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
shoulderblades had been the initial bait that had landed him marriage three
years ago to Miranda Cuyler, one of the richest women in the state.
A woman who had everything.
Inside, the small shop gave him used bookstore memories from his college days:
the aged smells of mildew and dust swirled lazily on the currents pushed from an
old ceiling fan. Channing stood uncertainly for a moment, taking in the shelves
of colored glass and crystal, all of the would-be sparkle covered with a thin
coating of fine, white powder. Apparently the owner didn't believe in
housekeeping.
There wasn't much to see and he covered it all in about thirty seconds: a few
vases and some period glass to his left with a standard run of statuettes in the
window, not much else -- certainly nothing special. There was a grimy display
