Life is Short: The Collected Short Fiction of Shawn Inmon

by Shawn Inmon

  In early August, Grace began to cough. They had both seen the routine too often for false hope or hysterics. A sense of the inevitable had long since supplanted the Five Stages of Grief. Talia took care of Grace as best she could, which amounted to finding ways to keep her occupied and as comfortable as possible.

  The first of September brought a warm rain and the Reaper. At the very last, Talia held Grace’s thin body against her, kissing her hair, telling her in words and sign that she was loved. After Grace didn’t move for an hour, Talia realized that she wasn’t sleeping. She closed Grace's dead eyes and wrapped her in the warm blanket they had been sharing.

  She buried Grace beside the lake.

  Talia took off her surgical mask, breathed in the cool mountain air, and walked away without looking back.

  After ten days, Talia too started to cough. It would have been easier to give up, stop, and wait for the Reaper to catch up to her, but she no longer knew how to do that. She kept moving.

  Now, in a forgotten field, Talia crawled out of her bag, tried to stand, and sat back down with a thud. The endless vitality that had seen her through so many crises was gone. The effort brought on more coughing. She leaned over and spit out long ropes of phlegm. She saw the blood and knew what it meant.

  After dancing with the Reaper for six years, it was time.

  She had dodged the Reaper longer than anyone else on the planet, but it had tracked her down at last. She nodded her head, laid down on her sleeping bag, thought of Grace and the few months they’d had together, and let herself drift back to sleep.

  A few minutes later, she let out a long sigh.

  The poet had been wrong. Free of humans, the planet continued to spin. The world did not end. Humankind itself ended–not with a bang or a whimper, but with a sigh.

  Author’s Note for Sigh

  Most of my story ideas come while I am walking my two Chocolate Labs, Hershey and Sadie. Usually, those ideas start with a question, but Sigh started with a quote running around my mind – T.S. Elliot’s famous, “This is the way the world ends/Not with a bang, but with a whimper.”

  For some reason, I thought, “Or not a whimper, but a sigh.” So, for once, I knew how this story would end, with the last person alive and their last exhalation. That made this a very easy story to write. It just came down to how I wanted to kill off the eight billion plus people who live on the planet.

  Ever since I’d read Stephen King’s The Stand when it first came out, where he had named the virus that killed the world “Captain Trips,” I had thought I would name my virus “Reaper,” if I ever wrote a similar story.

  I loved Talia as a character. Modest beginnings, an unlikely survivor who evolved, because she needed to. I believe that if Grace had not entered her heart, then left this world, Talia might have lived many more years. As the last line of the original King Kong movie said, “Twas beauty that killed the beast.” For Talia, it was love, and caring for another that finally killed her.

  Fallen

  “Our God is a great God!”

  The congregation of the Gospel & Good Word Bible Church echoed the words back. Pastor Dan Krupman paused, holding the parishioners in his hands.

  “The Devil is mighty, but our God is greater!”

  “Amen!” the congregation shouted, echoing the word off the church's exposed beams.

  Pastor Dan paused again, savoring the moment. He seemed to make eye contact with all six thousand people in the church at once. He stepped to the edge of the stage. Even though he was carrying a few extra pounds and had been preaching under the hot lights for an hour, he looked as fresh as when he had first stepped onstage.

  “Folks, God is giving us the gift of another day. Go out and make the most of it!”

  “Amen!” they shouted again.

  Music swelled. The blue-robed choir began singing A Mighty Fortress is Our God. Pastor Dan beamed at the faithful as they swayed and sang along, giving benediction with his eyes. He raised his hands in one final blessing, then jogged to the back of the stage and slipped through a crimson and white curtain. His personal assistant, a pleasant young brunette named Angela, waited backstage with his iPhone, wallet, and a Diet Sprite.

  “Thank you, Angela. You really are an angel.”

  Angela smiled. “Your wife wants you to call her.”

  “Give me five minutes to get to my office, then call her and put her through." Angela nodded, glanced at her watch.

  Pastor Dan smiled inwardly as he turned down the maze of hallways and offices that led to his own sanctuary. He knew that the phone in his office would buzz in exactly five minutes. Well before five minutes elapsed, he strode through the double doors that opened into his office.

  He sat in his deep leather office chair and swung his feet up on his desk, still feeling the energy of such a multitude. Bookshelves lined the wall behind him and surrounded a picture window that looked out onto a rolling green lawn. Hundreds of families lingered and mingled on the sidewalks below, greeting and making plans. The bookshelves held hundreds of copies of a single book: Ask Not What God Can Do For You, by Pastor Dan Krupman. The window's reflective film covering allowed him to see out, but no one to see in.

  Dan used his monogrammed sterling silver cigar cutter to nip the end of a King of Denmark cigar. He lifted the heavy lighter off the corner of his desk, went through the ritual of lighting and rotating the cigar, took the first serious draw, then exhaled the exquisite smoke.

  My one vice that I can indulge here in the office. A cloud passed over his face, but he banished it. Long years of compartmentalizing his feelings, thoughts, and personality had skilled him in the banishment of undesirable ideas as they might arrive. He held the cigar out, turning it over in the soft light of the recessed overhead lights, admiring the gold leaf. A trail of smoke rose toward the ceiling, letting him know that he had forgotten to turn on the fan. He reached under the desk, found the switch, clicked it. The quiet whisper of the overhead fan began to vent the smoke before it could become a haze. Next he opened the top drawer, took out a red onyx cigar rest, and laid the cigar in its designated furrow.

  The phone on his desk buzzed. “Pastor? Rosalind is on line three.”

  He sighed, gathered himself, then hit a button. “Hello, beautiful.”

  Vincent Post stared at his computer. He shook his head, took his reading glasses off, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  If Pastor Dan Krupman was the face of the Gospel & Good Word Bible Church, Vincent Post was the brain. Few who came through the G&GWBC's heavy doors every week would recognize his face, and even fewer knew his name. He was the power behind the throne.

  At the moment, he was wishing he could take a long vacation.

  He massaged the bridge of his nose, then put his glasses back on and read the email again.

  Dear Mr. Post:

  I have prayed long and hard before sending this email, but in the end, I feel compelled to share my story. As we all are, I am a sinner. My sins are a more recent vintage than yours are likely to be. I have led a dissolute life of hedonism and self-abuse. I have no excuse. My parents aren't at fault, they raised me right, sent me to college, and support me even now. I’ve never held a job, I have abused drugs and my own body in more ways than I care to think about.

  Several months ago, I overdosed on heroin and rode a dose of Narcan back to this world, thanks to Seattle’s Finest. That was finally it—dying proved to be the end of my rope. I tied a knot and held on. Again, my parents came to my rescue. They paid for a sixty day stay at Misty Pines Rehab Center in California, far away from everyone and everything I knew. I am currently in their after-care program, and this is the first time I’ve had access to my email since I got home. If this email is long, it is because I have been composing it in my head for some time.

  The reason I am writing is to tell you that your Pastor Dan is living a double life. On the street, we called him The Rev, but I always knew who he really was. My mom watched him religiously every Sunday mo
rning.

  Reverend Dan and I drank together, smoked weed, and had sex several times a week for the last year. I always thought that what he did away from the church was his business. I admit, I got a bit of a kick out of being involved, and maybe a little in love, with a man in his position.

  This past weekend I finally got to watch tv again. I was flipping through channels and saw his familiar face. The face of an old friend, but he didn’t seem like a friend that day.

  He stared right into the camera and told a story about how God can heal anything. Even being gay. He told a story about seeing one of his congregation members coming out of a gay bar. He didn’t mention what he was doing standing outside a gay bar, but that’s another story. He said that when he talked to this parishioner, the man broke down and cried, but Pastor Dan prayed with him and after two hours, he prayed the gay away.

  That’s when I decided to write this email. There are hypocrites, but then there are gold plated, first class hypocrites.

  Unfortunately, I can't offer any pics as proof of any of this. Even so, I’m CC:ing Bill Baron at the Seattle Times. I’m sure he’ll be interested in following up with me.

  I’m not going to sign my real name, because I don’t need the extra attention right now. I’ll call myself what Pastor Dan always called me.

  Steve Stunning

  “Jesus,” Vincent mumbled to himself. “Bill Baron? That guy’s had it in for us for years." He buzzed his secretary.

  A stout, sixtyish woman with an iron-gray bun hurried into his office, legal pad in hand. “Delores, set up an emergency board meeting for seven tonight. I want everyone there. Tell them I don’t care what $500-a-plate dinner they might have tickets for. If they can’t be here, tell them I’ve got new board members standing by that can be.”

  Dan Krupman and all seven members of the Board of Directors were in the conference room by 6:45. Delores served coffee from an ornate silver coffee pot. Dan worked the room, making each person feel like the most important person in his life.

  As Delores passed, Fred Stanley said, “Good coffee, Delores, thank you.” Under his breath, he leaned back and said, “Now, can you tell me what this is all about?”

  Delores neither replied nor made eye contact, but moved on to fill the next cup. That can't be good, thought Fred, a successful insurance salesman. Delores had been around forever and knew everything about the G&GWBC. If she didn't want to talk about this, it was serious.

  “Gentlemen,” Vincent Post said, “thank you for being here on such short notice. I wouldn’t call you in like this if I didn’t feel it was necessary.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from an attaché, handed them to Delores. “After you hand these out, go on home," he said. "I’ll lock up.”

  By the time Delores had set down the last director's copies, Fred Stanley and several other board members were noticeably paler. When she closed the door behind her, there was dead silence in the room as the slower readers turned the second page. A couple of the directors gave Dan sideways glances, then looked away.

  Dan himself looked a little green. When he got to the line about 'Steve Stunning's' lack of proof, he brightened. “Come on, Vince. Is this all it is, this nonsense? The guy doesn’t even sign his name, says he has no proof of these wild accusations, but we’ve got to hold an emergency board meeting? Why didn’t you just come to me with this?”

  “I am coming to you,” Vincent said. “I just wanted to do it in a way that we can decide how to proceed. We’ve all seen this situation play out before. Wild Accusation becomes Persistent Rumor which turns into Proven Fact, and the church has egg all over its face. I don’t need to remind you that we’re running behind in our fundraising for the new gym. Sure, he says he doesn’t have any proof, but what I want to know is, is this something we need to get out in front of?”

  Dan pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. He began circling the conference room. “I can’t believe you even need to ask me this. You’ve known me for how many years? Rosalind and I have had you and Dorothy in our home dozens of times, but you spring this on me in front of the board?” Dan shook his head. “Of course there’s no truth to anything in that letter, except maybe that the guy is a junkie and a loser. 'Steve Stunning?' Come on, that’s got to be a joke. The whole thing is a joke.”

  Vincent flushed. “Pastor, he’s involving Bill Baron. He's been after us for years. That asshole won’t come right out and print anything the Times can get sued over, but he’ll find a way to get the story out there. The fact that he’s involved makes this thing trouble. I want to know how much trouble.”

  “It sounds like a disgruntled former member of the congregation, to me,” Fred Stanley offered.

  “Exactly,” said Dan.

  Vincent had taken a drink of coffee. He set the mug down and turned to Dan. “I want to be 100% clear on this. You’re saying there isn’t any truth in that letter?”

  “Of course that’s what I’m saying.” A small sigh of relief rippled through the boardroom.

  Vincent stared Dan down for five long seconds. “Okay. If there’s nothing to it, then I think we’ve got to take this head on. I’m going to set up a meeting with Bill Baron for tomorrow afternoon. I want you to be there.”

  “Fine with me. He’s a jerk, and he hates the church, but I’ll be there. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’”

  Two days later, sitting alone in his office, Dan Krupman opened his morning copy of The Seattle Times. A small headline in the Living section read, Accusation made against Gospel & Good Word. It bore Bill Baron's byline. Only a few column inches were devoted to the story.

  An anonymous source has accused Pastor Dan Krupman of behavior unbecoming a mega pastor, including drug use and sex outside of marriage. Typically, The Times neither reports nor responds to unsubstantiated rumors. However, in this case, Pastor Krupman contacted the paper himself to repudiate the rumor.

  “This is nothing but hurtful nonsense, aimed at hurting me, my family, and the church. I strongly suspect it is a former member of our flock who left under less than ideal circumstances, setting out to cause trouble and damage the church.”

  “I knew it. I knew we were better off leaving it alone.” He stared at the ceiling in frustration. Why doesn’t Vince leave the PR stuff to me? He just doesn’t get it.

  The phone on his desk buzzed softly, followed by Angela’s voice. “Pastor, your wife is on line one.”

  Of course. “Thanks, Angela. I’ve got it.” He winced as he reached for the phone.

  Steve McLeod sat in the breakfast nook in his parents' house, eating his second package of Chocolate Fudge Pop Tarts of the morning.

  Better fat than high, right?

  He flipped open the Seattle Times to the Living section, then began to scan past articles on vegan diets, quinoa recipes, and an advice column. He found Baron's article on page three. Steve smoothed the paper out in front of him, took a huge bite of Pop Tart, and began to read.

  Got you, you son of a bitch.

  He picked up the kitchen phone, an old-fashioned landline, and dialed a number from memory. After two rings, a clipped voice answered: “Times newsroom.”

  “Bill Baron, please.”

  Thirty seconds later, a gruff voice said, “Baron.”

  “Mr. Baron? This is Steve Stunning. I see you got my email. Almost everything I wrote was true. In fact, it was all true, except for the part about me not having any proof. I’ve got recorded messages, pictures, the works. Would you be interested in taking a look at what I’ve got, or should I call KOMO News?”

  For two days, Dan Krupman had felt impending disaster. Ever since the article had broken, everyone he passed in the hall looked at him differently.

  Angela brought the Times in to Dan as he sat behind his desk, working on Sunday’s sermon. She did not meet his eyes. “Angela, are you all right? You look like you’ve been crying.” Her hand dabbed at her eyes, but she shook her head and hurried for the door.

/>   The paper fell open on his desk. The top of the fold headline read “Sex Scandal rocks G&GWB Church.”

  Dan’s stomach fell. He closed his eyes for two full seconds, praying the headline away. The headline remained. His hands trembled as he picked up the paper, but his eyes wouldn’t focus on the smaller print.

  Vincent arrived at Dan's office two minutes later. He entered without knocking.

  Vincent Post stood on the Gospel & Good Word Bible Church's front steps. It was a cold but sunny January afternoon, bright enough to make him squint. A dozen reporters surrounded him, wielding microphones toward him. At the edge of the crowd, the four local television stations all had cameras focused on him.

  If it bleeds, it leads, but if it’s about hypocrisy or the mighty falling, that’s even better. I wish I was anywhere but here.

  “Mr. Post, Mr. Post…” It was Tricia Tanner, the reporter for KING 5. “Mr. Post, what can you tell us about the article The Seattle Times ran yesterday morning?”

  Vincent reached inside his blue suit pocket, removed two typewritten pages, and began to read.“This morning, I have accepted the resignation of Daniel Krupman from all positions with the Gospel & Good Word Bible Church. We would like to thank Mr. Krupman for what he has meant to the church the last twenty years and wish him the blessings of Christ going forward.”

  He paused and shuffled the pages. Reporters barked volleys of questions, but fell quiet when Vincent held up a hand. “Mr. Krupman has asked me to read a statement on his behalf. 'I am a sinner. God knows, we all are, but as a leader of the church, and a spokesman for so many, I am held to a higher standard, as I should be. I have failed so many. My wife and family, my church, and my God. I know I am forgiven in Jesus Christ, but earthly forgiveness is not so easy. I am deeply sorry that I have caused so much pain to so many people. Sincerely, Daniel Krupman.'”