A Ghost Story

It was three in the morning when the ghost returned to visit Steven.

At first, shortly after his family moved into the house, there was only the sound of heavy, careful footsteps in the night. Alarmed, Steven would leave the imagined safety of his bed and venture down the hall, terrified of finding an intruder. But it was always the same; the kids fast asleep and unaware, the doors bolted, the windows locked.

In the morning he and his wife found it amusing, a curiosity to liven up the anecdotes they told about their new home. Neither, of course, believed in ghosts.

That was how it started.

What followed was a lull, two weeks of undisturbed and blissful sleep. And then, an escalation: the footsteps again, this time breaching Steven's room and stopping just beside his bed. After that the mornings brought no peace. The restless nights made tempers flare, and he grew angry each time his wife dismissed his claims, blaming it all on the shifting frame of a century old house.

Steven, for his part, was no longer sure what he believed.

Soon his wife let the news 'slip' to his mother. "I don't understand why you would worry," his Mom said, over his protest that the whole thing was blown out of proportion. "Our family has owned that house since it was built. The only people to pass away there are your great-grandparents, and even if they could come back, you know they would never harm you."

They were words meant to comfort, but did the opposite. He felt no kinship with a couple dead and gone twenty years before his birth. Nor could he fathom caring about his own descendants, at least those he wouldn't live to see. If there were angry spirits in the house, why would they be obliged to tolerate him? For the sake of a relationship four generations removed?

That was the night the figure appeared. There were footsteps of course, loud enough to wake him but no one else (although, to be fair, he never really slept well at night anymore, surviving on catnaps scattered throughout the day). They came forward slowly but confidently, as if the spirit no longer cared to mask its presence, and again, they paused by the bed. Ignoring his fear Steven opened his eyes.

Before him stood a shadow, a man-but-not-a-man. While there was no physical form, the shifting darkness that was its whole worked to craft an illusion of strength and bulk. Through the pressing, psychical weight of his fear Steven sensed a strange familiarity in the figure. Remarkably, he found himself begin to get out of bed.

Not yet, a voice said, and he had no doubt it could be heard only in his mind. Not yet.
That was the beginning of the end.

In the weeks to come Steven would spend his nighttime hours awake, fighting off sleep with a ferocity fueled by fear. His work began to suffer; his children, sensing something wrong, grew distant, and his wife, concerned, begged him to see a doctor. When he refused all pleas for help he found himself banished to the living room couch. For Steven it seemed a hidden blessing. The shadow man seemed contained to the upstairs level, and his few nights on the couch gave him his first true rest in months.

On the night of the final visit there was no sound, only an icy shiver that wrenched Steven awake with a stunning abruptness. The figure stood at the head of the couch, leaning over and staring - if it had eyes at all - directly into Steven's face.

Now, it said.

The figure began to walk away, heading for the kitchen. Steven's body, his mind, his very soul screamed caution, and he resolved to stay where he lay. It was a surprise to him, then, that he found himself on his feet and following the form. They entered the room together, and in front of his eyes the figure disappeared.

Here again Steven's body reacted against his wishes. His head screamed retreat, and yet he looked frantically for the figure, as if instead of vanishing he'd simply lost sight of him in a crowd. Through the pantry lay the door to the basement stairs, and the sound of the familiar footsteps. He opened the door(retreat!) and began to descend. His eyes had grown accustomed to picking out form and figures in the dark of night, and they came quickly to rest on a figure below.

On his way down his foot stubbed against an item on the stairs, and hearing it begin to fall he instictively reached out. His hand came to rest around a taped handle, and instantly registered it as his son's little league bat.

At the same moment he noticed the cellar door hanging off its hinges, and the glint in the shadow's hand as it rushed up the stairs. Before these thoughts were complete the intruder slammed into Steven, slashing at him in a frenzy. The first blow struck harmlessly against the bat.

A second later the man was on him again, grabbing the bat and tossing it aside before raising the knife for a final blow. Steven's eyes went from the knife, to the eyes of his assailant - and then to the familiar figure emerging from the dark.

Pitch dark arms ignored the blade and encircled the intruder's neck from behind, leveraging him up and off of Steven. It was then, only for a moment, that he saw the face of his visitor. There was no face as we know it, simply the impression of one, but in its imagined features was not one face but many; his great-grandfather and his father before him, his sons and his future grandchildren.

Even in the surreal chaos of that moment he knew in the end the fight would be his own. The intruder continued to struggle and the shadow grew paler, and in the dark Steven's hands found the bat once again.

Now, the shadow said, and Steven knocked the intruder to the ground.

He would see the shadow only once more in his lifetime. Years later, he and his wife would babysit their firstborn grandchild. In the middle of the night Steven stirred and wandered into the baby's room, and sat in the rocker alongside the crib. From the corner of the eye he noticed a shadow distinct from the darkness, but did not turn to meet it.

Together, they were content to stare into the face of the future.

- Me, 2009

My Public Reading of "A Shadow of a Distant Life" at the St. Francis Library

I had another column in the Journal-Sentinel today, and I must apologize if you wasted three precious quarters on it. You should have let your kids raid the gumball machine instead. It was alright prose but I thought it was empty of soul and sincerity. This isn't false modesty or low self-esteem, just an honest opinion. So again, my bad. I'll do better next time.

On the other end of the spectrum we have that fiction writing contest held by a local suburb. No, I didn't win the contest. But, the judge said, my story had developed a little following, one that argued in its favor so strongly that the winner was decided by a hair. With that in mind, she asked if I'd attend the program and give a public reading of my work.

I said "Sure", but I was officially trying to squirm my way out of it as late as this afternoon. Oh, in my heart I knew I was going to go through with it - why else would I have shaved and changed my skivvies on a day off? - but the idea of standing in front of eighty people and reading a complete short story terrified me.

All the more reason to do it, of course. So at 6:30 Tuesday night YaYa and I traveled to St. Francis Public Library's meeting hall.



After the winners of the juvenile brackets read their work, the judge called me up front. She gave the audience the same explanation she'd given me (my first confirmation it wasn't all flattering b.s.), pronounced my name right (which always shocks me) and I got down to business.

"It's fitting that this was a horror story contest," I told the audience, "Because right now I'm terrified just standing here."



I am not a great speaker, but I have improved with time and practice. I enunciated, I stressed this and paused after that, and from time to time I looked up and made sure to make eye contact with the audience - and all the while my hands were shaking. And then, after five minutes or so, I was done.



"Wow," some people in the audience said - a top 100 Danny moment for sure - and then I got a round of applause. The M.C. returned to the mike "I think I heard some 'wows' out there, didn't I?" she said. "Thank you very much."



I returned to my seat next to a beaming YaYa and listened to the rest of the program, which included a presentation by ghost researcher and author Chad Lewis.

[Oh, by the way: I think my story was better, but the winner was a heck of a public speaker/reader. Tip o' the hat to him for that. I've got a lot to learn.]

After the program a few pats on the back, some compliments, a thank you from me to the judges, and we were on our way back home.

It was a good evening. A really good evening.

Thinking out loud

Last month you might remember that I wrote a horror story and submitted it to a local contest. Since the public reading for the winners is scheduled for November 3rd, I'd realistically decided I'd lost. No biggee - try and try again.

But I just called and asked for the lineup for the event and was told it wasn't public knowledge, that the winners would be notified at the ceremony itself and asked to read their work. No entrant has been invited, it's just hoped they'll attend.

That's nuts.

First of all, the events capacity is capped at 80 people, and there's already a waiting list. Second, theres a minimum age limit, which means none of my kids could attend. Third, what if I win but I'm not there (since I'm on the wait list)? Heck, what if Jane Doe wins and she's not present? Do we just not have a reading and a program and slowly leave the room? And do I want to sit through two hours of mush just to hear my name not called?

Goofy. Anyhow, I was about to post the entry here, but I'll hold the story pending the official announcement of a winner.

Cleaning House: The Season

I wish I'd never written the following post. I never finished the book it yaks about and barely worked on it after a week or two of writing the post. Why? Largely because my then-new promotion wiped out my free time. In truth I'll probably never finish it, which means 70,000 words are permanently gathering dust on my bookshelf.

Yet another failure to piss and moan about. Thank God I'm so sexy that it balances the scales.

* * * *

(May 13th, 2005)

The way it began . . .

Back when I was a senior in high school a character popped into my head.

He was Polish naturally, and large and devilishly handsome like his creator.

One teensy difference between us: he made Babe Ruth and Willie Mays look like chumps on the baseball diamond, and I throw like a girl.

In time - and we’re talking more than a decade here - a whole roster of players came to surround him. I knew who his teammates were, where they were born, their career stats, and how they eventually made their way to the Great Diamond in the Sky.

About three years ago I decided it had simmered enough. It was time to get it on paper and out of my head.

The problem, as I saw it, was simple: it had all been done before.

All baseball stories boil down to two simple scenarios: The Bad News Bears, where a down and out team of limited ability sucks it up and wins it all: and the Crafty Veteran, where an old, battered player with a reverence for the game must pass the torch to a talented youngster ignorant of the game's beauty.

Some stories use these plots but craft a wonderful tale atop them, and I knew I’d resort to a bit of it along the way.

But my lead character wasn’t old and decrepit, he was in his prime and a force of nature. And the team wasn’t horrible, it was a recent World Champion with a roster that inspired awe in its fans.

So I had another idea. What if you said “screw this” and went 180 degrees from the norm?

What if you had a team that not only won, but won big?

A team that not only won the Championship, but every game along the way - all 162.

Impossible, of course. No team has ever won more than 116, and anyone that cracks the century mark will be the odds on favorite to win the World Series.

But this was fiction, and what better way to give a Bronx cheer to the established formula?

Besides, the team in the story is my hometown Milwaukee Brewers. I have fond memories of ‘Team Streak’, the 1987 version that won 13 in a row and also featured Paul Molitor’s incredible hitting streak. If any team should play host to the streak of all streaks, it should be my Brewers.

Going down that road was risky. Not only did it strain the believability of the story, it risked alienating readers who had no inclination to root for Goliath as he crushed David.

Making it work meant relying on a whole new set of rules, including the needfor strong personal conflicts between some of the main characters.

But that’s a story for another day.

Work on the actual text of the novel began on July 23, 2003, with a targeted completion date of December 1st.

With the exception of two weeks where work interfered, I progressed pretty steadily through September.

By the 28th of that month I had 61,406 words on paper.

And then nothing.

I hit a snag where I felt like I’d lost my focus, throwing down every thought in my head rather than catering to the demands of a reader.

Remember, these folks were in my head a long time. I could fill a phone book with what I know about a single character. I was overwhelming the plot with useless little details.

Then the 2004 election, a move, my wife’s pregnancy, and personal issues delayed me even more.

I also failed because - primarily - I lacked the discipline to finish the gig.

In November of ’04 I created Slapinions, and the rigors of having to come up with 600 words every few days  - words that were good enough to be read by strangers - helped restore my confidence.

Time to try again

Introducing The Season

Rather than wait for the 'anniversary' post, I thought I'd introduce you to a new site of mine, The Season.

It's a writing blog that follows the progress of a novel I'm working on in my spare time.

The first post essentially introduces the idea of the novel itself; later entries will deal with the characters and their relationships, and with the everyday process of writing.

The site is brand new and in need of some redecorating, but I hope you enjoy it and visit again.

Also . . . if you have a mind to, take a look at the web version of Slapinions. It's brand new and not open to the public (it too needs some mucho redecorating) but one day it'll probably replace this site. As of now, it simply mirrors the entries on this one.

Enjoy, and thanks for your readership.

 

Dan

Why Snow Hates Cars March 26th

This started off as a story to keep the kids occupied in the car, but it's grown quite a bit since then. Along with The Coffin Tale, The Pumpkin Story, and The Fuzzy tale, this one's in continuous circulation on our road trips.

You know cars hate snow.

When it snows cars slip

and slide

They spin their wheels

and get stuck

and sometimes they get so cold they can't even move at all!

You know cars hate snow.

But do you know why snow hates cars?

It wasn't always that way.

Once upon a time, when the Great Snow King

ruled winter, cars and snow got along just fine.

The Great Snow King was called 'great' for a reason.

Oh, sometimes he sent cold, cold winds down from the North Pole

and he always made sure your parents had plenty of snow to shovel

But he also made sure kids had snow for sledding, and snow angels,

and snowball fights.

He always made sure there was snow for Christmas,

and if he was feeling super nice,

he'd send just enough snow to cancel school.

Now the Great Snow King had a son that was a snowman, and he wished more than anything that his boy would

someday be King.

His son The Snow Prince had other ideas.

He wanted to be an actor.

Of course, that was a silly wish, because snowmen do not become movie stars.

Except for one time.

This time.

Now, while the Snow Prince was dreaming about movies, a car was dreaming about something else.

His name was Jazz, and he was as brand-new as a car could be.

He was shiny and smooth, with big comfy seats and a powerful engine that went

"Vroom Vroom" as he went down the street.

Jazz wanted to be a race-car when he grew up, and he liked to drive fast. Too fast for the city, so he would go out to the country and go "zoom zoom" down the lonely roads.

That was how he met the Snow Prince.

It's not often you see a snowman in summer. Especially one who’s sled was stuck in the mud.

"Howdy partner. Need some help?" Jazz asked.

“Oh yes, sir, if you please,” The Snow Prince said, for he was nothing if not polite.

Quick as a jiffy, Jazz tied a rope to the sled and with a ‘vroom vroom’ of his engine pulled it free.

“Oh thank you sir!” The Snow Prince said.

“Aw, lay off that ‘sir‘, stuff, mister. The names Jazz, and racings my game!” he said.

“I’m the Snow Prince,” the snowman said. “And soon I’ll be a movie star. I’m going to be famous!”

Jazz was a little confused.

“Don’t see many movie stars around here. Especially one’s that melt,” he said.

That was when the Snow Prince noticed a drop of water on the end of his carrot nose

The weather was a bit warmer than he was used to at the North Pole.

“I guess I didn’t plan very well. I thought it would still be winter and I could ride my sled. But it’s not, and if I don’t hurry up I’ll never get to Hollywood,” The Snow Prince said.

“What’s out there?” Jazz asked.

“Only the best movie ever! It’s all about a snowman that comes to life one winter and sings lots of songs to make kids happy. They start filming soon, and I’m going to be the star of the show! I was born to play that part!” he said.

“Hmm. Well, that sled won’t get you very far,” Jazz said. Just then another big drop of water fell off The Snow Prince. Splash!

Suddenly Jazz had an idea.

“Tell you what. I’ve never been to California, and I hear they drive really fast there. If you like I can give you a ride,” Jazz said.

“Oh no, I couldn’t impose,” The Snow Prince said as another drop of water fell to the ground.

Splat!

“I have air conditioning,” Jazz said, and that was that.

So Jazz and The Snow Prince set out across America.

They drove through the Midwest and saw lots of farms.

They drove through prairies and raced buffaloes.

They drove through the Rocky Mountains, where The Snow Prince enjoyed the cool mountain air.

And along the way the two became the best of friends.

But not once did the Snow Prince tell Jazz that he had run away from home, and that his father was looking for him. And he never, not once, told him how mad his father would be if he found them.

Finally they got to California, and The Snow Prince was so happy to see the big Hollywood sign! He was this close to being the worlds first and most famous snowman actor!

“I’m hungry Snow Prince,” Jazz said. “Mind if I stop for some gas before we drive to the studio?”

“Go ahead, I’m hungry too,” he said.

Jazz pulled into a gas station. In it’s window was a red sign that said “Ice Cream”.

“You better be careful . It’s mighty hot out here in California,” Jazz said.

“I’ll only be a minute. And you’ll be right outside,” The Snow Prince said. With that, he went in search of some butter pecan.

As Jazz was filling up his tank with the best tasting gas he’d ever had, he was very happy he’d taken the trip.

Not only had he met a great friend, but he’d seen the whole country, and California was very pretty.

That’s when he heard it.

At first it was very quiet, like a mouse, and Jazz thought he was imagining things. Then he heard it again.

“Vroom, vroom vroom”

The noise seemed to be coming from down the block. Jazz was itching to go see what it was, but he knew he shouldn’t leave The Snow Prince.

“I’ll just be gone for a minute,” he thought to himself. “I’ll be back before he even notices.”

With his mind made up he drove down the block. The noise seemed to be coming from behind a tall pine fence.

Halfway up one of the planks was a knothole. Jazz popped a wheelie and put his headlight to the hole.

There, on the other side of the fence were dozens of cars going round and round a track as fast as they could!

“A race!,” said Jazz. “Hot dog!”

He was very excited and wished he could get a better view. Then a man in a bright blue usher’s suit tapped him on the fender.

“’Bout time you got here! We’ve been looking everywhere for you, the race already started. You better get in there before the boss gets any madder,” the usher said.

“But I’m not who you think . . . “ Jazz said, confused.

“Enough chit-chat. Are you gonna race or not?” the man asked.

Jazz should have remembered The Snow Prince and said “no thank you”, but he was much too excited to think of anything but driving in the race. His dream was coming true!

Back at the gas station The Snow Prince stepped outside with his ice cream. He looked left

and right,

and left again,

but didn’t see Jazz.

His ice cream started to melt in the hot California sun.

At the racetrack Jazz was doing well, moving closer and closer to the lead.

Outside the gas station The Snow Prince was worried. His ice cream was a gooey mess and he could feel melted snow drip,

drip,

dripping

down his face.

The Snow Prince tried to go back inside by the air conditioning, but the clerk pointed to the puddle he was making and said “Stay out!”

Now he was very worried indeed.

Down the street a man took out a checkered flag.

The race was almost over.

And the winner was . . .

Jazz!!!

Everyone was cheering! A man handed Jazz a microphone.

“Say a few words to the crowd son,” he said.

“Gosh, I’m so happy. I just wish my friend . . ,” Jazz began. Then he realized what he’d done.

“Snow Prince!” he yelled, roaring down the street faster than he ever had on the race track.

He pulled into the gas station and looked around.

He looked left,

and right,

and left again,

but there was no sign of The Snow Prince.

Unless, that is, you noticed a carrot nose floating in a large puddle of water.

Jazz was so sad he never raced again. To this day the only time he leaves the garage

Is to drive a little old lady to church on Sunday’s.

Very

Very

Slowly

Since The Snow Prince was made up of - what else? - snow, he didn’t go away forever.

The sun dried up the puddle

and he floated in the clouds

until he reached the North Pole, where he fell,

one by one,

as snowflakes until he was back to his old self.

When the Great Snow King saw him he was too happy to be angry at his son.

But The Snow Prince was very, very mad.

While he was up in the clouds as drop after drop of water, another snowman

got the part in the movie

and went on to fame and fortune.

Every kid knows his name.

You know it too -

His name was Frosty.

When The Snow Prince heard this he told his father all about how Jazz had left him behind to melt, and the Great Snow King became very angry too.

So he passed an order:

From this day forward,

When it snows cars shall slip

and slide

And spin their wheels

Cars will get stuck

and sometimes they will get so cold they won’t even move at all!

Which is why cars hate snow, just like snow hates cars.

 

The End

 copyright 2005 Dan Slapczynski

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The Coffin Tale - Something Completely Different

I based this short little tale I wrote on a joke I heard once. It's become disproportionately popular among the kids in my life so I thought I'd finally commit it to paper/the web.

I'll be back to my usual 600 word masterpieces in a few days ;)

 

One night a boy named Timmy was walking down a long, dark hallway when he heard a noise behind him.

THUMP THUMP

Imagine his shock when he saw a coffin running down the hall!

(Now as we all know, coffins can't run, they don't have legs. What the coffin was really doing was weeble-wobbling down the hall as it stood upright. But run is a much easier word to say than weeble-wobble)

Timmy was a very polite boy who prided himself on his manners, even if he had a habit of walking down long, dark hallways to advance an author's narrative. His first thought was to introduce himself to the coffin and say 'pleased to meet you'.

While this would have been very kind of Timmy, it didn't happen because Timmy's second thought was that the coffin looked very hungry and very mean and was headed straight for him. His third thought - and he was right - was that the coffin wanted to eat him!

The coffin, you see, was not very polite at all.

So Timmy ran.

But the coffin only ran faster.

THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP

So Timmy ran some more.

But the coffin ran even faster!

THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP

So Timmy ran . . . well, you get the picture.

Finally Timmy weeble-wobbled, er, ran out of breath. With the coffin coming closer by the second he searched his pockets for something, anything, to stop the dreaded coffin.

He had some gum.

That was no good.

He had some yarn.

That was no good.

He had some baseball cards.

(They might have worked, but as everyone knows coffins like the Red Sox, and as a good boy Timmy only had Derek Jeter cards.)

So, in the end they were no good either.

Then as the coffin was ready to gobble him up, he found some cough drops he'd forgotten about.

(It's a good thing he was wearing cargo pants, or he may not have had room for all this stuff)

Just when it looked like our story was going to have a horrible, icky, Timmy-free ending, he threw the cough drops as hard as he could. They hit the coffin and bounced inside.

And do you know whathappened?

It stopped coffin.