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Fallen Stardust: A boy, an outcast and an alien must find salvation in a world of ruin. Samuel must find a medicine to cure the fever ravaging his village. Markus must find the motive that murdered those he loved. And an angel must find a future in a city crumbled into debris. But something lurks beneath the wasted world, and waking it may doom what little of humanity survives.
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.
Depth of Field
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 Paper Feast
Chapter 2 – Skulls and Cameras
Chapter 3 – Grape Drinks and Curses
Chapter 4 – Lurking in the Darkroom
Chapter 5 – Shutter Dreams
Chapter 6 – A Ghastly Microfiche Machine
Chapter 7 – Feral Photo Albums
Chapter 8 – Grinning Out of the Basement
Chapter 9 – Choked in the Cafeteria
Chapter 10 – The Blue Inn
Chapter 11 – Perfume and Dream
Chapter 12 – Victims Out of the Strong
Chapter 13 – Curse Cage
Chapter 14 – A Swarm of Shadows
Chapter 15 – A New Monster
Help Spread the Story Across the Flatland
About the Writer
Other Stories at Flatland Fiction
Chapter 1 – A Paper Feast
Homer Turner set down the camera after snapping a photograph of the last page of vellum covered in scrawled, charcoal shapes. Already, those ovals and triangles, those arcs and lines, those symbols and runes drifted from their original positions. Homer knew he couldn’t hesitate if he hoped to absorb the magic he had scratched upon the vellum.
Homer crumpled the first page into a ball, and he gagged as swallowed it down his throat.
He grunted as he fought to unclench the fingers of his arthritic hand in order to grab the china cup of green tea. The drink momentarily burned before soothing the throat that had turned raw after Homer’s recent nights in partaking of the paper feast.
Homer’s arts were not easy. His arts always demanded their pound of flesh.
Homer gazed out of his window before setting the second crumpled page of vellum onto his tongue. Chandler Raymond again stood across the street. Disgust creased the man’s features as, for one night more, Chandler stared into the home of the man he hated to watch Homer Turner eat more vellum pages. Homer grinned. The sight of Chandler Raymond standing across his street supplied Homer with all the motivation he needed as he gulped down another page.
Homer turned the black skull set upon his desk so that its dark, empty sockets peered back at Chandler Raymond. Homer had properly traced the white lines that segmented that skull’s crown, and so he knew his nemesis could not resist strolling one night more to that spot across the street to stare into Homer’s home.
The charcoal stained Homer’s tongue. But Homer ate onward. He realized how closely death hovered over his shoulders. He knew he must work to devour as many pages as he might so that he could anchor his soul to the living plane. He would eat those pages, no matter how the charcoal stained his teeth, in order to haunt Chandler Raymond, to torment and punish that man for what he had stolen from the Turner kin.
When he swallowed the final, crumpled ball of vellum paper, Homer’s pained hand would retake the charcoal and scrawl more runes upon a new, clean page. He would snap photographs of his work after the charcoal had consumed each canvas. Then, he would crumple all the pages and swallow each ball so the scrawled symbols coursed through his blood.
Though the paper and the charcoal tasted foul, Homer knew the vengeance would be sweet.
* * * * *
Chapter 2 – Skulls and Cameras
“Five-fifty. Five-fifty. Fifty. Fifty. Five-seven-five. Five. Five. Seven-five…”
Owen Masters couldn’t believe how high the auctioneer’s voice carried the cost of the curious phrenologist skull. He dropped his eyes onto the garage’s concrete floor as the auctioneer’s attention once again drifted towards him. Owen had only withdrawn a hundred dollars that morning from his checking account, and he had thought it would’ve been more than enough to cover the cost of any kitsch souvenir he wished to bring home.
That hundred dollars wasn’t even close.
“Six-hundred. Six-hundred to Mr. Raymond standing at the back of the crowd. Six-twenty-five. Five. Five. Twenty-five.”
The people crowded into the garage turned to snarl at Chandler Raymond. Mr. Raymond didn’t flinch from the burning eyes that sneered at him. Those who had come to the sale of Mr. Turner’s estate hoped for mementoes at a bargain, and all of those dressed in oil-stained denim knew they could not compete against the wealth Mr. Raymond’s three-piece suit so clearly conveyed.
Owen Masters wouldn’t describe the crowd that turned once more towards the auctioneer as attractive. For the most part, beards distinguished the women from the men. The heavy nodded bids with multiple chins. The thin offered their bids with arms bruised with colorless tattoos. The shirts of young boys sported logos of disenfranchised football teams, while those of girls held fading and peeling iron-on badges of pink ponies. Everyone smelled of tobacco. Owen wouldn’t have called anyone in that crowd beautiful, but as he still needed employment at the county high school that served that village of Flat Knob, Owen decided it best that he refrained from calling anyone ugly.
The auctioneer’s hand waved as a bear of a man at the front of the crowd nodded another bid onto the black skull set upon the auctioneer’s podium
“Six and twenty-five.” The auctioneer swooned. “Six and five. Five. Five. Five.”
“One-thousand dollars!” Mr. Raymond’s voice boomed from the back.
“One-thousand!” The auctioneer sounded as if filled with the Holy Spirit.
The bear of a man shook his head as the auctioneer pointed once more towards him. The crowd refused to look back in Mr. Raymond’s direction.
Janice Tull, Owen’s companion in the search for the antique and the strange, rested a meaty hand upon Owen’s shoulder.
“Go on, Owen. I know how you had your eye on that ghastly, black skull. Don’t let Mr
. Raymond claim it. Open your purse. Raise your hand and shout a bid.”
Owen snorted. “Far too rich for my blood.”
“Oh, it’s not so much,” winked Janice, “and don’t try playing the poverty card with me. I know what I pay in taxes. I know your teacher salary’s more than enough to afford putting down a grand on that skull.”
Owen didn’t give Janice the satisfaction of a response.
“One-thousand once. Twice. Sold! Sold to good Mr. Raymond there in back!”
Owen didn’t have the heart to follow the crowd as everyone shifted their attention upon the four-stack, barrister bookcase next in line for the auction block. Owen had fallen too hard for that dark skull for his interest to be so quickly enticed to another item. He had recognized the skull as a nineteenth-century phrenologist skull. White lines divided the skull into sections labeled with words such as vanity, gluttony, greed, avarice, and lust. It was not the first time Owen had come upon such a relic, and he knew enough about the theory of phrenology to recognize rarity in that black skull’s obsidian composition, with its segments defined by words of wickedness and vice. He had a very hard time imagining how such an item may have ever arrived in a village as non-consequential as Flat Knob. The skull made him curious, and Owen hated how bitter it tasted to realize he would be denied the opportunity to carry such a distinctive souvenir home.
“Two-hundred to open on this fine bookcase!” The auctioneer’s voice echoing off the garage’s walls ripped Owen back into the moment.
Owen pulled at Janice’s elbow to get her attention. “Why would that guy in the suit put down a grand for a skull like that?”
Janice shrugged, never turning her eye away from the bookcase. “It’s probably has something to do with the bad blood between them.”
“Between who?”
“You’re joking, right?”
Owen sighed. “Try to remember that I’m not native to Flat Knob. Remember, that high-paying and affluent teaching job at the county school carried me to this village.”
“Chandler Raymond and Homer Turner go way back,” Janice winked. “No one knows for sure why, but everyone knows they’ve always despised one another. Some will think it amazing if Chandler Raymond doesn’t just buy up everything and set it all on fire. He’s already purchased the home. Made an offer the executor of Homer’s estate couldn’t refuse.”
“Still, why then put a grand on a skull?”
“Who knows, Owen?” Janice raised a hand and set a bid. “Who knows what goes on inside the homes still standing in Flat Knob?”
Owen wished Janice luck and drifted out of the garage to take a break from the auctioneer’s droning call. The clouds were swollen with moisture as Owen searched through the wagons hauled onto the backyard. He sifted through cardboard boxes filled with items more routine than polished, obsidian skulls. His fingers chimed through piles of silverware. He held up pitchers and goblets of carnival glass. He read the names of unrecognized gospel singers printed across vinyl album sleeves. One cardboard box held an ashtray collection accumulated from vacation trips to over twenty-three states. There were antique saws and wood chisels. There were more orphaned drill bits and socket sets than all of the carpenters and mechanics of Flat Knob were ever likely to need. Cheap, ineffective kitchen appliances spilled from one wagon. Owen found three sets of encyclopedias, and all of them missed at least one of their volumes. Costume jewelry of plastic pearls and glass rubies crowded several boxes.
But one box held items unlike anything Owen had ever seen accumulated at an estate sale. Owen found dried and shrunken pigmy heads smiling inside a duffel bag. Curved daggers with bone-white hilts clattered within another cardboard box. He found wooden masks carved with faces whose grins jeered madness and fury. He pulled out dream-catchers made of raven feathers and snake rattles. Translucent globes of amber preserved scorpions and spiders. Owen grimaced at a collection of animal fetuses preserved in jars of formaldehyde. The obsidian skull had captivated Owen, but the items on that wagon repulsed him, and Owen was happy to help an auction worker throw a black, plastic cover over the wagon as the sky thundered and unleashed its rain.
Everyone with better sense ran to the shelter of his or her vehicle as the auctioneer continued calling in the downpour. Owen, however, remained determined to find something to bring home, and he sifted through a final wagon to the chagrin of the auction helpers hoping the rainstorm would deliver an early end to their day.
A tan satchel gripped Owen’s attention, and he was excited to find an early single-lens, reflex camera and accessories inside the container. He peeked over his shoulder out of habit to see if anyone might notice the attention he paid to the camera. He didn’t want to give anyone a reason to compete against his bidding for the item. But the rain drove everyone else away, and so Owen more carefully considered the camera. He recognized the make as one produced in Eastern Europe following the second war, a kind of collectors’ item to those interested in vintage photography, a piece Owen had little doubt he might resell online at a considerable profit if none at the estate sale competed against him for its possession.
Owen discovered the camera’s viewfinder was mounted into the top of the camera, and winding a lever opened the viewfinder to present an upside-down view of the lens’ subject. The camera clicked as Owen pressed the shutter button, and he could feel the film advance within the camera as he turned another dial. Owen pointed the camera at the Turner home and clicked off several shots more, his attention so rapt upon the viewfinder that he paid no mind to the rain that drenched him.
He didn’t even notice when the auctioneer reached him.
By that time, even the auctioneer wanted nothing more of the rain. “What will you give for that satchel and camera?”
“Ten dollars.”
The auctioneer smiled at Owen. “Sold!”
The auctioneer accepted a wet ten-dollar bill from Owen without ceremony. Owen hurried back to Janice’s van, its back crowded with the barrister bookshelf and a massive, oak bedframe. Janice turned the radio’s ballgame down and raised an eyebrow as Owen dripped onto her passenger seat.
“You get anything in that bag worth dragging into my van?”
Owen winked. “Got a sweet camera and a bunch of lenses to go with it.”
Janice laughed before she roared the truck to life and drove Owen the four blocks that delivered him home.
* * * * *
Chapter 3 – Grape Drinks and Curses
Owen arrived at his rented trailer in the treeless, mobile home park on the outskirts of Flat Knob to find his neighbor and park proprietor Lance had mowed his small parcel of green lawn. Owen considered Lance among the select of Flat Knob he had come to count as friend since he arrived just short of a decade ago in the community to teach English classes at the consolidated, county high school. It was Lance, who supplemented his mobile park landlord income as a custodian at the school, who offered to rent that trailer to Owen at such low cost. Owen believed Lance had welcomed him more than any one else in the village, and Owen had come to enjoy the tales Lance liked to share of his time working as muscle in the mob, before he did time, before he had moved to Flat Knob to find the anonymity he needed to keep away from bad, old friends.
Owen prepared a plastic pitcher of Lance’s favorite grape drink and walked across the trailer in the rain to bang on Lance’s door. Lance lived in the trailer park’s manse, a two-unit mobile home, onto which Lance had constructed a wooden deck complete with a hot tub. Paper lanterns decorated Lance’s home throughout the year. Lance carefully maintained the nation’s flag that flapped on his yard’s pole. His landscape was always well manicured. It was all almost enough to hide the skeleton of the original trailer purchased with the money the mob gave Lance for keeping quiet during his time behind bars. But Owen could still see the shape of that original trailer Lance had dragged to Flat Knob and rooted upon that spot. Owen knew the source from where all of it had come.
Owen realized Lance went to bed
early and woke up even earlier, and so he was a little worried he might disturb the old man as he pounded on the trailer door at dusk.
“Ah, Mr. Masters,” Lance quickly peeked out of his trailer’s entrance. “You’ve brought me some of your grape drink. You’re a fine neighbor in this park, and you always pay your rent on time.”
Owen chuckled. “That’s because you get a paycheck from the school the same day I do. I can’t hold out on you. I was worried I was going to wake you.”
“Nonsense,” Lance pulled Owen inside his home. “The ballgame’s still on the radio. Come in. Come in.”
Owen took a seat in the tiny room. His rear crunched on the plastic with which Lance always covered his furniture. Lance ducked back from the kitchen with a pair of tall glasses into which he poured the grape drink.
“Thanks for mowing my yard, Lance.”
“Doesn’t take more than a minute,” Lance winked. “Happy to do it so long as you keep paying me with this purple sugar water.”
Owen thought Lance had to be in his mid-seventies from the stories of the people and the times the older man shared. But the man’s physique had yet to atrophy into wrinkles. The age was there around the eyes. The time could be seen in how Lance’s hair thinned and turned gray. Yet the man’s arms remained strong, his chest wide, his stomach tight. Owen wouldn’t have enjoyed meeting a younger Lance thirty years past when his neighbor’s muscle worked, and bled, to expand a crime family’s influence.
Depth of Field Page 1