* * * * *
It’s been more than thirty years, and the ash pile remains behind Mr. Turner’s home to mark the spot where his books burned and lofted his flaming poetry into the sky. Rain has failed to wash away the ash. The wind has failed to disperse the dust from the ground. I doubt anyone in Addieville has even noticed the oddity of such a pile remaining behind my friend’s old home. Though strange, the presence of that pile of ash doesn’t surprise me. I thought I might find another trick waiting for me when I returned to the scene of Mr. Turner’s pyre. The ash remains for me, just as Mr. Turner said it would.
My knees ache as I bend to the ground to closer inspect the pile of dust. I am not an old man, but arthritis already settles in my joints, the result of a one more debilitating condition my genes have gifted to me, another malady of the sickness that ages me more quickly than others, of the curse that has given me such an ugly face. There’s not an ounce of Mr. Turner’s bloodline flowing within me, and I count none of my ancestors as twisted as those whose portraits once hung on Mr. Turner’s walls. Nonetheless, my body tells me how I’ve been born to walk that road the Turner family always trod.
The ash falls easily through my fingers as I sift through the pile. The dust feels warm, as if Mr. Turner’s pyre wasn’t extinguished so many years ago. I feel nothing the first time I push my hands through the ash, but I find the first tile when I repeat a second wave. Pulling that tile from the dust, I can’t tell if it might’ve been a part in that spell that brought life to a plastic doll. The runes on each of its surfaces remain as mysterious to me now as they did the day I first looked upon them. But I will learn how to read those runes. I will learn how to magically tie them together, and in time, perhaps I will find the final pieces that are required to reconstruct that lost language capable of bridging the span separating the living from the dead.
I find all of Mr. Turner’s tiles quickly after I find the first. They seem to rise from the dust into my fingers. I believe they recognize me, and I believe they return to show me how the accept the trade the Turners always practiced. I believe they coalesce from that dust to show me the boneshaker’s path, so that I might finish what Mr. Turner and his family started so long ago.
And perhaps, I will finally bury Addieville’s rotting bones.
* * * * *
About the Writer
Brian S. Wheeler resides in rural, Southern Illinois with his wife Erin and his young daughter Kate in a home shared with three German shepherds and a small cat named Izzy. Brian has worn many hats to earn a living. He has worked as a high school English teacher and community college composition instructor. For many years, Brian worked as a marketing manager and a graphic designer for a very successful auction company. Brian has also freelanced as a designer and consultant, and he has just completed vocational training in the welding trade. Writing is Brian’s favorite activity, and he works to one day realize his dream of earning a living by crafting stories of fantasy and science fiction.
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. 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 https://www.flatlandfiction.com.
Visit Brian S. Wheeler Online
Find Brian S. Wheeler’s newest short stories and novels online by visiting his website at www.flatlandfiction.com. Brian always welcomes feedback and thoughts sent to his email at
[email protected].
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