by Shawn Inmon
Anything else, he could have survived. Maybe he was getting what he deserved with Monique cheating. Things had been distant between them for a long time, but he’d always thought there was time to fix things. Your wife, gone. And the truth was, he probably deserved whatever he got from the government. He had knowingly cut corners and done illegal things to get ahead. It had never bothered him, because it had never seemed like he was hurting anyone at the time, and he figured everyone was doing it. Most successful people probably did much worse. Your money, your career, your business, gone.
But this. There was nothing left after losing Cheyenne and Avery. He had always taken pride in being a good father. He had cared more for them than for houses, cars, boats, vacations, artwork, jewelry, or any of his other abundant possessions. Again he heard the witch’s voice in his mind: your beautiful twins, gone.
The silver pistol weighed heavily in his pocket. He took it out and turned it over in his hand. It looked like the only cure for the overwhelming pain he was feeling.
He pulled the hammer back and placed the barrel under his chin.
He heard the witch’s voice, chanting approvingly in his head, egging him on.
Don’t miss, Brett. Don’t miss…
In an exclusive neighborhood of Madison Park, just above Lake Washington, the Mann residence stood out in a neighborhood made up exclusively of properties designed to stand out. The yard lights out front glowed softly, casting pretty shadows against the rockwork. The frogs and crickets created a background serenade. All was quiet inside. Mrs. Mann had yet to return from her Children’s Hospital charity dinner. The two 17-year-old Mann twins, Cheyenne and Avery, were already asleep in their rooms. They had to get up early for a backpacking trip the next morning.
Ninety miles south of Seattle, outside the multipurpose room of Midland High School, the night air was full of blasts of police chatter and blue and white lights. Midland High’s Most Famous Graduate’s body had long since been taken away in an ambulance. None of the Midland Police wanted to relinquish the biggest ‘crime’ scene in the town’s history. They had heard that one or two of the Seattle stations were sending a reporter and camera crew, which hadn’t happened since Mt. St. Helens had blown thirty-some years before.
Ten blocks away at the Stinson residence, Mirela Marko, Bill and Brenda Stinson and Mindy Parker sat around a table drinking coffee. Mirela wore a satisfied smile. “I know we rehearsed this dozens of times, but when the moment actually came, all I could think was ‘He‘ll never buy this. He’ll never actually believe I’m some sort of gypsy witch.’ But then… he did. Unbelievable.”
“You were perfect, Mirela,” Brenda said. “Shit, I almost believed it myself toward the end.”
“I couldn’t believe it when you handed him the gun,” Mindy said. “That was gutsy. He was so pissed by then that I was sure he was going to use it on you.”
“By then,” Mirela said, “I was so into the whole thing that I was just going for it. Hey, have any of you guys talked to Susan, Wayne, Jim or Alan? They were unbelievable. We never could have made this happen without them. I was listening to the asshole’s end of the conversation when he was talking to his secretary and I could tell she believed they were the real deal. When he called his house and Alan answered the phone, I thought he was going to die. Which, I guess…” she said, letting the rest of the obvious thought trail away. “Hey, how did Alan manage to answer that call anyway? Did he break into the house?”
“No,” Mindy said. “Remember, he works for Ma Bell. He directed all the calls to his own phone. Then, when he was done, he put it all back the way it was. They’ll never be able to trace it.”
“You know,” Bill finally spoke, “I don’t know what this guy did, but whatever it was, he pissed of the wrong bunch of girls.”
“Much worse. He pissed off the wrong bunch of women,” Mirela corrected, fixing him with a meaningful glare.
“Yes, he did,” Bill agreed, quickly.
After a bit more small talk and speculation, Mirela and Mindy stood up. Both reached for jackets and purses. “I think it would be better if we all laid low for a while… didn’t see or talk to each other,” suggested Mindy. The Stinsons and Mirela nodded.
“Of course…” Mirela said, “there’s always Jed Stevens. He was an asshole too.” After a long moment’s consideration, she said, “Oh well, I guess there’s no hurry. We’ve got another reunion in five years.”
Author’s Note for Lucky Man
Lucky Man was the first piece of Fiction I ever published, coming out between my two memoirs, Feels Like the First Time and Both Sides Now. Even though I published it in 2013, I actually wrote the original version in 1993. As I read over it again for this collection, I saw a lot of things I would change if I were writing it today. I elected to publish it the way I originally wrote it, though, as a small time capsule of how my writing is evolving.
This is a story that started with a question – if adversity makes you strong, does no adversity make you weak? I pictured a man who had soared through life on a constant updraft. Then the character of Mirela, a wronged woman, popped into my head and the rest of the story fell into place. I tried to write the story as though it might be set in a world where gypsy curses are real.
I have been a huge fan of The Twilight Zone since I was a boy small enough to watch it while sitting safely on my father’s lap. This was my first attempt to write a story that emulated The Twilight Zone model. There were more to come, though, including Christmas Town and Chad Stinson goes for a Walk, both of which are also included in this collection.
Shannon
My name is Shannon. I am a good girl. Sometimes I am even a very good girl. I know, because my family tells me every day. I have been with them as long as I can remember. Sometimes when I sleep, I remember another family, one that looks like me, but when I open my eyes, they are gone. It does not matter. I am happy with this family. There are five of us: The Man, The Woman, The Girl, Little One, and me. I give all of them my love, but only Little One speaks my language, the words I hear in my heart. She is mine and I am hers.
We are going to my favorite place. My family calls it thebeach. At thebeach, there are birds to chase, water to splash in and space so I can finally run. When we are at thebeach we always play throw.
The Man and Woman think it is a surprise that we are going, but I can smell the water for a long time before we see it.
I cannot stop making my excited sound when we stop. The Man and Woman smile at me. The Girl does not see anything except what she is holding in her hand. Before she grew tall, she laughed and talked and played with me. Then she grew away. She is here, but she is gone.
The Man opens the door and I leap out. I shiver with excitement. There are so many smells here I have to put my nose to the ground to focus. I look at The Man for permission to run. He kneels in front of me and puts both hands on my face. He smells good, just like he is supposed to.
“Shannon… go!”
I run.
The sand is soft and warm underneath my feet. I see a group of birds so I turn toward them. I do not want to catch them, but I like seeing them fly up in front of me. When I am here, where there are no fences, I can fly too.
I hear The Man’s whistle and he is already far away so I turn and run back toward him. He is holding my Ball.
“Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good Shannon? Want to play fetch? Shannon get the ball!”
Some people only pretend to throw the ball and laugh at me when I run. The Man never does. He always throws. The ball bounces and lands in the big water. I dive in after it. When I drop the ball at his feet I start a shake at my head that goes back to my tail. I want him to see how good the water feels.
He throws the ball again and again and again. There is only The Man, my Ball and the water for a long time. My breath comes harder and my muscles ache but I will never stop.
“OK, you win again, Shannon. You wore me out. C’mon good girl, let’s go have some hot dogs.�
��
I give him my best woof and smile. Maybe he will throw the ball again. He does not. He puts Ball away where I cannot get it. The Woman has made a fire. She is cooking meat on sticks over it. The meat smells good, but she is ruining it by making it hot. She smiles at me and gives me a cold piece. I swallow it in two bites. I love it and look at her for more.
“You can have another one later, Shannon. That’s enough for now.”
When I see that she is not going to give me another one I lay down by the fire and sigh. I am happy. The Man and The Woman eat their meat with some bread. The Girl is here but not here, still looking at something in her hand. Little One walks toward me but falls like she often does. She is not very good at walking yet. She gives up and crawls until she can lay with her head against mine. She is talking to me in her way. I hear it in my heart. Her breath blows in my face. I close my eyes.
“Ashley, your mom and I are going for a walk up the beach. Put your phone down and watch your sister for us for a few minutes. Ashley!”
The Woman’s loud voice wakes me up and I open my eyes, but do not move. Little One has fallen asleep on me and I don’t want to wake her.
The Girl looks at The Woman.
“Fine, Mom. Whatever.”
“I mean it, Ashley. Put your phone away. We’ll be back in just a few minutes. It won’t kill you to miss whatever’s on Twitter or Tumblr for a few minutes.”
“God, Mom! Like I’d be caught dead on Tumblr. That’s for old people. I’m surprised you and Dad aren’t on there.”
The loud voices wake up Little One, but she does not make the crying sound. She almost never does. She reaches down and grabs handfuls of sand and throws them against my back. I smile and pant my happiness at her. That makes her laugh, so she does it again and again.
“Shannon, be a good girl and watch our little one, OK? Keep an eye on her.”
The Woman pats my head and rubs my ears. She and The Man walk away. I watch them until they disappear behind the rocks that go out into the water. Little One is walking again. She takes five or six steps then plops down on the sand. She is moving closer to the big water, so I stand in front of her. She laughs at me and hits me in the face with her small hands. I push her toward The Girl, but she falls down instead.
I look at The Girl, but she is not looking at us. Little One walks toward closer to the big water. She picks up the wet sand and puts it on top of her head, laughing again. I turn to The Girl and bark at her, and it is my bark, not my woof. She has something in her ears and does not hear me. She does not look at us.
Little One is at the water.
I take hold of the back of her with my teeth, but what I grab tears away. She falls face down in the water. She does not like having her face in the water. She sits up and opens her mouth to take a big breath, but a wave comes over her and takes her away.
I am afraid. I do not see her in the water for a very long time. I am barking my loudest bark now, over and over. I am calling for help and calling for Little One so she will not be afraid. I see her, but she is not where she was. She is far away. I run as far as I can, then I swim to her.
When I get to her she reaches her arms out to me. I lift my nose up so she can wrap her arms around my neck. I try to turn us both toward the sand, but I cannot. Something is pulling me away. I cannot bark any more. I need my breath for swimming. I am getting tired, but I will not stop. I will never stop. Little One is tired too and slips away but I reach down and find her again and again and lift her up.
I am tired. My legs will not kick. My own nose slips down beneath the water but I do not breathe it in.
“Lauren! Oh my God, Lauren!”
It is The Man, and he is coming to us. I have never seen him move fast but he is now. I do not know if I can make it to him, but I try.
“Oh God, baby… I’ve got you!”
The Man is with us and takes Little One away from me. He holds her close to his chest and turns away from me. I watch them go. I am happy again. My muscles will not move any more so I stop trying. It feels good to stop trying. Something strong is taking me farther away from The Man and Little One. They are out of the water and he is holding her away from him and looking at her. The Woman grabs Little One and holds her tight against her.
The Man looks out at me.
“Shannon! Hold on girl, I’m coming!”
I see The Man coming and he is moving fast again. He will not make it to me. I push my head out of the water one last time. I strain to see Little One. The Woman is holding her, but Little One is reaching out to me.
She is crying.
Author’s Note for Shannon
At just under 1,500 words, Shannon is the second shortest story in this collection. Since I first wrote it, it’s also been my most requested reprint story. There’s just something about dogs, isn’t there?
I wrote this originally as the response to a writing prompt of “The Hero Must Die.” Since Shannon was the hero of the story, as well as the narrator, her fate was sealed, sadly.
When my wife first read the story, she made me promise that I will never kill another dog in a story. I told her I couldn’t promise that, but that I would do my best. So far, I’ve been able to keep to that.
My Monarch Summer
The sun burned the back of my neck as I sighted down my rifle's barrel. I breathed out, pulled the trigger. The BB flew straight and true, as BBs so rarely do. It tore the two mating dragonflies asunder, as perfect and unlikely a shot as I would ever make.
Holy crap! Never thought I could hit that shot in a million years. Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Dragonfly, for interrupting your romantic afternoon and ruining your whole lives. I felt a bit like The Brave Little Tailor, who killed seven flies with a single blow.
I can’t even tell anyone. No one will believe I killed two dragonflies with one BB shot.
I stood up from the pond's edge, brushed the dirt off my knees, then squinted up at the sun. It was high in the blanched blue sky, beating nearly straight down. I put aside my regret at killing the dragonflies and looked for some shade. Everywhere I looked, heat waves rose off the tumbleweeds, scrub brush, and brown grass. The only candidate stood at the top of a small rise: a small, stunted tree trying to defy the inhospitable conditions that created a dominant terrain of sagebrush and fine sand.
I climbed the rise, slung my small Cub Scout backpack off my shoulder, and squatted Indian-style in the small pool of shade. Inside the pack were a bologna sandwich on Wonder Bread, a thermos of cherry Kool-Aid, and a packet of peanut butter crackers. The crackers were a treat, a moment of maternal weakness at the grocery store.
I was a mile and a half from home, or what passed for it at the moment: a tiny two-bedroom shanty at the outer edge of Huntington, Oregon. In July, Huntington’s average daily high neared triple digits, with temperatures inside the shack tending to twenty degrees warmer than outside.
In 1970, normal children didn't spend summer days inside the house. I slipped out of bed each morning, threw together a lunch, and went out adventuring before Mom was even awake. When she arose, she would be neither surprised nor concerned to find me gone, nor would she expect me back until the sun began to dip low in the sky. Had she awoken to find me still home, she might have assumed I was coming down with something. I hadn’t been there long enough to make any friends, so I spent the days in solitary journeying, seeing what I could see.
Many people might think of Huntington as Hell, relocated from myth and dropped into Eastern Oregon. Those of us who have been there might insist on it: merciless sun, black widows, rattlesnakes, scorpions, party-size insects, and a layer of brownish yellow dust over everything. It all made for a tenuous existence at any time of year, more so in the summer. What more succinct description than 'Hell?'
I was ten that summer of 1970, though, and it didn't seem completely awful to me. Yes, I would rather have been back in Mossyrock, where everything was greener and cooler, not to mention that’s where my comic book collection was. I was lea
rning to roll with life's figurative and literal punches.
I polished off the sandwich and washed it down with warm Kool-Aid. I considered saving the crackers for later, but lacked the will power. As I stood to leave, a burst of color flew past me. I turned to watch the vibrant orange and black wings of a Monarch butterfly. It was like a Michelangelo painting dropped into a sepia desert landscape.
Its wings flapped so slowly it seemed to remain airborne against the laws of nature. It landed for a moment on a thistle, then flew straight up, higher and higher until it was hard for me to make out against the sky. A moment later it was gone. It felt as though it had been a mirage.
I didn’t recognize it immediately, but I had just met my white whale of the summer of 1970.
I wandered over to the nearby abandoned junkyard, filled with old car hulks. Most junkyards existed as businesses, parting out the cars until they were picked clean, then smashing them into scrap.
This yard was abandoned, overgrown, with huge weeds pushing up through floorboards and broken windows. It was my go-to spot for summer fun. Some days I occupied myself by shooting side mirrors, or the little orange Union 76 balls on top of antennas. I hope the statutes of limitations on vandalism and dragonfly poaching have expired.
I had never seen another human being around the junkyard; surprising, given that it was one of the coolest play areas near an isolated small town. That didn’t stop me from engaging in dozens of Old West, African Jungle, and World War II battles. I had a chest covered in impressive imaginary medals from my unlikely heroics and incredible sharpshooting against Bengal tigers, Nazis, and marauding Indians. Today, though, my imagination wouldn’t fire. I couldn’t think of a single battle I wanted to fight.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that butterfly.
