Vincent’s Comments (group member since Nov 22, 2011)

Vincent’s comments from the Q&A with Vincent Lowry group.

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.

White Sands


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.

Dear Friends and Fans,


Welcome to my Q&A group! I've seen these sorts of groups around Goodreads for other authors, and I decided to create one where I could post poetry and short stories, as well as information about upcoming book releases.

Thank you for becoming a member and for reading my work!

I appreciate your support!

-Vince

Windows on the World


It’s evening on August 11th, 2001,
and I’m on vacation in

New York City.

A friend who works in Manhattan
invites me to the

World Trade Center.

I meet up with him and take
the ear-popping rise

106 floors.

I step into a restaurant
and grab a drink at a place called

The Greatest Bar on Earth.

There’s music,
laughter,

people.

I follow my friend to one side of
the building to experience why they call this

Windows on the World.

I press my hands flat against the
thick glass pane and lower my gaze

to the illuminated city that flows below us.

My heart races from the view,
from the striking thought of my perch

on this remarkable creation of steel and glass.

I turn to my companion and talk about
the past and present,

two Americans reconnecting.

More music,
laughter,

people joining our paradise in the sky.

Soon a second drink is handed to me
and my eyes return to the view,

not looking down now, but across.

I spot a twin building,
soaring above like ours,

The South Tower.

It has an observation deck on the roof,
my friend says,

you can see the entire city from it.

I picture myself atop that symmetrical giant,
staring up as a breeze cools my skin,

seeing only stars for a ceiling.

I turn and face the restaurant,
the bar, the people, and sip my drink

as if this glass heaven

would
always

exist.

Lifted


Floating through this ignited
city I see souls in search
of missing halves.

Like mixed puzzle
pieces, the perfect fit
exists within reach,

a breath of a distance,
a face upturned and silenced.
I join one congregation,

gathered in near darkness,
and check my past at time’s closet,
where a stern attendant stands guard

in a spotless suit and a list of names.
Melting anonymously in the crowd,
I look for my fractured whole,

finding comfort among those who have lost
and those who have never found.
Ours is a midnight bond,

strengthened by song,
lifted by drink.
Here, wrinkles are smoothed,

youth is aged,
and the inner scars of both groups
is pressed into laughter.

Memory flows upstream,
and so too does the heart,
pounding away in hope with its half beats.

Autumn Leaves


So green you were
during the summer,
when the sun fired down

and you provided the
shade that stole my
shadow and made the

baked days bearable.
But now, months down
time's unending river, your brown

hue marks your retirement, and soon
you shall part your home and drift down,
swaying in angelic arcs,

to the streets and sidewalks,
where a more forgiving sun shall
spill its rays from a sky

as blue as the day you were born.
But even in your passing,
you nobly give again,

carpeting driveways,
encircling pumpkins,
ushering the remarkable beauty of autumn.

Through the Jack-o'-Lantern's Eyes


Gazing in the flickering pair
of triangle holes carved
out of the pumpkin’s flesh,
I wonder what this king of vegetables must

be thinking right now.
It was once in bliss in its garden kingdom,
attached to the nurturing earth
by a green umbilical cord,

the morning dew spotting its skin,
the occasional ant or beetle
exploring its rippled head.
In those castle days of glory,

the sun would trace its
repeated arc inside a blue dome,
and wake the feathered creatures
who were free from gravity

and bursting with song.
But now…severed, disfigured and exiled,
the king burns hot with rage,
glaring at me, the culprit of the monstrous crime,

the beast who uprooted its royal family
with shears, white gloves,
and a wide, splitting freakish grin.
Through the glowing eyes of this Jack-o’-Lantern,

and indeed the false eyes of
of its defaced relatives scattered about,
I feel a collective boiling wrath against all the executioners,
big and small, who roam in disguise on this Halloween night.

October 25th


The wrapped present, a train set, will make
the shape of a figure eight when the tracks
are snapped together.
And if I divide that double looped number by two, that is the age
you’ve stretched into, my son, on this day and year in October.
Let us whisk away on that new locomotive,
pretending together on the rails we’ve assembled,
tracing the sign of infinity,
another binary ring that means time without end.
I like that definition.
I know it isn’t true as I see these birthdays swiftly chug by—
passing stuffed bears, popup books, alphabet blocks—
but I can still use my imagination in the same way.
I just need to gather the tracks in my memory,
climb aboard with yesterday’s pictures,
and ride to that land of 2’s, 3’s, and 4’s.
A time without end...

Among Champions


It's a race no one thinks about now.
Some won it decades ago,
swimming in the bellies of young mothers who
stood in grocery lines, shopped for new shoes,
or pruned rose bushes.
Some claimed victory just last season,
and are now kicking their warm, nurturing walls
with jubilation, signaling their fast approach.
Some are still in the race,
battling an army of genetic competitors,
all fiercely whipping their tails
toward the golden egg of existence.
To win, you must arrive first.
1 in 100 million are the odds,
the equivalent of a lucky powerball ticket.
But the trophy is an opportunity like no other,
a shot at seeing and experiencing the universe
in a way no creature can come close to.
I beat the odds some 34 years ago.
And I now stand among other fortunate champions,
who sometimes need to be reminded of the great race
that gave them life.

Create


If you draw,
unleash that pencil and bring life to the page.
More of a painter, perhaps?
Then summon that stubborn blank canvas,
find that indolent brush,
and fill that white world with the eye's music.
But maybe it's song, not color,
that swirls in your imagination.
Become one with your instrument of choice,
flow with the pitches and rhythms,
and exhale the soul's voice.
Even gardeners and cooks,
laboring in the soil or near the flame,
can harvest the mind's wondrous magic:
to transform dirt into paradise,
to convert eggs into a feast.
Delve within and unearth the wings of creation.
Take flight in a remarkable sky,
as this poet has done
while carving his words.

Within


Need an answer?
Dive where
others cannot reach.
Harmony rests within
the core.
Where bones sleep in fluid
sanctuaries.
And spirits swim in promises
of eternal release.

Buster



I remember feeling
your paws tackling my legs
as I walked through the house.

Size, for some reason,
didn't matter in your playful world.
It was as if I were a giant

that deserved to be felled
as I grabbed milk from
the fridge, or sorted through

mail on my way to the living room.
I also recall your gentle nature,
the way you'd stay completely still

when I held you with one hand
while opening the front door,
or the way you'd curl in my lap

as I typed on the computer.
It's these pictures of your
short life I choose to hold.

Not how we found you
on the street...where your
playful childhood came to an end.

This giant will miss your brave tackles.

Under a Dome of Stars


I feel the spark in your touch
As your hand finds mine
On this swirling evening of constellations
And fused possibilities.
If from a limitless universe we are born,
Let us unite with the infinite again,
Bursting with the colors of our dance,
Finding meaning in our brief existence.

Give and Live


Find your cause
Water to soothe parched throats
Blankets to thwart December’s winds
Baseball gloves to catch young dreams

Destroy cynicism at every open door
Let the knowledge that you gave
Be reason enough
To share your soul with humanity

A Day at the Pier


He won't remember it.
Waves reaching, then retracting.
Seagulls on a hunt. Locals jogging with headphones. Tourists trapping the moment with cameras. Surfers rising and dipping in a watery dream.

Years later I could tell him about the ice cream I bought.
How he refused to try it at first. Vanilla. Ice hard at the beginning, then mushy as the sun did its work.

I could telll him how he enjoyed the treat just as much as the pier. Where a carousel greeted him. And an arcade stole his heart. Pinball. Air hockey. A taxi video game where I pressed on the pedal and let him steer as he sat in my lap.

I'd reminise how he cried. How he loved that pier and didn't want to leave. Running away. Yelling. Forcing me to carry him for a good five minutes. A safe distance from the games.

And when the tears dried, and his composure restored, he asked when he'd return. Tomorrow? Could he go straight to the pier and skip the beach? Could he play more games?

It's strange how memory works.
The best moments I'll carry of my son's life
will be submerged far in his subconscious...
existing like those surfers.

Rising and dipping a watery dream.

That Song from Your Youth


If you were to pick one song
from the days long since past,
one piece of your generation,
what would you choose?

What does it remind you of?
Was it prom, the date that didn't meet
your youth's expectations?

Was it a melody you heard in your car
come day in and day out at the time.
Then suddenly vanished as the the world grew younger?

Was it a heartbreak?
A moment cemented in sadness by
another careless with love?

Perhaps it was just a song that stuck in your head,
at first dismissed as nonsense,
then, years later, refreshed as something new and original.

Let me give you mine.
I'll bury it with my memory:

It Happened


A DJ on the radio said
he saw a picture of his kid
in the early years of the boy's life and
thought, "When did that happen?"

He said his kid was now going to college.

Is it possible for me to avoid that fate?
To see my son in these young years and lock the memory for future use?
Perhaps two decades down the line, when I see a picture, reverse the seasons long since past, and say, "Yes, it happened. I captured and lived every moment of it."

Night Ocean Wheel


Feet hidden in balmy sand
Hands protecting a camera’s fragile eye
I gaze at the primary target of my evening

A night ocean wheel
Spinning, halting, spinning
An illuminated circle perched at pier’s edge

Visual music flows from flashing colors
Brilliant red signaling triumph
Deep blue speaking secrets

Turning with ease
Lowering and raising passengers
Casting fantastic spells with each camera shot

For it is magic
Just to look and marvel
An ocean’s lighted splendor

Flight


I see past these walls
To the blue that awaits my imagination
Somewhere in the clouds I shall roll
My ears filled with white cotton
My feet dangling down at the town I had escaped
I have but one lingering question:

Won't you join me?

Spark in the Night


Know that you can achieve great things.
From the stars you were born--a billion years in the making--to the stars you shall return.
So this is the blink of your extraordinary existence.
So shine and soar like a spark in the night.