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The Sisters Will Dance: Blaine Woosely claws his way back to the living. He has cleaned his blood of his addiction, and an unexpected, family farm home rewards his efforts. Only, the country acres isolate Blaine when a sharp-toothed monster hunts to bring Blaine back to dark. The sad history of Blaine's blood brings magic to the country home's new master, but in the end, only Blaine himself can break his chains.
Mr. Hancock’s Signature: The dead walk in Monteray. The corpse of a nearly forgotten farmer named Hancock arrives via train. Ian Washington remembers Mr. Hancock and vows to return the body home. Yet Mr. Hancock's body will not rest while Ian works to reopen a cemetery, and the corpse staring each morning upon the doorstep forces the town to choose between the isolation of their fear or the hope of their fellowship.
Opus Wall
Brian S. Wheeler
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2014 by Brian S. Wheeler
Contents
Chapter 1- A Brave Artist’s Exhibition
Chapter 2 - Unicorns and Rainbows Are Expensive
Chapter 3 - It’s Not Even a Template
Chapter 4 - Setting the Crowd on Fire
Chapter 5 - Summoning Back the Soul
Chapter 6 - The Swarm
Help Spread the Story Across the Flatland
About the Writer
Other Stories at Flatland Fiction
Opus Wall: A Tale of the Turner Boneshakers
Chapter 1 - A Brave Artist’s Exhibition
Nelson Lynch did his best not to grimace as he sipped at the gin and tonic provided by the gallery. He seldom drank a very potent dram. Nelson might occasionally experiment with a craft beer - perhaps a dark stout, or even an Indian pale ale - but his tastes in spirits were customarily very simple. Indeed, he rarely enjoyed the kind of pomp and circumstance the gallery unfolded while displaying a template exhibit. But Nelson decided he could step up to gin and tonic and grimace if he must. For he couldn’t recall an occasion when he had felt so proud of his wife Amanda’s efforts.
“I’m so nervous, Nelson.” Amanda gripped her husband’s hand and wished she had purchased a new dress for the opening of her gallery. Her favorite sundress had been abandoned for too long in the back of the closet, and it no longer fit as well as it once had. The dress constricted Amanda’s breath and increased her anxiety. “What if all these folks don’t like my work? What if they think it’s all primitive, or juvenile? What if they laugh?”
“Have you ever heard of anyone laughing at any of the exhibits before?”
Amanda pursed her lips. “No.”
“Then why would anyone laugh now?”
Amanda smiled and took great assurance from her husband’s encouragement. She thought her canvases looked splendid on the gallery’s clean, white walls. She admired how carefully the architects had designed the gallery to enhance the paintings that weekly rotated through the gallery’s exhibition halls. Amanda wondered how galleries operated before the templates universalized the shape and size of every canvas mounted upon the walls. She would never have dared the undertaking of her art in the days before the templates. She couldn’t imagine investing so much time in her paintings in those old days when so much was simply left to chance. She couldn’t dream of picking up a brush before the templates calculated and guaranteed an acceptable response within the viewer.
Though the templates promised an innate measure of quality, Amanda still squirmed with worry. Had she colored all the lines to near perfection? Had she done well in following the directions? Would her efforts measure up to those of her neighbor Maxine, whose works the gallery had displayed only several months before.
So Amanda remained anxious as the first of the gallery’s visitors strolled along the wall decorated with her work.
“It’s nice to see someone choosing to work the cowboy and cowgirl motifs again,” commented a tall woman in black, horn-rimmed glasses as she paused before a particular piece. “I don’t know why more people don’t try their hands at the Western templates. I think all the guns say something nice about our country’s independent streak.”
The heavy man with the goatee nodded. “I’m afraid the cowboy templates just aren’t in very high demand anymore. They’re rather old by now. It was a brave choice to paint those outlines.”
“Good for her courage,” the woman replied. “The sunsets look just like what the directions show. I can almost feel the wind blowing through that cowgirl’s skirt. And that cowboy certainly looks handsome in that big, old-fashioned and white cowboy hat. These templates might be older, but they look as lovely as they did the last time I recall seeing them mounted on these walls.”
“She’s certainly taken the time to paint within all the lines.”
The woman squinted at the canvases. “You know, I think she may have missed a number with the paints.”
“What makes you say that?”
The woman shrugged. “Oh, the color just feels a little off from the photograph the directions provide.”
The man smiled, as if he possessed a bit of knowledge that his companion did not. “That’s because the templates don’t use the same pigments as they used to. The people who put the templates together probably just threw in an old photograph guide to go with the kit even though the composition of the paints has changed. Likely no fault of the painter at all.”
“That’s why I always like it when you visit the gallery with me,” the woman stretched upon a heel and planted a kiss on the man’s cheek. “Amazing the difference a person can see in a detail like that. It would’ve been unfair of me to hold the painter at fault for something out of her control.”
Amanda sighed with relief as the couple continued to move along the wall to consider other canvases portraying country square dances. People appeared to enjoy her work. No one looked to swoon in adoration. No one looked swept off of his or her feet. But no one grimaced at anything unpleasant. Those canvases didn’t seem to offend anyone. Amanda thought that the satisfaction those in the gallery took from her pictures seemed to be just as the templates promised.
Amanda was thrilled. She had never dreamed an art gallery might one day hold an exhibition just for her. She wondered if she had earned the right to call herself an artist. Didn’t the templates provide her with the chance to be just that, no matter her inspiration or her skill? Didn’t those templates give Amanda the opportunity create a masterpiece, regardless if her hands had ever practiced with the pencil or the brush? Wasn’t Amanda guaranteed a position in the history of creativity if she took her time to complete those templates just as the directions instructed?
“I had no idea I fell in
love with such a creative person. I never knew I married such an artist.” Nelson hugged Amanda as the last of the gallery’s visitors withdrew from the halls at the end of the showing. Too many gin and tonics slurred Nelson’s voice, but Amanda grinned to recognize an old spark glistening in her husband’s eyes. “Forgive me for ever grumbling about dinner being delayed on account of the time you were spending with those templates.”
Amanda nuzzled her chin into her husband’s dress jacket. “I feel wonderful. You should try your hand at a template, Nelson. We should purchase a kit in the gallery’s gift shop just before we leave. You’ll be surprised how those templates put you in touch with ideas you’d never guess are within your skull.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. I wouldn’t know what to paint.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “The templates decide all of that for you. You could choose a template of dogs playing cards. Or you could choose a template of baseball players. Why, Nelson, I wouldn’t even mind if you tried your hand at some of those templates featuring the swimsuit models.”
Nelson winked. “Now that does sound fun.”
“You’ll love it.” Amanda grinned. “Before we know it, the gallery will be mounting your work on these walls. An exhibit is guaranteed with the purchase of every premium template package.”
Nelson smiled. “Who would believe it? Mr. and Mrs. Lynch. Artists of a most incredible kind.”
* * * * *
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