Jay's attention. He crawled through a shelve unit filled with oil cans and breached an inner circle of open space, a small sanctum free of accumulation. A paraffin lantern sat upon the floor. While dust lay deep all around the lantern, not a mote of grime blemished its white lamp. Jay had noticed no prints in the dust as he had made his way into the center of that barn, no indication of the path any soul might have taken to polish that antique. Yet the glass of that lantern's lamp remained pure and clean, bearing no trace nor patina of the years.
Jay knelt in the dust to peer more closely at the lantern. An intricate mosaic of glass colored in subtle shades of pearl and grays depicted the myth of Persephone's winter abduction and spring resurrection. Small, embossed pomegranates adorned the copper ring that joined the lamp to a white, ivory base.
“Something to help see the light.” Jay grinned. “It's just the piece to bring back home to Kelly. Just the thing to show her that there's treasure in the middle of all these piles. It looks ready to burn once I get it a new wick. This place is a goldmine.”
Wind drifted through the barn's open spaces. Dust swirled as a strong breeze whistled through the scattered piles. Something rattled, like windchimes, further ahead in the shadow.
Jay's eyes pulled away from the paraffin lamp and squinted at the darkness.
Someone grinned back upon Jay Logan.
Jay stumbled into a retreat. His frantic movements threw clouds of dust into the air and hampered his search for the path back out of the barn. He went to his knees and crawled between tractors and machinery. He lost his bearing and painfully wedged himself between jutting iron and metal. He was lost and stuck. He could not think clearly. His heart raced as he panicked.
Jay screamed in the shadows and prayed he would not be forgotten like so many pieces of junk surrounding him. He screamed and hoped that Gus would hear. He did not know what else to do. So Jay screamed and refused to look back behind him into the shadow, towards that thing which grinned upon him.
An excerpt from “The Dusty Dead's Revenge,” available from Flatland Fiction...
Gabe squinted through the flames at the Turner cabin while the posse formed behind him. His eyes struggled to adjust. His keen sight could not see anything past the fires. Darkness choked the Turner cabin. Gabe could not distinguish a window or a wall. He could not see the roof nor the front step. Gabe squinted and wondered how so much dark could so shroud the home no matter that the fires burned so close. Gabe squinted as he thought he saw a black snake, a cord of utter darkness, coil about the cabin. He worried that a gun was not the proper weapon to bring to that fight, no matter that a gun was the only weapon he knew.
The darkness surrounding the Turner home prevented Gabe from seeing the cabin's door open. Light flashed from no window to betray any sign of escape. Rather, the darkness expanded from the cabin, rolling towards the posse like black smoke tumbling across the ground. Gabe's left hand felt heavy as stone as he watched shadows expand from the cabin.
None in the Harlington posse made a noise as the black rolled towards them. Darkness blanketed the flames so that, strangely, no hint of light wavered through the shadows. The posse still felt the fire's heat. The men still heard the fires crackle towards the Turner home. Yet not a soul gathered to claim revenge from the Turners saw a trace of flame as shadows blanketed the fires. Though his left hand felt so heavy, Gabe lifted his pistol and aimed at the center of that darkness, however he doubted his gun's power against what might lurk in such shadow.
The darkness engulfed them.
Gabe heard the men behind him gasp as the black fell upon Harlington's men. His hardened spirit unexpectedly pleaded with his mind that time remained to flee, unexpectedly pleaded with his feet that time remained to run away from the Turner cabin no matter that the darkness thickening around them erased any sense of direction. Only, fear weighed too heavily upon Gabe Henderson's shoulders and pinned the gunfighter in his stance. Gabe's mind fumbled through the confusion of such an uncanny collection of shadows surrounding him. Behind him, Gabe heard the posse fumble with their guns. Gabe Henderson remained a gunfighter no matter the dark, and so his left hand aimed his pistol at the invading shadow.
Gabe heard broken, shuffling footfalls as the hairs on his skin stood upright. Gabe felt something move in the dark behind him as it brushed against his throbbing right side. The sound of scuttling upon the ground turned Gabe to his left, but the darkness remained too thick for him to see any shape moving through the shadows. He wrestled to maintain his wits. He grunted to keep his shaking, left hand raised against the black as his courage wavered.
“Un'ghhe' imnehst Arat'khen eenour Khuns Lleung Omthe!”
Gabe's heart froze at the strange words screamed in the dark. The babble of syllables sounded like a growl. The incomprehensible words hissed like sands ground across rock.
“Un'ghhe' imnehst Arat'khen eenour Khuns Lleung Omthe!”
About the Writer
Brian S. Wheeler calls Hillsboro, Illinois home, a town of roughly 6,000 in the middle of the flatland. He grew up in Carlyle, Illinois, a community less than an hour away from Hillsboro, where he spent a good amount of his childhood playing wiffle ball and tinkering on his computer. The rural Midwest inspires much of Brian's work, and he hopes any connections readers might make between his fiction and the places and peoples he has had the pleasure to know are positive.
Brian earned a degree in English from Eastern Illinois University in Charleston, Illinois. He has taught high school English and courses in composition and creative writing. Imagination has been one of Brian's steadfast companions since childhood, and he dreams of creating worlds filled with inspiration and characters touched by magic.
When not writing, Brian does his best to keep organized, to get a little exercise, or to try to train good German Shepherd dogs. He remains an avid reader. More information regarding Brian S. Wheeler, his novels, and his short stories can be found by visiting his website at www.flatlandfiction.com.
Other Works by Brian S. Wheeler
Stories
A Cruel and Burning Ice
A Handicap of Shades
A Voice That Summons Monsters
Butcher, Baker and Replicant Maker
Cat-Tooth Magic and Dog-Eared Miracles
Empty Urns Launched Into Stars
Given to Glass
Glass Desire
Glorious Gardens of Teetering Rust
Guarded Keepsakes
Kennel, Kingdom and Crown
Marble Fish
Mary, in Need of Belle
Meek in the Fields
Mudder Stew
Not All Spirits Be Foul
Opal, Is That You?
Patriots of Griffin XIII
Plastic Tulips
Rooms Without Furniture
Shadow Weapons of Doom
Starlight, Starbright
Stars of the Shoemaker
The Beckford Bottom Beast
The Dusty Dead's Revenge
The Llungruel and the Lom
The Warden’s Mark
Waters and Mirrors
Novels
Mr. Hancock’s Signature
> The Sisters Will Dance
Visit us online today for these and other, great upcoming stories of magic and stars.
www.flatlandfiction.com
The Warden's Mark Page 4
