"Yvonne Navarro - Zachary's Glass Shope2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Navarro Yvonne)

Zachary's Glass Shoppe
a short story by Yvonne Navarro


Foreword
"Zachary's Glass Shoppe" was written based on the idea of giving a piece of
yourself to someone else, like a lock of your hair. The "what if" question
popped up immediately: What if the person you gave it to then had control
over
whether you lived or died? There wasn't any plan other than to have someone
buy
an object like this, and the rest of the story grew from there. When Mark
Rainey
of Deathrealm bought the story, it was the first time I'd ever sold a story
to
the first editor who read it.



Zachary's Glass Shoppe
He found the place in a lousy neighborhood on the south side, a place Miranda
would never go on her own. That's what he wanted -- if she returned one more
gift he thought he might strangle her outright and fuck the consequences.
Zachary's Glass Shoppe
The store looked seedy, but peering through the criss-cross of metal bars
over
the dirty windows gave Channing a glimpse of colors and crystal that hinted
at
unique treasures. He glanced at the Mercedes; even parking directly in front
was
no comfort. Dark, sullen faces watched him silently from doorways and front
steps along a street gone unnaturally quiet. Like stepping late into a full
class in grade school -- he was surrounded by the feeling of eyes. His
stomach
twisted just a bit.
The thought of another returned present made him grind his teeth and he
stepped
to the door, running a nervous hand through his thick hair. A tall,
heavily-built teenager walked by and made a kissing sound; Channing ignored
it.
"Hey, man," the guy said, "that's some hair you got. Let me touch it. We can
party down."
Channing turned and glared at him with the door half open and the teenager
glanced up at the sign as if in sudden realization. Before Channing could
reply,
the man was gone; twenty feet down the sidewalk he slipped into an alley and
disappeared.
It doesn't matter, Channing told himself. Let him think he was gay; he knew
better and that's what counted. The ebony mass of curls that spilled down to
his