Still Life in Shadows

“Alice J. Wisler is a master artist with words. Her characters come alive from the first page, and draw you into their world, holding you a willing captive until you turn the last page.
Still Life in Shadows
is a unique and compelling story, which Novel Rocket and I highly recommend.”

—
A
NE
M
ULLIGAN
, senior editor at
Novel Rocket

“Novelist Alice Wisler creates unforgettable characters in a plot that keeps turning up surprises. Read it and weep. Or laugh. Maybe even pray.”

—
E
UGENE
H. P
ETERSON
, professor emeritus of Spiritual Theology and translator of
The Message

“As an Alice J. Wisler fan, I was expecting yet another great read; needless to say, I wasn’t disappointed.
Still Life in the Shadows
is a wonderfully crafted and
compelling story
. It held my heart captivate from the first page until the very last line. I highly recommend this book. You don’t want to miss this one!”

—
D
EBRA
L
YNN
C
OLLINS
, Christian fiction writer

“
A touching novel
about how an embittered man is forced to face the Amish community he ran away from years ago. Told by a thirty-year-old auto mechanic and an autistic teenage girl, Alice Wisler’s
Still Life in Shadows
speaks of the complexities of family, of belonging, and the tricky task of forgiving. Especially when it comes to yourself.”

—
J
ULIE
L. C
ANNON
, author of
Twang

“Alice Wisler’s characters come to life on the pages of
Still Life in Shadows
as they face real problems and find out that sometimes the hardest thing to do is go home again. While this book might not be your typical Amish story as it explores what happens when a man leaves the Amish fold,
it is one you’ll be glad you read.”

—
A
NN
H. G
ABHART
, author of
The Outsider
and other Shaker and historical novels

“Complex and raw,
Still Life In Shadows
is a poignant story in which Alice Wisler has created characters who evolve from the stark, monochromatic lines of a newly begun painting into the richly brushed colors of a masterpiece. This was a beautiful novel filled with heart and truth.”

—
J
ESSICA
N
ELSON
, author of
Love On the Range

“Alice J. Wisler took me by surprise with this intriguing spin on the Amish genre.
Still Life in Shadows
is a
beautiful story
about the complexities of faith, friendship, family, and the daring lengths one man will go to save those he cares about. An excellent demonstration of God’s love, this story has the power to change hearts.”

—
T
INA
A
NN
F
ORKNER
, author of
Rose House

“Alice Wisler’s
Still Life in Shadows,
captures a clearer glimpse into the Amish life.
You will fall in love
with the real-life characters and will be cheering them on the whole way. Their caring support of each other gives the real depiction of what a family looks like, even if it’s not what their society says. And with their eyes focused on God, they can’t help but to prosper in whatever community they choose to live in.”

—
K
ATY
L
EE
, author of
Real Virtue

M
OODY
P
UBLISHERS
CHICAGO

Still, my soul, be still; do not be moved by lesser lights and fleeting shadows.

Keith and Kristyn Getty and Stuart Townend

K
iki had to get out, get going, or she’d punch a hole in something. This two-bedroom house was as cramped as a coffin and nearly smelled like one, as the aroma of fried food saturated the walls. Mari had told her to stay close, dinner was almost ready. But who wanted to wait around inside as her sister stir-fried green peppers, onions, and potatoes—again?

In her room, Kiki laced her neon green tennis shoes as quickly as her fingers could maneuver the frayed strings. She grabbed Yoneko, her cotton tabby-cat puppet, and scrambled to her feet. Too quickly. The blood all rushed from her head. She steadied herself against her closet door and waited for the sensation to pass.
Slow down, slow down, for Pete’s sake.
Then with tiny steps, she ventured into the hallway.

Her sister Mari—a lanky figure still wearing the tea shop’s frilly apron—stood in front of the stove. With her back to Kiki, she turned vegetables over with a spatula and hummed some song—probably from the last century. Mari liked those old romantic songs by the Beatles and Bob Dylan because, as she put it, they had
meaning
for her heart.

Kiki held her breath; she was good at that.
One, two, three.
She’d held it for ninety-nine seconds once. No way could anyone, especially not that braggart, Angie Smithfield, compete with the record she’d set. Still holding and counting to herself, she made no sound as she slipped toward the screened back door. She opened it cautiously, making sure not to bang it against the frame.

Quiet as a mouse.
If Mari knew what she was up to, the game was over. Mari would yell, then Kiki’d yell and do what Dr. Conner said she must not do—throw a clenched fist at her bedroom wall.

There, dimmed by the fading sun on the crooked driveway, stood her best friend—her maroon bicycle. She tossed Yoneko into the wire basket that wobbled by the handlebars, hopped on, and released the kickstand with a swift push. Just a little cruise before it was time to eat. Just down the street and around the corner. Exercise was good for her. Hadn’t Dr. Conner told her that?

She pedaled fast and then slow, pretending she was a cyclist on some reality TV show, going for the prize. With the evening breeze in her short-cropped black hair, she smiled. Riding was almost as beautiful as hearing the choir at church sing the benediction about God being close to us, like our very breath. When she rode, it didn’t matter that she was often a girl in the shadows watching others her age gather to talk about boys, leaving her out.

The dry mountain road curved around, and the climb was steep. But once she passed the Ridge Valley Apartments, the road sloped and she could coast down it with ease. To the left, right, suddenly she was in town pedaling past the hardware store, the tearoom, the Smithfield Funeral Home, and then a right curve by Russell Brothers Auto Repair Shop.

She’d watched these men, greasy with car fluids, jack up a Chevrolet or Ford in the two bays and use their tools to fix what they needed to. They had so many shiny tools. Her fingers itched to touch them, to use them on her bike. One of these days, she’d ask them—ask the man who always wore a beige shirt and John Deere ball cap—if she could
borrow a tool or two. Her bike’s front wheel was squeaky, especially after she cruised in the rain. But now a sign on the shop’s glass door read “Closed.” That meant everyone had gone home. She edged her bike toward the parking lot, a wide section to the left of the shop. Today it was barricaded by four bright orange cones, cones standing tall in a line where the lot met the leaf-blown sidewalk.

Past those cones was a spacious place to ride, without a parked car or truck in sight. She bet she could go fast. The space called to her; she could hear it. She would just ride around it, the autumn air in her face. She wouldn’t hurt anything—those cones probably just meant they didn’t want people parking there when they were closed. She heard music in her head—not one of Mari’s ancient songs, but one of her own that sang,
Kiki is the champion, Kiki rides faster than the wind.

She pedaled quickly into the lot. Immediately her bike slowed, grew sluggish. She pedaled harder. What was wrong? She looked at the pavement. For Pete’s sake, it was soft and gooey, like the oatmeal Mari made for breakfast on chilly mornings before school. She pumped her legs hard; that always made her bike sail. But today it was only getting the front tire stuck. She tried again, but the bike teetered to the left. To regain balance, she dropped her feet from the pedals onto the ground. Like the tires, her shoes made fresh imprints into the pavement.