Bonds of Friendship

My main passion, so to speak, is writing romance, but I also like to write mainstream fiction, short stories, and sci-fi. Below is a short story I wrote and submitted to a Writer's Digest contest.

Bonds of Friendship, a short story by Lori Villarreal

“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” Corey yelled over his shoulder as he ran. Nearing the edge of the pond, he kicked off his sandals without breaking his stride. He jumped, drawing his knees to his chest, braced his skinny arms around them, and catapulted into the water in a perfect cannonball.

Andrew came next, entering the pond in the same manner as Corey had, shouting with delight as he took the plunge.

Jacob pulled up the rear, halting at the water’s edge, panting heavily. He dropped a tattered, bulging backpack in the grass, and bending over to rest his hands on his knees, griped about having to carry it.

Andrew laughed. “Sorry, dude, but you lost the toss to see who gets to carry it this time.”

Jacob plopped to the ground next to the backpack.

“Aren’t you comin’ in?” Corey asked.

“The water’s too cold,” Jacob whined.

Andrew called Jacob a little girl, and Jacob responded by telling him to shut up. The taunts continued until Jacob got mad and barreled into the water, propelling himself toward Andrew.

It was all in good fun, as the three of them played in the water like a trio of carefree sea lions. They’d been friends since preschool, forming a bond that could only result in shared experiences in the eight years following.

They took a break by a large oak tree to eat sandwiches. When they finished, they sat in companionable silence. A noise from the other side of the pond drew their attention. They quietly watched as a man dumped something in the water. The object was large and wrapped in a black, shiny trash bag.

Suddenly, the man looked up, his sharp gaze focusing on their position. He reached down and pulled something out of his boot. It glinted with a quick metallic flash.

Corey’s heart picked up its pace. The man was coming toward them around the edge of the pond, breaking into a run. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered. “Now.”

All three of them moved as one, sprinting down the same path they’d taken to get here. Cory broke ahead of Jacob and Andrew. He could hear them cussing behind him, their footsteps loud as they snapped branches, and trampled through dried leaves. Risking a quick glance back over his shoulder, he saw that the man was gaining on them, and Jacob was falling too far behind. “Come on, Jacob! Run!” he shouted, even though his lungs were beginning to burn.

Jacob tripped and crashed to the ground. The man caught up to him, yanking him up by the arm.

Andrew had stopped halfway between Jacob and Corey, fear and indecision in his wide eyes as his gaze darted back and forth.

“You don’t think I’ll let you kids get away and tell what you saw me do, do ya?” the man growled in Jacob’s face, shaking him like a rag doll. “Now I have to kill all o’ ya!”

Corey stood frozen, staring with horror at the scene. His chest rose and fell as he struggled to get air into them. Sweat and tears streaked his dirty face. His mind frantically tried to think of what to do.

Then Andrew raced toward the man holding Jacob, his arms flailing madly. “Let go of him!” he shouted, and leaped on the man’s back, kicking and clawing.

Corey wasted no time. Picking up a big stick, he ran the short distance to join the battle. He shuffled his feet, following in circles and zig-zags along with the three as they struggled, looking for an opening.

With a grunt, the man elbowed Andrew so hard, he let go and dropped to the ground, holding his side.

Corey swung the stick like he was hitting a home run, connecting with the back of the man’s head. He fell without a sound, pinning Jacob’s legs underneath. Andrew came over and helped Corey push the man off Jacob.

“You guys all right?” Corey asked Jacob and Andrew. They were all dirty and scared and out of breath, but other than that, everyone was okay.

“Do you think he’s dead?” Andrew asked shakily.

“I don’t know, but let’s get out of here,” Corey replied.
Back at their cabins, after the boys told their families what had happened, the area was teaming with police. The man was found alive, to Corey’s relief, and taken into custody. The object he’d dumped in the pond was the body of his girlfriend.

Hook, line, and query letter

Here I am ... on my third romance novel, and once again searching for a literary agent. I went through the whole rigorous process of sending out queries for my first novel, Whispers in Time, and then again for my second, The Devil Rogue. I bought books like The Writer’s Handbook and Guide to Literary Agents. I searched the internet for advice on how to write the perfect query letter. I researched the list of agents that matched my genre, visited their websites for submission guidelines, and even created a spreadsheet to keep track of which agent I contacted, the date the query was sent, and their response (rejections).

After so many rejections, I decided to publish myself. I registered an account with a reputable book printer, purchased a block of ISBN's, designed my own book covers, formatted the interior, and I was on my way. I had two books out on the market, for sale by Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com, and a slew of other online book retailers. I did a few book signings, and didn't do too bad ... until I started getting returned books.

Boy did my bubble burst!

Little did I know what the consequences would be when the books that didn't sell began to come back to me … kinda like the acid-reflux I get from an especially garlicky plate of spaghetti.

Well anyway, the experience brought me back to that original know-in-my-gut-this-is-what-I-really-want yearning to stand out against the thousands clamoring to get their manuscripts published.

So I continue my quest to find an agent who will, by way of a query with a great hook, ask for my manuscript, will love said manuscript, and then make an offer to represent me. But that won’t be the end of it. My new, super-talented agent will have to find a publisher willing to take on this new author.

It all begins with that all-important query letter.

Who am I?

Who, exactly, is "Lori Villarreal: Romance Writer?" Well, that's a question I often ask myself, especially when I've just gotten out of bed (after hitting the snooze button for the previous forty-five minutes), and I'm still in that fuzzy state between wakefulness and sleep. For a frightening moment, I'm not quite sure who I am and what I should be doing with my life. But that doesn't last very long. Once I've let the dog out, had my smoke (outside with the dog), and shuffle over to the computer, it all comes back to me - I'm a writer, goddammit!