Vincent Lowry's Blog, page 15

I posted my short story on the Goodreads Authors/Readers group, but I'll include it as a blog post for any interested readers. It's entitled "The Diamond" and a magazine called The Storytellers published it back in 2006.

I hope you enjoy it. :)

-Vince, author of Constellation Chronicles The Lost Civilization of Aries

The Diamond

Davy Banks surreptitiously scaled the ivy-laden stucco wall, careful not to alarm any unsuspecting ears. He landed softly on a patch of ankle-high grass—which was spongy and heavy with sprinkler water—and studied the rear of Sara Clemmon’s house as it stood under the dim, sleepy glow of a moon one quarter from full.
Small patio. Two floors with two square windows apiece. One door with a worn wicker chair sitting indolently at the guard.
The lights were off, but that didn’t mean Sara wasn’t home…Davy had made that mistake once before, on a cat-fire night not unlike the one currently looming over the city of Sawyer.
He checked his bearings and located the satchel he’d thrown over just minutes earlier. He retrieved it, checked its contents, and accounted for all items.
Good, he thought. That was important. Not quite as critical as the diamond, not even close, but important nonetheless.
He inched forward slowly, sidestepping as if he were an elite Delta soldier, exhaling out of his nose in soft, measured breaths. His heart began to beat against his ribcage like a frightened animal. His forehead, though cold from the crisp evening air, was beaded with sweat as warm and slick as oil.
It took two minutes to reach the back door. He was overdoing it, without a doubt, but it was better than the alternative. The job had to be done perfectly or not done at all.
He reached into his bag and removed a key that felt as frozen as his lawn-drenched fingers. It slid into the deadbolt lock easily, effortlessly, and turned with a hushed grating sound. His heart raced faster and his ears, somehow charged by the pressure of the moment, honed in on the softest of sounds: the forlorn baying of a distant dog, the steady whistle of a late-night incoming train, the whisper of his own breath, which was spilling out clouds of white vapor. He could have tried the front entrance, but that was just too risky.
The door opened to Sara’s den. It was dark and cold (not as bitter as outside, but chilly enough to indicate no one had run the furnace in several hours). He knew the layout of the house perfectly, but he entered with an uneasy feeling he’d stumble upon something (or someone) that wasn’t supposed to be in his path. A misplaced chair. A new shopping bag.
Choosing his steps carefully, he threaded between a pullout sofa and a pine coffee table littered with magazines. A blue digital DVD clock beside him read 11:03. If he had his timing right, he’d have half an hour to do the job.
He entered a long and narrow hallway that was surprisingly darker than the den. It was completely black, like being inside a closed closet, and his only sense of direction came from feeling the number of doors he passed. The first on the left was the bathroom. The second, again on the left, was the linen closet (it had a small doorknob in the shape of a J). Further down, this time on his right, was Sara’s room. It was closed. That might have seemed odd to most intruders, but Davy knew more about Sara than he knew about his own mother. Her house had an insulation problem. The master bedroom was the only room that seemed to retain heat, and she purposely kept the door closed when away to seal in as much of the warmth as possible.
He wrapped his fingers around the doorknob (this one was not in the shape of J but a perfect oval), and turned it, half expecting Sara to be waiting for him with a knife in her hands and a freakish grin carved on her face.
He peered inside. Gray moonlight fingered through partially drawn blinds, revealing a queen-sized bed that was neatly tucked and stacked with fluffy, oversized pillows. Perfume permeated air, which was noticeably warmer than the rest of the house, splashed his face like a feminine ghost passing through him. The bedroom was clean, orderly, and—best of all—devoid of any living occupants save the person standing at the door.
Great! Now he could finally get to work.

***

Sara Clemmons pulled her shabby ’88 Oldsmobile inside her two-car garage (the brakes crying out in protest) and killed the engine. It was late. Eleven-thirty according to the watch Davy Banks had given to her for her 25th birthday. She normally didn’t like to stay out past ten unless Davy was with her, but Crissy Peterson, her college friend and former roommate, had called unexpectedly and arranged a catch-up dinner at a local Mexican restaurant about fifteen miles from Sara’s house.
She grabbed her purse off the passenger seat, checked her cell messages—none from her Davy—and propped the Olds door open with a loud, reverberating groan. A gust of cold air fell over her like an icy blanket, an immediate reminder that the sweater over her evening dress was far too skimpy on a autumn Sawyer night such as this.
She hurriedly exited the car, goose bumps breaking out over her body like surfacing landmines, cupped her palms under her elbows, and bolted toward the door, which led into the kitchen.

***

Something was wrong. She hadn’t flipped the lights yet, and she hadn’t seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, but a surreal feeling inside her chest—a type of telepathic channeling—told her she was not alone.
Her thoughts returned to Davy. Why couldn’t he be with her at this moment and not clear across the town of Sawyer? Why did she always have to be alone? A scared spinster?
She held her breath and ran her hand over the wall, feeling for the light switch. She’d flipped the damn thing on every evening for the past three years, yet, on this particular night, she couldn’t find it to save her skin. Her heart raced inside her throat. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood out like cactus needles.
Someone was definitely with her. She swore she now heard swelling footsteps.
“I know you’re in here!” she yelled out, the sound of her voice frightening her even more. “I have a cell phone. I can call the cops.”
It was a pathetic threat. At best, the police would take at least thirty minutes to reach her house, and by that time…
She was torn between bolting back into the garage and continuing with her search for the switch. She chose the latter, now on the verge of panicking, and finally found the elusive button.
White light bathed the kitchen.
Blinding her.

***

Davy watched from across the kitchen as she shielded her face from the glare. She looked sweet, standing in her burgundy dress and matching red sweater, almost as cute as when he had first met her while waiting in a movie line. He could tell she was shivering and frightened, but that would all change in a few minutes.
She lowered her hand, spotted him, and exhaled a long breath of relief.
"Davy... God. It's just you."
Sara stood still for a second, gathering herself, then pursed her lips. Pissed.
"Just what the hell are you doing here? Sneaking around like some thief? I tell you, if I had a can of pepper spray or mace I would have..."
"Shhh," Davy said, taking her by the hand and leading her into the den.
Sparkling confetti littered their path, winking back the dull light of a single candle that sat with a rose atop the coffee table. Following the confetti trail, Davy took her into the hallway, passing the bathroom (lit by another candle), the linen closet (a rose hanging by the J-shaped handle), and then into her bedroom, where five roses were strewn about her bed in a circle, surrounding a small black box.
She stared at the sight, speechless, mouth agape, hazel eyes as wide as silver dollars. Her head swiveled like she had just stepped off a spinning carnival ride. Her heart raced on pure adrenaline, beating faster than it had while she'd been searching in the dark.
She grabbed the box, opened it, and saw a beautiful diamond. Shimmering. Brilliant. A stone set atop a gorgeous platinum ring.
She raised her gaze to Davy, no longer alone or scared, her eyes validating every part of his insane surprise proposal.
Davy grinned.
The job had to be done perfectly or not done at all.



The Diamond - Short Story (C) 2006 by Vincent Lowry

I'm pleased to announce that Constellation Chronicles is now available on Amazon's Kindle!

Here is the link:
http://www.amazon.com/Constellation-C...

I remember making a few resolutions from 200_ that, well... never came to be come the next new year: avoiding sweets, working out, reading my ever expanding list of classics.

I wonder if unfulfilled resolutions carry over to the next year (the ghost of New Year's past) or if they just cancel out?

-Vince
Constellation Chronicles The Lost Civilization of Aries

Happy Holidays!

I wish everyone a wonderful season and a great new year!

-Vince

Dear Friends,

I've created a group for my fellow Goodreads Authors. Come check it out sometime and join:
http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/2...

Dear friends,

I was a guest blogger on teenreads.com and I thought you might enjoy this article I wrote about the changes in the publishing industry. Here is the link:

http://www.teenreads.com/blog/2009/11...

-Vince

If you enjoy watching book trailers/videos, come visit a blog I've set up dedicated to showcasing them. You'll find a wide variety of genres on the site:

http://ratemybookvideo.wordpress.com/

-Vince

PS - if you enjoy it, please tell your friends about it!

The visions from the stars will return…
Ramesh sits on the sandy banks of the Euphrates River, his
toes submerged in numbing water, and gazes out at a blanket
of darkness. The river, quiet and black, flows steadily past
him and a strong breath of wind catches the edge of his shawl,
billowing it into the cool night air. He dips one cupped hand
into the water, fills it, and brings it over a blank clay tablet.

He turned to his physics teacher as if seeking reassurance
that it was okay to continue the presentation, then faced his
peers with his stomach in knots and a lump in his throat the
size of a cue ball.

A bead of sweat streaked down Glenn Sawyer’s face like
warm oil. He quickly dabbed at it with the back of his hand,
the sound of whispers and muffled laughs filling the classroom
behind him, and opened the PowerPoint file he’d labeled Eight
Wonders.