“Once again, you are to be commended, Mr. Stewart,” and Mr. Whitaker walked around the conference table and handed each of his friends a cigar. “The polishers are happier than ever, and our towers shine for it. None of the polishers jump from their scaffolds anymore, and they even tip the lift men.”
* * * * *
Jasper Overbay hummed each morning whenever he prepared his peanut-butter sandwich lunch. Happily, he jostled upon the commuter train to ride to that shore teeming with glass towers. He even hummed whenever, each morning, he tossed that coin to the lift man before riding up to his waiting scaffold.
Jasper liked to reminisce about those nights he had spent in the Palace watching Satinka perform her magic dances. As he rode the lift man’s cage into the sky, he liked to remember those afternoons he had spent upon his motorcycle chasing the herd, liked to remember how the rifle had felt when it roared in his hands, liked to remember how his heart had raced whenever he returned to the Palace to offer Satinka a trophy from his hunt. His spirit still floated at the thought of such days, and he remained proud, no matter how many following days he spent vainly fighting against the gathering dust.
As always, Satinka’s shape danced in the glass beneath Jasper’s polisher mop and broom. Jasper hummed as he worked to carefully wash away all the grime he could. He hummed for the honor of helping to insure the dust and soot never blanketed that dancing silhouette all the polishers knew belonged to Satinka.
* * * * *
Lady Finch stood before the Palace while Tarence added a new girl’s name to the golden marque that glowed before the Crystal Palace’s door. Satinka had done all that she promised. The world worshipped her shape as the projectors sent her curves and swells dancing across the glass towers, and Lady Finch didn’t doubt that Satinka, the magic dancer, would live forever, or at least no less longer than all those spires that defined the western shore. The towers had never looked so magnificent.
And all the polishers soon returned to her Crystal Palace in droves. Perhaps a buffalo herd no longer stampeded across the shores for their hunt, but the polishers, who cleaned such reflection and shadow, still craved for something more, and so they still returned to offer many a shiner to those lovely girls who danced for their pleasure.
* * * * *
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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 people 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.
Take a brave, first step onto the flatland!
The wind whispers more tales of starlight, magic and terror. Visit Flatland Fiction at www.flatlandfiction.com or the retailer of this story and discover these additional tales of wonder and dream.
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Markus Kohl's aching body struggles to attend to his duties as the kingdom's lowly tinker. Though his neighbors rely upon the tinker to keep the mechanisms of their livelihoods in working order, few in the kingdom appreciate Markus's effort. Regardless, Markus satisfies his king's newest request with a creation that will remind everyone of the debts owed to the humble tinker.
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Guarded Keepsakes
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