One Hand Screaming - Mark Leslie

2005-07-23T11:45:00.000-07:00

Table of Contents
(click on available link to read online sample)

* denotes complete "section" is available to be enjoyed online

Acknowledgements *
Silent Screams: A note from the author 6 *

The Sound of One Man Screaming: Stories
Browsers 9
Distractions 17 *
From Out of the Night 25

Curt Cries in the Night: Short short stories and poems
Nervous Twitching 33 * (free audio)
The Bogeyman Can 35
Almost 39
The Sound of One Man Screaming 42 *
Frost After Midnight 43
With Apologies to E.P. 43
There Is A Low & Fearful Cry 44
Blood Dreams 45
Wailin’ Jenny 45
Holiday Demons 46

The Sound of Clapping: Award nominees/special mention stories
Phantom Mitch 48
Erratic Cycles 53 *

Echoes in the Night: More stories
Requiem 64
That Old Silk Hat They Found 77 (free audio)
Ides of March 83

Wind Whistling Through Gutted Pumpkins: Halloween stories
But Once A Year 88
Treats 95
Tricky Treater 103

Two Hands Clapping: Stories written with others
Til Death Do Us Part? (with John Strickland) 112
It Creeps Up On You (with Carol Weekes) 122

Noises Off: Behind the screams 135

Back Cover Text

2005-01-31T09:20:00.000-08:00

Mark Leslie has a knack for creating chills. His fiction is like bare bones caressing the skin, creating a shiver here, a delicious northerly tickle there . . . take his book to bed with you and I guarantee you'll find more than shivers between the sheets; if you stretch your toes down far enough to the end of the bed, you never know what might grab back. Beware dark corners, empty alley ways, lonely streets, the quiet room . . . when Mark beckons for you to take his literary hand in yours. Yes, reach out and touch the bones . . . because you want to; you will be frightened, but you won't be disappointed.
- Horror author Carol Weekes

"Mark Leslie is a writer with a bright, bright future. He can move from urban fantasy to magic realism, from hard science fiction to dark psychological horror with apparent ease. His stories are well written, skillfully told, and satisfyingly good to the last word."
- Edo van Belkom, author of SCREAM QUEEN

"Mark Leslie's horror is reminscent of the old-time story tellers, those guys who cared about plot and were pretty good at building a creepy tale. If there's a dark corner, Leslie will draw you to it, even against your will."
- Nancy Kilpatrick, author of THE POWER OF THE BLOOD series, ETERNAL CITY and THE GOTH BIBLE

"Prepare to be haunted by a master of suspense. Leslie paints his characters with compassion, then sends a chill down the spine. Highly recommended."
- Julie E. Czerneda, author of HIDDEN IN SIGHT

"Mark Leslie is an exciting new voice in Canadian fiction, and sure to be one of the SF stars of tomorrow. He's a wonderful writer, and a joy to read."
- Robert J. Sawyer, author of HOMINIDS

Acknowledgements

2005-01-31T08:34:00.000-08:00

Acknowledgements

While the title of this book reflects an activity performed by one individual, it is
not without the constant support, encouragement, assistance, guidance and
friendship of others.

Ken Abner, David Barnett, Don Bassie, Richard Blair, James Botte, Cathy
Buburuz, Joseph Cherkes, Martha Closs, Stephanie Connolly, Sean Costello,
Julie E. Czerneda, Ellen Datlow, Bertrand Desbiens, John Ellis, Melanie E.
Fischer, Todd H. C. Fischer, Jack Fisher, Denise Fleischer, Sandra Fritz, Gary
Fuhrman, Steve Gaydos, Charles Grant, Paul Griffin, Peter Halasz, Christine
Harkness, Brian A. Hopkins, Rob Howard, Don Hutchison, Rebecca Anne
Jansen, Kathleen Jurgens, Sandra Kasturi, Nancy Kilpatrick, Ed Kobialka, Chris
Krejlgaard, Chris Lacher, Richard Laymon, Christie Leblanc, Stan Lee, Timothy
Libby, Sally McBride, Mary Maccusi, Elizabeth Martin-Burk, Arianne Matte,
Pete Mihajic, Pat Nielsen, Michelle Norry, David O’Meara, Neil Peart, Greg
Roberts, Robert J. Sawyer, Andre Scheluchin, Dale L Sproule, Taki Stewart,
John Strickland, David M. Switzer, Jim Turcott, Edo van Belkom, Dean Watson,
Carol Weekes . . .

. . . have all either published my writing, or are people whose own creativity,
friendship or insightful comments have helped make me better at my craft.
While I’ve attempted to name them all, this is but the small part of that iceberg
which is visible.

Special Gratitude to: Greg Roberts, for the author photo; Steve Gaydos, for the
design and layout of the cover; Sean Costello, for creative assistance, input and
insight into the collection; Dianne Marzanek, for use of her mother’s artwork on
the cover, and of course, for her beautiful daughter.

Thanks to Mom & Baba who, although not always enamoured with the subject
matter for most of my creative efforts, still put up my drawings of monsters when
I was a child and supported the idea that I wanted to be a writer. And to Dad
whose creativity in woodworking and link to nature was a constant inspiration
and whose memory and love still burns strong in my heart.

Thanks, Alexander, my beautiful son, whom I cradled in one arm while doing the
final work on this book. You’re a miracle who inspires me in a way I could
never imagine before. I love you, little one.

And as always, I could not do any of what I do without the unwavering and
tireless support and love of my wife Francine. I love you, Lamb-kabob.

Silent Screams

2005-01-30T08:48:00.000-08:00

SILENT SCREAMS
A Note From The Author

I SCREAM A LOT.

Silent screams bounce around inside my head like an impending
storm brewing into a force that will escape in a wild dance of chaos
and be lost forever if I don’t stop to jot them down.

I’m a condemned man. Condemned to write.

But don’t get me wrong; I love it.

For centuries, philosophers have been plagued with the
question: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” But, due to my
curse, my deeper, more morbid musings, I am doomed to consider:
What is the sound of one hand screaming? Why ask? Why delve
into the darkness? Why pursue fear and terror?

There’s really no answer. I merely respond to a call both
from within and from without. Human beings have been eagerly
devouring notions of evil and horror since we dwelt in caves and
jumped at the shadows and noises occurring just outside the
comforting range of firelight. History is wrought with examples of
people standing alone, facing a vast, empty void and questioning both
themselves and the universe.

Canadians, especially, have always been concerned with
notions of what lies beyond our normal existence. From the days
when we had still to explore the uncharted west and northern
territories to a time when our very cities seem to be a futile attempt to
light up the dark, we are both intrigued with and fearful of the
unknown.

One Hand Screaming explores one man’s journey into the
unknown and dealing with such universal elements. At a basic level,
it documents the early evolution of a writer cursed to churn out
morbid musings, spin dark tales that question the ideas of evil and of
sanity. It is a collection of fiction and poetry, but it can also be seen
in an autobiographical sense if you decide to read the final chapter of
story notes. I purposely separated them from the stories and poems to
ensure that those readers who prefer not to “see the strings” behind
the writing can simply skip them and still enjoy the tales.

But regardless of how you choose to enjoy this work, I trust that
if you try really hard, you’ll be able to hear, almost out of perceptible
range, a series of silent screams.

Don’t worry – it’s just me.

I scream a lot.

Mark Leslie, February 2004

Browsers

2005-01-29T08:52:00.000-08:00

BROWSERS

“The stimulation of seeing so many books so suddenly seemed
almost more than was good for the frail little boy.”
-George R. Stewart, Earth Abides

STEPPING INTO a used book shop is sometimes like stepping into
another dimension. Where else but a used book store can one find
such an eclectic selection of minds and experiences stored in dusty
tomes, just waiting to be browsed through by anyone who happens
along?

Occasionally a used book shop can be a painful experience,
offering up nothing more than the latest trashy paperbacks and adult
porn magazines.

But sometimes . . .

Sometimes a used book store can provide, to the avid browser, a
mystical experience. Sometimes, walking through that door, you are
overwhelmed with a sense of awe, a sense that something powerful is
being housed within the very walls.

I discovered such a wondrous shop years ago on the corner of
two streets whose names I cannot remember in one of those pseudocities
on the south western edge of the Golden Horseshoe.

Standing on the street, the sounds of traffic all around me, I
beheld the quaint corner shop with curious eyes. The dark and dusty
windows did not allow me a clear view of the interior of the shop, and
apart from the word BROWSERS painted on the window there was
no exterior sign indicating the name of the establishment.

Trying to remember if I’d been to this particular shop before, I
opened the door. The tiny bell overhead tinkled as I stepped inside. I
had to pause as the familiar feeling of awe overtook me. Perhaps you
feel it, too, when you walk into a used book shop – the feeling that all
eternity is poised, trapped in the moment, just waiting to spill forth
into the future.

Literature has always fascinated me. With writing, humankind
has developed the ability to elevate a person to a state of immortality.
And with that, anyone who reads can thus share in that immortal
bliss. None of us have ever had the pleasure of meeting Shakespeare
or Dickens personally, but they are still companions in our day to day
travels. Though long dead, they are very much with us. That is the
beauty and power of literature.

Perhaps that is why I had spent the last three decades of my life
writing, trying to capture the spirit of myself on paper. To that point,
I had been unsuccessful, forced to live vicariously through the bold
efforts of those great masters who’d come before me.

That is probably why I would take such pleasure in browsing
through a used book shop. And occasionally, when feeling daring, I
would fantasize about future generations browsing such a shop and
finding one of my works – essentially discovering my spirit and thus
keeping me alive.

The absence of a book clerk was the first thing I noticed. But
that wasn’t unusual. He or she could be shelving books or helping
another customer. Standing in the tiny entranceway I glanced at the
small podium desk, which I assumed the owner used as a work space.
My eyes then led forward to the next connected room which was
perhaps eight by twelve feet. I moved into it. This room, crammed
with the usual variety of books, led off directly to another room of
similar size.

Trying to get my bearings, I searched through the second room
to find two more doorways to a third and forth room. I took the door
on the right and found, from that room, another three choices.
The peculiarity struck me at that point. I paused and breathed in
my amazement. What looked like such a tiny corner shop was
actually a huge space divided into a multitude of rooms.

I saw myself spending a lot of time here.

(The opening section from "Browsers" a story in the book One Hand Screaming by Mark Leslie. © 2004 by Mark Leslie Lefebvre)

Distractions

2005-01-29T06:16:00.000-08:00

"Distractions" tells the story of frustrated novelist Maxwell Bronte who clings to the advice from a popular self-help bestseller and takes things to the extreme when attempting to eliminate the distractions preventing him from getting back to writing.

"Distractions" is available for free to read online or download to a portable reading device. You can also listen to the story online or download the mp3.

Read Distractions online at the Made in Canada website - (Free)
Read Distractions online or download it at Shortcovers - (Free)
Listen to Distractions online (Free)
Download an mp3 of Distractions by right-clicking here - (Free)

Nervous Twitching

2005-01-28T09:41:00.000-08:00

NERVOUS TWITCHING

(Listen to this story free online)

THE NIGHT was cold and the air murky. Samantha’s blood was
dark and still warm as it poured out onto the cool pavement from
beneath her shoulder blades.

Neil Hunter was afraid.

Sort of.

He couldn’t quite remember what had happened . . . here, it’s
heavy. It takes two hands just to lift it . . . but the results were plainly
obvious. Samantha was now dead.

Sort of.

Relax. Hold it down. Expose the neck. That’s it. Good, Neil. Good boy.

Samantha’s head rested on the alley floor about two feet away
from her body. Burning tears welled in Neil’s eyes. What had
happened to her? And why couldn’t he remember it?

Well he could remember it.

Sort of.

Good, son. Don’t lose your grip. Lift the axe, aim and drop. Quickly.

He remembered seeing her head rolling away from her body.
And hearing the echoes of her screams bouncing off the alley walls.

Something else echoed there, too. Laughter?

Look at them fluttering helplessly about the yard. It’s funny, but
not funny. It’s somehow pitiful. And the worst thing is that I can’t
help but watch and laugh.

Neil bowed over and released the contents of his stomach onto
the cool pavement, beside the fresh crimson liquid pooling on the
alley floor.

Steam slowly rose from the pair of liquids.

Beside him, her headless body twitched.

He looked up at the decapitated head through the blur of tears.

“Help me,” her lips seemed to say as her mouth moved.

Dad. They won’t stop running around. Do they even know
they’re dead?

And her eyes. They were vacant and staring.

Sort of.

For sometimes her eyes seemed to move, seemed to be
following his own movements.

It’s nervous twitching, Neil. They’ll stop. Funny how they
flutter about even after they are dead, isn’t it? But we both know that
it’s really just nervous twitching. Nothing more.

Neil knelt by Samantha’s head, the taste of bile still strong in his
throat. Although his stomach continued to churn and his heart
continued to ache, he could no longer throw up or cry.

He was beyond all that.

Sort of.

Nothing more than nervous twitching. Keep watching son.
They’ll stop.

Shivering in the cool night air, he picked up her head, the left
cheek matted with blood, now cold, and cradled it in his arms.

He could feel her lips working against his chest.

Sort of funny how they twitch. But they’re not stopping, Dad.
They’re not stopping!

The Sound of One Man Screaming

2005-01-27T10:44:00.000-08:00

THE SOUND OF ONE MAN SCREAMING

A pen is lifted from a cup
that waits, patiently, on the edge of the desk
Sometimes in haste
Sometimes with measured care
The pen is lifted, balanced between three fingers
and brought down to kiss an empty page

A blank computer screen glares
The incessant whirring of a hard-drive fan
an undying, steady rhythmic pulse
Both mocking the absence of activity in the room
Until the distinct sound of fingers clacking the keyboard
announce the presence of words on the screen

A coffee mug filled with a simple black blend
Sometimes full
Sometimes cool
Often touched merely for the comfort it offers
overlooks the entire process

If you listen very carefully you will hear
More silent than the sound of the steam rising off the coffee
Ever so gently
The sound of one man screaming

Ides of March

2005-01-20T10:51:00.000-08:00

IDES OF MARCH

A CRUEL, unavoidable empathy has overcome me today.

It had been an otherwise typical day in the middle of March.
Spring was coming in like a lamb, and I had the radio deejay
repeatedly reminding me of it all morning. Repetitive as his
ramblings were, the fact that I was sitting at my desk in the front
window and was thus witness to the weather made it all the more
redundant.

But I needed the deejay’s company; to keep me sane.

I’d been there at the desk near the window all morning on self-appointed
sick leave. No, I wasn’t ill, but I did have to fill out the tax
forms for my wife and I, and if neither of us got on the ball, they’d
never get done. On second thought, maybe I was sick. Why else
would I volunteer for such a task?

So I sat there, playing with numbers, feeling the warm sun on
my face with the easy listening radio station filtering old top 40 tunes
to my mind. The temperature outside was just above zero, I could
tell, for the previously icy sidewalks were now infested with puddles.

The warm temperature left the remaining snow wet and sticky.
The neighbor’s eight year old boy, Charlie Fung, was putting the
finishing touches on what would probably be his last snowman of the
year.

Everything was normal. Everything was fine. And except for
the grueling hours and triplicate form headaches that lay ahead of me,
it was a pleasant day.

Then this black truck, a Range Rover, I believe, appeared from
around the corner of our street and Fifth Avenue and swerved
dramatically, taking a long wide turn into the double driveway that
we shared with the Fungs.

Two figures sat in the cab, but it was hard to see them through
the glare of the sun on the windshield. I was certain that they were
drunk, or at least the driver was, the way he’d maneuvered the
vehicle. That upset me. I mean, it was barely noon, and already
drunk drivers were on the road, endangering lives. I’d never seen this
truck before and wondered what connection these yahoos might have
with the Fungs, who were very conservative, peaceful and quiet
neighbors.

Both figures stumbled out of the truck and confirmed my
suspicions about their drunkenness. Their fashion sense wasn’t much
better. They were large, overweight, and dressed in similar beige full
length overcoats, blue baggy ski pants and wool hats with long,
floppy brims that kept their faces in shadow.

Together, they lurched toward Charlie, who was looking up at
them from his recently created masterpiece. The driver was the first
to reach the boy and as he approached, he grabbed Charlie by the
shoulder and threw him to the snow.

I sprang from my desk and ran back through the living room,
into the kitchen and down the steps to the front door. When I burst
into the front yard, Charlie was sitting in the snow, crying silently,
and the two men were carrying away the snowman.

When Charlie saw me he started to wail out loud, and I rushed
over to see if he was all right.

“The pushed me!” He bawled. “They pushed me! They pushed
me!” He continually repeated this phrase, louder and louder. For an
obscure moment I wondered if he held any relation to the deejay
who’d been keeping me company all morning with his repetitive and
redundant words.

Assured that Charlie wasn’t hurt, just scared, I looked up to see
that the two strangers were putting Charlie’s snowman into the back
of the truck where five other snowman sat.

I wouldn’t be surprised if my jaw hit the snow as I stood there
watching.

Stealing snowmen from children? What kind of mentally
unbalanced people was I dealing with here? Our world was getting
more and more stupid each passing day.

Noises Off: Behind The Screams

2005-01-02T09:53:00.000-08:00

Noises Off: Behind The Screams

IF YOU are not one who likes to get the story behind the story or “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 would 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 silent screams.

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 grab your jacket. It’s a damp night
with a full moon. There’s a cool wind from the north and we’ve got a
long walk ahead of us. Let me bend your ear as you and I engage in a
little jaunt.

* * *

About The Cover

THE COVER design for this book was done by Steve Gaydos, a very
talented graphic designer from Ottawa and someone whom I’ve been
fortunate enough to count among my dearest friends for more than
half of my life. Steve put together something that has a strong
personal meaning to me and which I find absolutely stunning.
Having always been inspired by M. C. Escher’s strange and
wonderful body of work, I expressed to Steve my fondness for the
cover being reminiscent of that. I’ve always found Escher’s work
intriguing and sometimes on the verge of disturbing. Steve captured
that feeling wonderfully in an ode to Escher’s “Eye” (1946).

For the cover, Steve was also able to incorporate a charcoal
sketch of a skull that my wife Francine’s maternal grandmother
Agnes Bartlett drew in 1938 when she was in art school. I never had
the pleasure of meeting this wonderful lady, as she’d died a year
before I met Francine. But I’ve heard how much she loved ghost
stories, and how much she would have enjoyed reading my fiction.
Many of her beautiful pieces of art hang in several rooms of our
home, (the skull, of course, hangs near my writing space) and I am
honoured to be able to use her work for my cover.

The author photo, which appears on the back cover, was taken
by another lifelong friend, Greg Roberts. A self-taught photographer,
Greg has a great eye and a knack for making the most beautiful
photos look simple and “easy” matching his easygoing,
straightforward and consistently dependable nature. Although he’s
one of the most intelligent and technically accomplished people I’ve
known, he’s never been pretentious about it and has always used his
powers for good, not evil. His work can be enjoyed on his website at
www.gregrob.ca.

Browsers

First Published in Challenging Destiny #5, January 1999

IT’S NO accident that I wanted this story to lead the collection.
Because so much of my life has involved surrounding myself with
books, this is a tale that is still very close to my heart. That I could
combine my passion for books with a “Twilight Zone” type of tale
was a very satisfying exercise. I’m also tickled by the fact that I was
able to build in a reference to one of my favourite novels, Earth
Abides by George R. Stewart.

This tale was inspired by one of my own quests to explore used
bookstores in a “strange” city. At the time, Francine and I were
living in Ottawa and were visiting her mother in Hamilton. While
mother and daughter made plans to go on an all-day shopping
expedition I decided to go on my own little quest. I took the Yellow
Pages and a map of the city and made a note of all the book and
magazine shops in the area. I then set out to visit them all.

It was during this trip that I encountered the used bookstore that
inspired this tale. It appeared to be a small corner shop, but inside it
was an interesting catacomb of inter-connected rooms that seemed to
go on forever. One of the “rooms” and shelves were in the middle of
being built while I wandered through the shop, but my imagination
had already spawned its own ideas of how new rooms were
constructed here.

I purposely didn’t name the narrator, nor identify their sex. My
goal was not just to allow the reader to identify with this book lover
but to be able to step directly into their role, whether they themselves
were male or female. The only indication that I was successful with
this was when I saw the illustrations by Janet Chui, which appeared
with my story in Challenging Destiny. Janet picked up on this subtle
cue and kept up the masquerade – her excellent illustrations, perfectly
matching the mood and sense of mystery I’d intended, didn’t reveal
the narrator’s face and, in a long flowing overcoat, allowed the
narrator to remain asexual. Thanks Janet.

Distractions

Previously unpublished in print. First appeared in World
Fantasy Con 2001 CD-ROM edited by Nancy Kilpatrick

WRITING, BEING a completely self-directed activity requiring
steadfast determination and unwavering commitment, is often the first
activity to be sacrificed to make room for other activities. In other
words, it’s easy to let distractions become a convenient excuse as to
why I’m not writing.

While attempting to work at identifying a list of distractions in
the hopes of eliminating them prior to my “writing time” (likely
advice I’d gathered from one of the many writing guides or
magazines that I continue to read every year), I mused that I was
acting like a self-help guru. I began to wonder what a book hot off
the “self-help” shelves on eliminating distractions might be called and
who the author might be.

Then, I imagined a frustrated author embracing the book and
taking its simple message to new extremes.

In 2001, Nancy Kilpatrick sent a communication to a list of
Canadian writers of science fiction, fantasy and horror, looking for
submissions to a CD-ROM that would be given out at the World
Fantasy Convention being held in Montreal that year. She was
looking for stories, poems and essays retrospective of past WF Con
themes while featuring Canadian talent.

One of the categories that hadn’t been filled was the “Fantasy
Writers of the Southwest” theme. To match the requirements for this
theme, I re-wrote “Distractions” further fleshing out my main
character from a “could live anywhere” writer to a fantasy writer
living in the Southwest.