by Mark Leslie
North.
Although I couldn’t at first make out the mumbled word the driver had said to me, I think I’ve figured it out. It was a desperate, guttural moan, a warning, spoken the same rushed way that way Chicken Little must have bleated, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” in the classic Henny Penny tale.
The word I believe the snowman was trying to utter was: Spring.
Spring.
Nothing more than a season to us. But to a snowman, it was the end of the world.
Whoever they were, however they came to exist, Frosty and his friend were heading north and taking as many of their own kind with them as they could gather, the way that birds migrate south for the winter. They were running from the apocalyptic season of spring.
I wondered if they would make it.
Then, shortly after I escorted Charlie to his home and explained the situation to his parents — leaving out the fact that the thieves were snowmen themselves — I came back inside and took my place at the window.
Sitting here in the window again, the sunlight on my face, sweat running down my brow, I begin to wonder something else.
Spring is coming in like a lamb, a soft mild day. But ever since I swallowed the snow flesh of the animate snowman, the numbness has continued to spread throughout my insides. And I’ve become more and more uncomfortable in the heat. I keep checking the temperature because it feels like one hundred degrees — but it’s really only plus three.
I look down at my sweat, at the pools of thick fleshy sweat that has dripped onto my desk, onto the tax forms.
And I wonder if I would be able to find them again.
I wonder if they’d take me with them.
The taxes, Charlie, my wife, none of them seem important to me now.
I’d just like to head north, find a deserted field, and spend the rest of my days standing there, basking in the freezing arctic temperatures.
*****
DUSTING OFF THE SNOW: BEHIND THE SHIVERS
If you don’t like getting the story behind the story or to “see the strings” behind the play and absolutely never watch the special features on a DVD where you can listen to commentary by the director, actors, writers, etc., then I suggest that you stop here. I doubt you’d enjoy what is about to come. But I do want to thank you for coming this far with me. I hope that you enjoyed your experience and didn’t mind the fun chilly shivers of these two snowman tales and are curious to check out more of my work. I have several other short stories and a few books available in ebook format. ONE HAND SCREAMING, for example, is a collection of short fiction which also includes these two tales.
However, if you’re one who is willing to walk along with the author and listen to some of the details behind the stories and poems that appear in this collection, then come on with me for a brief jaunt. There’s a beautiful blanket of freshly fallen snow on the ground, and the full moon’s light is casting a beautiful magical glow. Grab your coat, hat and mitts. Let me bend your ear for a few minutes more.
Just do me a favour and keep your eyes out for any of those silent snowy sentinels we might pass, would you?
*
That Old Silk Hat They Found
First published in Strange Wonderland #1, March 1997
Ides of March
First published in ONE HAND SCREAMING, October 2004
“THAT OLD Silk Hat They Found” is one of those tales that had been inspired entirely by a previously written story of mine: “Ides of March”. It was in the early 1990’s when I was living in Ottawa and I heard a radio news blurb about a man somewhere in the southern U.S. who’d been shot by someone who proceeded to steal his snowman.
It was a quick, short news update, but it fascinated me.
I wondered what kind of a person would shoot another person to steal a snowman.
And then it came to me: a person who thought perhaps, that by stealing the snowman and bringing them north to a colder climate, he could help them escape spring and what would be certain death.
It would kind of be like an environmentalist or animal lover risking his life to save a helpless baby seal from needless slaughter.
But that still wasn’t enough, I felt, to make it really interesting. So the idea continued to stay warm on a back burner.
A few days later, another idea occurred to me.
What if the “man” who stole the snowman was actually a snowman himself – on a mission to save as many of his kind as possible?
I wrote the story and called it “Ides of March” (March 15th being a date not only thought of as a type of literary D-Day thanks to the warning given to Julius Caesar, but also a time when spring-type weather is likely to intensify – particularly back in the 1990’s in Ottawa, which also experienced the type of real winters that I enjoyed in the Sudbury region).
This story was told from the point of view of a middle-aged man doing his taxes. The tale starts as he witnesses, through the window, two burly men in long jackets shoving at the neighbour’s kid and stealing his snowman. I liked the tale, but not enough. I wrote it and only half heartedly sent it out to a few markets, then relegated it to my own personal slush pile (yes, in this case the pun is completely intended).
After a short period of time I considered re-telling one of the premises of the tale.
The thought of associating spring with The Apocalypse was still intriguing to me; this time, however, I did it from the snowman’s point of view.
As I began to write the tale I made the snowman a sentient narrator, and the narrator’s voice began to take over the story, describing what it was like to wake up and find oneself to be a snowman.
Inspired partly by Frankenstein’s monster, who didn’t ask to be “born” and partly by wanting to make a statement about the self-imposed God complex of humanity in general, I kept up this train of thought and considering the following questions:
What would it be like to be a snowman?
How would a snowman think and feel about its circumstances?
What would their “life” be like and what would an expected “lifespan” be?
What tales would they tell?
Culturally and anthropologically speaking, what legends of Genesis and Armageddon would they pass along to each other?
These questions let me to the reasoning that Spring, and the cruel humans who selfishly created this “life” were the enemies as the narrator faced his darkest fears.
I’m particularly fond of the title as it calls upon the happy and innocent mystique of the children’s song “Frosty The Snowman” and turns on the reader when they encounter what I felt would be a more realistic experience of a snowman coming to life . . .
After finishing that story, and having it published in the late 1990’s I was pleased.
But I wasn’t fully satisfied.
My thoughts returned to the idea of someone wanting to steal snowman.
So I looked at “The Ides of March” and revised the ending, based on having put myself into the POV of the snowman in “That Old Silk Hat . . .” – I determined that it wasn’t enough for my narrator to have witnessed this strange event. No. I felt he had to experience the horror himself. Something had to occur in which he didn’t just sympathize with the snowmen’s plight and fear of spring – he needed to experience it first-hand.
Thus I re-wrote the tale with the ending it has now. With the narrator fully feeling the terror of knowing he’ll melt if he doesn’t get to a warmer climate.
When these stories were originally republished in my book ONE HAND SCREAMING in the fall of 2004, I received many comments from readers about how much they enjoyed “the snowman tales.” People still contact me to comment on those two stories.
I’ve also gone in to classrooms and read “That Old Silk Hat They Found” to students – and it’s one of my favourite short tales to read at public readings.
The story is available in audio format via a podcast I released called “Prelude
to a Scream” – it appears in episode 5.
I’ve long thought that there’s still another snowman tale in me. Thoughts of writing a zombie-like snowman story still kick around, as do images, likely born from reading too many Calvin and Hobbes cartoons, of snowmen learning how to create more of their own kind and amassing a large army.
I haven’t yet written any of these ideas; I likely will one day – and I’m pretty sure I’ll have just as much fun as I did with these first two snowmen tales.
In any case, thanks for joining me on this walk and one-way chat.
The wind is starting to get cold. I’m sure that, inside there’s a hot cup of cider or a warm cup of cocoa waiting.
Hopefully you’ll join me on another walk on some other evening.
Until then, thanks for coming along and we’ll talk to you soon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Leslie Lefebvre was born in Sudbury, Ontario, in the late 1960’s. He grew up in Levack, part of the town of Onaping Falls, about an hour’s drive north of Sudbury where he attended Levack District High School. From there, he moved to Ottawa, where he attended Carleton University, achieved his B.A. Honours in English Language and Literature, and met his wife Francine. They married in 1996 and moved to Hamilton a year later. Their son, Alexander, was born in the summer of 2004.
Mark has edited anthologies such as North of Infinity II and Campus Chills and is currently editing Tesseracts Sixteen: Parnassus Unbound, which is due out in the Fall of 2012. Mark has two other books due out in that same time period. A non-fiction book Haunted Hamilton: The Ghosts of Dundurn Castle and Other Steeltown Shivers is coming from Dundurn Press and I, Death, Mark’s first novel, is coming from Atomic Fez.
When he’s not writing, Mark works as a bookseller. He has worked for Coles, The Book Company, Chapters, Indigo, Chapters Online, Titles Bookstore McMaster University and is currently Director of Self-Publishing & Author Relations at Kobo.
Over the years assumed roles within various book industry associations and boards and on committees such as Canadian Booksellers Association, Campus Stores Canada and BookNet Canada.
Though Mark has played various roles within bookselling over the years the thing that has remained consistent, were the great people he has worked with and of course, the books, always the books.
*****
Active Reader: And Other Cautionary Tales from the Book World
ACTIVE READER collects three stories written by Mark Leslie which explore the darker side of the world of books (ACTIVE READER, BROWSERS & DISTRACTIONS). In a style reminiscent of the old "Twilight Zone" television show, these three tales will take the book loving reader to a place that is somewhat familiar yet frighteningly surreal and disturbing.
One Hand Screaming (Book length collection of short fiction)
A bookstore that keeps more than dusty old tomes on its shelves, a phantom limb that can reach into the next world, a comic that colors people's lives with terror, graves unable to hold their wares, a collector of haunted artifacts who gets more than he bargains for, a deserted northern highway that brings back a man's worst childhood fears, an encounter with the bogeyman and more.
Spirits (A Short Story)
Fascinated by the ghostly crying that haunts a repertory theatre house, Sally and Rob begin to unravel the mystery behind the eerie occurrences, while learning about the undying passion that can bind two people together or a person to a place.
Tricky Treats (3 Halloween Stories)
As the fall brings a chill to the air, escape inside near a warm fire and enjoy a different type of chill. Tricky Treats collects three previously published Halloween stories by Mark Leslie that feature unworldly visitors who show up on All Hallow's Eve to unleash things strange and eerie onto the world.
*****
Spirits (A Sneak Peek)
Sitting here on the bus stop bench is startlingly comfortable, even though the sheets of misty rain have already cut through my jacket, plastering my shirt to my skin
The cold dampness doesn’t bother me.
Because my mind is otherwise occupied.
By thoughts of Sally.
I haven’t thought about her in years; ever since I left Ottawa, actually. But now that I’m back, back here, especially, the vacant lot across from where I’m sitting –- the lot where the old Phoenix movie theatre used to stand –- stares back at me and reminds me of her.
Reminds me of that night.
#
“Do you believe in spirits?” Sally asked, the flashlight throwing long shadows up her face.
“You mean ghosts?” Rob admired how her features could still seem attractive even in such an eerie light.
“No,” Sally said, her face disappearing as the flashlight clicked off. He heard the echoes of her movements in the large empty theatre. The complete darkness, coupled with the serious tone in her voice, was suddenly unsettling. “Not ghosts. Spirits.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Uhuh,” Something touched his hand in the darkness. At first he flinched and tried to pull away. Then he realized it was Sally’s hand.
He squeezed.
She squeezed back.
He let out a deep breath. For a moment he had been uneasy, but things were okay again. That’s how their relationship seemed to work. That was why they were in this abandoned movie theatre after all.
Rob was making plans to go away to college and they had been talking about the consequences of his moving to a city four hours away while she stayed in Ottawa. They each got a bad feeling about being separated like that, and so they did what they usually did when they were having a minor crisis. They came to the place where they’d had their first date: The Phoenix.
What they had meant to each other that evening of their first date –- what their entire relationship meant –- came back to them whenever they went inside. As corny as it had seemed to their friends, it had become a ritual that worked for them.
Only now, the theatre was closed down and boarded up.
But they didn’t let that stop them. It was exciting actually. One of the things Rob had always liked about Sally was her sense of excitement, of adventure: Her spirit.
And she was definitely showing it tonight.
Sneaking to the back of the abandoned building in the middle of the night; climbing the fire escape to the roof; prying the old service door open and slipping inside; scrambling through the darkness with the light of a single flashlight beam to guide them; finding their way into the theatre house; making out in the darkness. Yes, this was the gist of what Sally and Rob were all about.
“A ghost,” Sally said, nestling herself onto Rob’s lap. “Is a specter. It’s supposed to represent the lost soul of someone who has died.”
“Isn’t that what a spirit is?”
“It can be. But a spirit can also be something more. For example, take my teddy.”
“Pouffy Bear?” Rob giggled.
“Yeah. Now listen, I’m serious.”
“Okay,”
“I’ve had him ever since I was a baby and I’ve always kept him close by. I talk to him. I sleep with him every night...”
”Hey, I’m jealous.”
“Shush. And I shower him with love and affection.”
“So?”
“Well, some people believe that because I’ve spent so much time with him, because I’ve projected so many emotions and feelings onto him, that Pouffy somehow absorbed it all and can feed it back to me.”
“So you’re saying that because you spent eighteen years loving him, that Pouffy, a stuffed animal, loves you?”
“Sort of.” Sally shifted in his lap, turning to face him in the darkness. “When I’m sad or angry, I hold Pouffy Bear and he’s able to make me feel better. I feel protected and safe whenever I hold him, because he provides me with a feeling of love and affection.”
“An echo of the affection you’ve given him?”
