I take a deep, shaky breath and step into the classroom. “Good afternoon,” I say, but even I can see through this paper-thin, greeting formality.

Nobody reacts, so it doesn’t matter.

I organize myself for class and observe the room. There are five students, however the room is dead quiet, adding to the melancholy aura. The students resemble extras in a post-apocalyptic zombie film. Their eyes are sunken and their pale skin is a precursor to its coming mid-winter, jaundiced yellow.

I put on light music and speak to the students in a distant voice as I write on the board. “Today we’ll talk about this,” I step aside to reveal our one-word theme:

FUNERALS

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I hit the keys on my computer like a maniacal pianist, the taps play their thumping music as words are pouring out of me like blood from a head wound. When the writing flows it’s like being given an extra day of your life to spend with Scarlett Johannson and she’s only wearing a bikini made of cellophane.

The writing is so good at the moment that in some far off section of my brain I am imagining today’s writing reward: Four beers at my local pub, the tasty lamb knee with spinach and mashed potatoes and one Becherovka afterward. Life is good.

Writing is an easy thing not to do. Most people don’t have to write and if nobody is paying you to do it, you could very well put it on the back burner and forget all about it. And I could teach a PhD-level seminar on procrastination. To combat my natural laziness, I have installed a method of getting my fat rump into action.

I set specific goals, achieve them and then reward myself. Though my rewards are often ingestible, they are not limited to food and drink. I have rewarded myself with mindless (glorious) television, an extra hour of sleep and an hour of nerdifying on any of Smithsonian.com’s history blogs—before you ask, yes, I’m single, I know it’s amazing.

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Sunday Waitress offers me a reverse nod on my way into the local pub for a post-writing beer. Before my rump is in the chair I am greeted with a beer and a Becherovka, proving why this local is a great post-writing locale.

I take down the Becherovka like place your favorite wildlife simile here and recline into the chair with a book of Ambrose Bierce stories.

The first Becherovka always tastes like 1.5 ounces of Christmas. Its flavor of herbs, cloves and cinnamon pierces like a tasty dart and spreads warmth throughout my chest and sternum. This warmth travels down my spine and nuzzles into my stomach like a well-fed kitten sleeping in the sun.

Sunday Waitress comes by and suggests a second Becherovka, and quite frankly it would be rude not to have one. The second one travels down the esophagus and joins the first in a liquid rendition of the tarantella. The second and first Becherovkas then work together to create a pleasing lightness in the stomach. This occasionally has a subsidiary zapping effect on the bowels.

I get into my book and listen to the rain hit the windows. Sunday Waitress comes back and as I nod assent to the third, I realize that she is somewhat cute in an ‘I have no major deformities’ kind of way.

And so, it has begun.

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The -ist that connects squarely with my chin is holding the tattered end o- a shoelace. And it belongs to me. I grit my teeth and go about the relacing ritual, inching the lace out and measuring the slack needed to create an adequate pair o- laces with which to tie my shoe. -inally, a-ter two misjudgments and a misthread I have two two-inch laces. I -eel like Gulliver trying to tie one o- the gi-t boxes that Jokey Smur- is always leaving his blue compatriots.

I put on my other shoe and give mysel- the shoelace-gripping right hook that karma has been dying to deliver. And, once again, my neighbors are treated to another impromptu lesson on the creative vulgarities o- English.

As I step out the door and drill my elbow into the metal knob, I decide with a cool head and absolutely no embarrassing swearing that today the world is going to end. On top o- it all, I need to write a paper -or school and guess which -ucking letter on my -ucking keyboard is broken?

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The man walks into a bleak looking house and hears a whispering sound from the basement. He steps towards the door, the rusted handle twitching with the wind that rattles the windows. A whisper comes to him through the door as he grips the handle.

He opens the door. There’s a song coming from the basement, he recognizes it as a Johnny Cash tune being sung in Portuguese. “What the…” He goes into the basement.

I love reading horror. There is nothing more enjoyable than a story that can terrify you out of your comfortable armchair or an eerie book that has you analyzing every sound in your house. I have had countless ideas for horror stories, but there’s one problem: Everything I write turns out funny.

So the man in the above snippet will walk in on an all-Portuguese Oompa-Loompa production of Walk the Line in the basement. They force him to make them whiskey sours and translate the playbill into Esperanto.

Clearly the work of a deranged mind, but not quite as disturbing as Stephen King. More like a mix between Roald Dahl and David Sedaris.

In writing, maybe more than any other artistic venture, you have to be true to yourself. There is no way to fake your abilities or your strengths. Can you imagine Danielle Steele writing hard-boiled detective fiction or Stephen King writing a light romantic comedy?

Not really.

And for this reason I am always somewhat frustrated with my horrific efforts. I’ll write out a story that seems terrifying in my head to find that it reads more like Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein.

But I have decided to make literary lemonade. The story in the link (and post) below – My Domovoi – is about a guy who finds a ghost in his flat and then buys a cat for protection. Hopefully it’s a good example of mixing humor and horror (or spookiness, anyway). In honor of Halloween I have put it up in hopes that it either gives you the creeps or gives you a giggle.

Or with any luck, both.

My Domovoi

Scenario and Specifications: Student R has been missing since the end of his Wednesday morning English lesson during which he offends every student in the class as well as Teacher X. R is a fat man and insolent in manner. His voice gives off the same effect as a Gilbert Godfrey aria and his dental hygiene leaves much to be desired. He is in class with four female students who are studying for a high-level standardized English exam.

Murder is assumed.

Stage: Classroom **4 at the Gigglesworth *&#^^#it*ity in a small, central (or eastern) European city. Nota Bene: This depends on your view of what constitutes a central or eastern European state in post 1991 Europe. Determining factors: There is a McDonald’s, legal prostitution and no ban on smoking in pubs. David Hasselhoff is not popular here.

Suspects: One teacher and five students, including the infamous R, who owns (at his own admission) a straight razor. The other four students are females ranging in age from 18 to 36. Teacher X is notoriously irritable, a recent Magellan enthusiast, and handsome in a Middle Earth mien. All names have been initialized to protect the innocent and to save my furry hide from retribution. Plus, my memory is bad.

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I’m standing at the urinal, confronted with the usual conundrum: Do I pee the Bonanza theme song or do I play the urinal translation game with the advertisement on the wall in front of me? I have already screwed up my urinary rhythm so I opt for the game.

Urinal advertisement translation is a self-invented (and until now, esoteric) game which involves combining the 80% understood words with the 20% unknown words and the weird advertisement picture and making an unusual scenario out of it all.

The girl is sitting on a bed chatting on a webcam with a boy who is somewhere in Asia. There are cartoon dialogue bubbles coming from their mouths. I create a dialogue that would, let’s just say, not thrill any nun I ever had in grade school.

My naughty avenue of interpretation is not totally my fault. Webcams are impossible to place in conversation without sounding lecherous and propositional.

“We can chat online, I have a webcam.”

I don’t care if Kermit the Frog says this to Mother Teresa – in my mind, someone’s getting naked. I suppose it’s all about jumping to immediate conclusions.

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Some years ago I got my favorite movie, Jaws, on DVD as a Christmas gift. We’ll leave the probing psychological question of why my favorite movie is about a man-eating shark for another time. The DVD was the 25^th anniversary release and the DVD was chock full of extras and interviews.

In an interview with Jaws’ writer Peter Benchley, he talked about the birth of the idea of Jaws. He said that he had always wondered what would happen if a big shark was attacking people and wouldn’t go away. Then he read a newspaper article about a guy who caught a 4,500 pound great white shark off of Long Island. Inspiration had met information and a little while later he started work on Jaws. And thus, for thirty-five years people have been afraid to go in the water. When I say people, I mean me.

What if: The question that sparks most of my writing and story ideas. I can map the genesis of my idea for a novel to the frustrating experience of losing my sense of smell and getting no answers from doctors. I can map the genesis of my novel to when I asked the question: “What if a guy started losing all of his senses and didn’t know why?” Once again, information and experience had met inspiration, and five years later the result was Senseless. Maybe I could get Richard Dreyfuss to play Phineas’ father.

When Lee told me about the concept of Rule 34, I was amazed. How had I never seen this concept portrayed in a movie or book? I immediately started in asking what if…?

What if a guy just introduced to the internet and internet porn stumbled upon a disturbing world?

What if that guy believed that he had some control in this world?

What if he was wrong?

Anyway, the genesis of this story, Rule 34, is the line of questioning above. It has been drafted a couple of times, but I more than welcome feedback and constructive critique.

Read it here RULE 34

There are three people on the screen, two of whom are husband and wife. All three are Japanese. The husband and wife are admiring their newest piece of wall decoration – a living girl.

The girl is built into the wall, so that her back, waist and shoulders are behind the wall and her knees, forearms, face and pelvis are exposed. Her naughty bits are fully accessible and she is wearing panties. The husband and wife chat about the girl and then sit down for a nutritious breakfast of fruit, coffee, juice and cereal.

The wall girl remains quiet, looking alarmingly unconcerned about the fact that she is built into a wall. Despite my lifelong fear of living wall decorations, I continue to watch.

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http://www.nerve.com/love-sex/true-stories/true-stories-notes-of-a-former-peeping-tom

Hello everyone!

In case you missed it, please feel free to check out my story that got published on Nerve.com last week.

I could tell you what it’s about, but instead I’ll just tell you that It’s titled: Notes of a Former Peeping Tom.

I am always open to feedback and critique, so don’t hesitate to bring the pain. Hope you enjoy!