White Sands (Short Story)

White Sands (Hackwriters.com - Published December 2005)

The Soaptree Yucca sits defiantly atop a wind-carved dune. Its needle-like leaves resist the incessant gypsum whippings and its fingering roots grasp the shifting soil. The stubborn tree sits alone, a green dot on a vast ocean of white.
Jim – clad in sneakers, blue jeans, and a yellow windbreaker – stares at the spiky plant from another dune, his teal eyes as wide as saucers.
A breeze billows the hood of his thin jacket, filling the nylon opening with golden light. Jim’s father, standing in a larger but identical yellow jacket, looks at his awestruck son and pats his back.
"Neat, huh," Jim’s father says.
Jim nods, never taking his eyes off the Yucca and the ever-changing dune. Jim’s father bends down, his knees going off like gunshots, and buries his hand into the fine sand. He scoops up a heaping handful, some of the sand cascading off his palm, and shows it to Jim.
"Deposits from the ancient sea," Jim’s dad says. "Put your hands together."
Jim does as his father tells him, and receives the colorless soil as if it were a precious, breakable gift. The tiny white grains pour into Jim’s cupped hands like warm silk. Some of the sand slips between Jim’s fingers, and Jim, ashamed of his carelessness, closes the gap.
"Know how old that stuff is?"
Jim shakes his head.
"Millions of years."
Jim nods as if he could comprehend this amount of time. He knows it’s older than his dad, and that, to Jim, is a long time. Another gust of wind lifts his hood as Jim watches the sun reflect off the sand in brilliant flashes. Maybe, he thinks, there are a million grains in his hands.
Jim’s father walks toward the Yucca, his feet swimming through the soft dune. Jim carefully places the sand in the same hole his father had dug it from, and runs to catch up. Sand is funny, Jim thinks. His feet feel heavy, like the Thanksgiving weekend he walked in knee-deep powder at Taos Mountain with his mother. Suddenly, a terrifying thought floods his head. What if he were to get buried under all this? What if his dad weren’t around to dig him out?
A dirt devil coils past Jim’s dad as he hikes up the ripples in the dune. Each ripple is perfectly formed, a frozen wave in a sea of white. A black beetle, small but somehow magnified into something larger on this blinding surface, scurries past Jim and burrows into the sand. Where does it go? Jim wonders, furrowing his wrinkleless brow. What does it eat?
Jim’s dad stops beside the Yucca – his thinning black hair flailing in the desert breeze, his lungs expanding and contracting in an effort to recover from the hike – and stares at the prickly tree. Jim, a few steps behind his father, trips and falls hands first to the soft ground. Embarrassed, Jim slaps the thin coat of gypsum from his palms and continues his climb.
"Ever seen a Yucca before?" Jim’s dad asks.
Jim nods, lying.
"I don’t think you seen this kind before. It’s one of the few plants that can grow out here."
Jim nods again, wondering why a beetle could survive in a desert when a plant couldn’t (maybe it’s because the beetle moves?). Above him, scratching the cloudless blue dome with a thin white line, a plane races west. Neither Jim nor his father notice the jet or the sparrow which flies safely, freely above their dune.
Jim’s dad, still staring at the plant, thinks about the land out east: another country, another desert, another sandy field inhibited by people similar to him (yet so drastically different). Jim’s father thinks about how he’ll be there this same time next week. He’ll pack his few belongings, say his goodbyes, then head to San Diego – the sunny city which eludes all soldiers who wish to remain on its inviting beaches and beautiful coastlines. Despite the uncontrollable urge to stay, they’ll depart on a carrier, or a destroyer, or a cruiser, and head out into uncertain waters.
And from there? Undisclosed.
It was a war Jim’s father did and didn’t believe in. He was one of a few still walking the taut high rope, refusing to take a side. Below the rope, the crowd on the left chanted peace, love, and diplomacy (as if the right didn’t believe in such things). Opposite to them, shouting just as loudly, were cries for security, safety, and freedom (as if the left lacked such interests). Both sides were equally determined to drag him down, to take a stand, to choose. Jim’s duty, though, was to simply walk the twine and keep a steady course (fulfill his job).
San Diego, the ship, the war – they were all over the horizon. Right now, on his last weekend, Jim’s father has Jim and the sea of white sand and the brilliant sun. It’s magnificent, this place called White Sands, New Mexico. Every part of it. The untainted blue dome; the cool and constant breezes; the single stubborn green Yucca which refuses to give in to the same elements that destroyed all other forms of vegetation. It’s a snapshot Jim’s father wishes to freeze, spend another week or two roaming the dunes with his son, spend time on things his own father never spent time doing.
"Does it rain out here?" Jim asks, stuffing his hands in his windbreaker because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.
Jim’s father shakes his head, the sun reflecting off a bald spot where there had once been hair. "Not that often."
The plane and its white tail of smoke have disappeared. Like so much that surrounds them, Jim and his father had missed the pleasure of its brief existence. There were pilots in that jet, people, stewardesses, and, more importantly, a soldier who was headed to report for service, a man not unlike Jim’s father – young (yet old), proud (yet ashamed), courageous (yet cowardly).
Jim father’s bends down and lowers himself eye level with Jim. There’s so much he should tell his son. So much he should explain before he leaves. He’ll tell him it now, while the wind tousles his son’s silky black hair, while another dirt devil spirals past them.
"You tired?" Jim’s father asks.
Jim shakes his head. "I’m alright."
Jim’s father nods. The moment has passed. He puts his hand on Jim’s shoulder and stands back up.
"Lets move on, then."
They decline down the dune. They walk side-by-side, feet seeping in the gypsum carpet, two yellow windbreakers (one large, one small) billowing in the gusts. They walk, on this final weekend, as father and son.

Copyright 2008 by Vincent Lowry (Author of Constellation Chronicles)

Morro Rock (Poetry)

Morro Rock (Morro-bay.com - Published 2006)

Beneath a blue dome, above an azure sea
A volcanic prodigy stands proudly to the heavens
Caressed by the tide; encircled by a cloud of feathered hunters
Nature’s landmark beckons a sojourn for all sea-drained travelers
Its base, a dozen vessels strong; its peak, a half-score of stacked masts
Those at shore stand and marvel
The brilliance of the bay
The uncompromising grandeur and enchantment of Morro Rock

Copyright 2008 by Vincent Lowry (Author of Constellation Chronicles)

Supine (Poetry)

(Selected Winner of Oak Magazine's Vi Olsen Memorial Contest - 2007)

Supine

Rays spill from behind drained thunderclouds

Like golden cones slicing a blue dome,
The afternoon sun bathes my blood and lightens my load

Cradled in the web of a hammock,
I retire my thoughts on nature’s hook and shed the day’s responsibilities

July dreams soon sweep over me like a welcoming breeze,
Carrying me afar,
To a land where these summer moments never perish

Copyright 2007 by Vince Lowry (Author of Constellation Chronicles)

The Class of 1995 (Short Story)

The Class of 1995 (Original Publication: Wild Violet - June 2008)

I'm a bit nervous as I stride into a ballroom packed with kids who are too old to be making out in the back of a theater and too young to worry about menopause, life insurance or their 401(k)'s. My heart hammers inside my chest. I don't recognize a single face, and they, in turn, don't appear to know me.

It isn't long before someone named Will approaches and shakes my hand.

"Greg," he says, eyeing my nametag with all the grace and subtlety of a rum-filled sailor. "Greg Stevens."

"Yeah. We know each other?"

Will gives me a thick smile. His jowls jiggle like pudding (a dessert, I'm sure, he's tasted many times, given his fleshy arms and bloated belly).

"You were in my freshman PE class, weren't you? That quiet guy. Sat right next to Coach Peterman's office in the locker room."

"Coach Peterman?" I ask.

Will throws his arm over my shoulders and exhales a laugh that reeks of pretzels and cheap beer.

"Wasn't Peterman a trip, man? The way he'd make us run around the track all morning? Do all those crazy pushups?"

I shrug, suddenly realizing that I've been initiated into Will's buddy club.

"Lew! Timmy T.," Will calls to a nearby group huddled around a trestle-table laden with hors d'oeuvres, chips, dip and chopped veggies.

Timmy T. and Lew turn, along another guy whose nametag reads Abraham Klein.

"Found another one of Peterman's lost soldiers, boys. We're gonna round up the whole brigade tonight."

Somehow, these three gentlemen make Will seem like the night's designated driver. Lew and Timmy T. have their cheeks stuffed with potato chips, both stoned out of their minds. Abe practically tips the table over in a drunken stagger when he trips and uses it to balance himself.

"Heeey!" Timmy T. says with a big crescent grin. "Hooow's it goin', man?"

"Hey," I shoot back, noting his bloodshot eyes.

"Peterman…" Lew says, reflecting on the name for a minute, soaking it in, then erupting in laughter. "Friggin' Peter-man…"

"You guys remember senior prank night?" Will asks. "Locking Peterman in the gym?"

"When we used Freddie's bus to block the front door," Timmy T. adds, still holding his crescent grin. "Yeah, maaan. That was a riot."

Will laughs. "We made this whole school one big parking lot. By the cafeteria. Behind the library. Our cars were everywhere."

Abe stumbles up to me and stares into my eyes, his nose a hair away from my mine.
"You…you…" Abe says, then swallows and drops his eyelids, like he's going to upchuck. I take a step back as a precaution. "I don't know you…"

Abe spills forward. I catch one armand Will catches the other, saving Abe from doing a face plant.

"Whoa!" Will says. "Ain't gonna cash our chips in jus' yet, are we?"

Startled, Abe shakes his head and manages to look sober enough to keep from being tossed out.

"Hey!" Will bellows, spotting a photographer. "Get a picture of us, will ya?"

The photographer nods indifferently. It's probably the sorriest group of glory-day-boys he's seen, but that's why he's here: to take pictures of yesterday's football, soccer, and track stars.

Will huddles Peterman's brigade together (and I'm a part of it, whether I like it or not). But it doesn't stop there. Two girls see us and join in. The girls soon flag three friends, their nametags reading Gina, Kay, and Lucas. And these friends, in turn, wave even more friends in.

Before long, it seems half the ballroom is crowded in front of the photographer… with me smack in the center. It's my fault, I guess. It was my stupid idea to wonder into this place after reading the signs in the hotel lobby. Sure, I had graduated in 1995 but my team wasn't the Angels; ironically, it was the Devils. I attended Roosevelt High, some two thousand miles from Lake Hill High, the institution responsible for this gathering. I've never met Will, Timmy T., Lew or Coach Peterman in my life. I have no idea what senior prank night is, although it sounds like fun (my school was too strict to tolerate such nonsense: part of the reason I skipped my reunion two months ago).

"Okay, on three give a big shout-out to the Angels," says the photographer, positioning his camera. "One…two…"

As I scream "Angels!" with the rest of the alums, I recall my encounter with Mr. Eskimo-kisses. How can Abe, the highest bird in the cage, be the only person to grasp my secret? Right now, the guy couldn't be trusted to drive a lawnmower, much less a car, and yet he plainly stated the obvious.

That I was a stranger.

That I had no earthly business showing my ugly mug in their group picture, which would undoubtedly wind up inside photo albums, in wall frames, or — if I was lucky enough! — right on top of my favorite coach's desk.

To Peterman ~ Class of 1995 10-Year Reunion

Copyright 2008 - Vincent Lowry (Author of Constellation Chronicles: The Lost Civilization of Aries)

Shrinking Magazine Market for Short Stories

There used to be a day when authors could easily publish short stories (and poetry) in magazines and get paid for their work. The checks weren't always big, but they provided some monetary compensation for the struggling writers who were working hard to hone their craft and build their credits.

Unfortunately, not only have many of these magazines stopped paying contributing authors, but--due to subscription shortages--they have altogether vanished from the market. Every year I received emails or letters from editors notifying me that "Such and Such Quarterly" will no longer be in business.

How will agents and major publishing houses discover new voices? Is the industry changing?

-CC ♈♈