Tell a friend about this page

enter their email:
 

I'm equally drawn to dark fiction and comedy. For me, they are two sides of the same coin. Have you ever giggled nervously during a scary movie? Or screamed while walking through a haunted house, only to start laughing immediately afterwards?

In my longer fiction, I try to use both fear and humor in equal parts. But with short stories, I'm usually forced to make a choice.

The following tales are some examples of each, with some mystery thrown in as well. Be warned, though. Some of these are scary...

This article originally appeared in a special Love Is Murder edition of Crimespree Magazine. See if you can spot all of the famous authors who have threatened to sue me for its publication...


WRITING CONFERENCES & YOU: A NEWBIE'S SURVIVAL GUIDE
 
Every year there are dozens of writing conferences. If you’re a fan of mysteries and thrillers, 2006 brings you Love is Murder in Chicago, Sleuthfest in Ft. Lauderdale, Bouchercon in Madison, Thrillerfest in Phoenix, Left Coast Crime in Bristol, Men of Mystery in Los Angeles, Magna Cum Murder in Muncie, and a slew of others, many of which suck.

What can you expect when you attend a writing convention? How can you make sure you get your money’s worth? Will you get a chance to corner David Morrell and ask him to blurb your new manuscript, “The Speech Impediment Murdererererer”? (David loves this, by the way. Try to approach him when he's eating, or in the bathroom.)

Reading this short article will fully prepare you for anything a conference has to offer. It might even save your life.

REGISTRATION - If possible, buy your conference pass in advance. Bring proof of your registration to the event (a Paypal receipt, a copy of the letter saying you’ve been confirmed, your hard drive) because there’s a 90% chance your registration was lost, and the people running the conference will have no idea who you are. A much easier, and cheaper, tactic is to simply buy a nametag and a black marker. Stick it on your chest when no one is looking, and you’re in.

THE HOTEL - If possible, stay at the hotel. After the days’ events are through, there are always exclusive parties where you can get free food and drink and meet cool people. You won’t get invited to these parties, but you can hang out in the hallway with your ear to the door, and listen to J.A. Konrath make a fool of himself. Actually, you probably won’t need to put your ear to the door to hear that. J.A.’s pretty loud.

WHAT TO WEAR - The fashionable conference-goer wears business casual. Comfortable shoes are a must, because you’ll be walking a lot. A book bag is a great accessory. Not only can it hold books, but also an emergency fifth of vodka (do you really want to pay $9 for a martini at the hotel bar?)

AUTHOR SIGHTING - Imagine it: You’re in the lobby, putting the cap back on your vodka, and suddenly William Kent Krueger appears out of nowhere. Do you just run up to him, squealing like a schoolgirl, and beg him to sign your paperback copy of IRON LAKE that you’ve read 36 times, the last time aloud to your pet parakeet that you named Cork O’Connor? The answer: NO! Kent is a bigshot author, and they all hate signing paperbacks. Go to the bookroom and buy a hardcover first edition. When you approach him, make sure it’s on your hands and knees, because you are not worthy. Address him as “Mr. Krueger” or “Sir” or “His Highness.” And NEVER make direct eye contact. He’s far too important to look at you.

In contrast, if you spot David Ellis, feel free to bring him your paperback copy of LINE OF VISION. Dave will be thrilled to sign that. He’ll also sign other authors’ books, cocktail napkins, food products, and basically anything but the check.

PANELS - If you’re an author, you need to speak on a panel. But it’s too late to sign up for one now, bonehead. They’ve already printed the programs. If you are on a panel, there’s only one important rule to follow: Make sure you’re on a panel with Barry Eisler. Barry is the one with the gaggle of drooling women following him around, hoping he’ll suddenly keel over so they’ll get to administer CPR. Don’t expect anyone to remember a single thing you’ve said when you’re on a panel with Barry, but at least you’ll be speaking to a packed room.

FOOD - Conference food is usually barely edible, but it’s expensive to compensate. That’s why all of the popular authors usually go out to eat at the trendiest restaurant in the area. It’s very easy to get invited to one of these exciting outings, where industry gossips flows fast and loose, and Barry often takes his shirt off and dances the lambada—the dance of love. If you want to go along, all you have to do is write a NYT Bestseller. If you haven’t done that, then you’re stuck with the hotel food. Be sure to try the potato salad. Is that potato salad? It might be rice pudding. Or lamb. Or a big dish of pus.

ITINERARY - There are many things to see at a conference, and often you’ll be tortured by the dilemma of two good panels happening at the same time, and no idea which to attend. The answer is easy: Attend both of them. Authors love seeing scores of people leave the room while they are talking–they believe they’re being so effective, the crowd is rushing out to buy their book. Try to do this five or six times per hour, and make sure you open and close the doors extra loudly. Also, take that extra time between panels to talk on your cell phone. If your conversation carries on into the panel room—it’s okay. His Higness Krueger will forgive you.

WHERE ARE THE AUTHORS? - You’ve been trying desperately to get Robert W. Walker’s autograph, but he’s been missing in action for two days. Where is he? He’s in the hotel bar. In fact, all of the authors are in the hotel bar. If you want to spot your favorite, arrive early while they’re still coherent. In Rob’s case, I challenge you to figure out when that is.

THE BOOKROOM - This is the most important room in the whole conference. Here, you’ll find all of the books by all of the authors in attendance, expect for the one book you truly want to buy. They’ll be out of that one. But don’t worry, there will be plenty of pristine, unsold, unread copies of WHISKEY SOUR. Plenty of them.

BARGAIN HUNTER TIP - All the paperbacks in the bookroom are free if you simply rip off the cover beforehand! Don’t be bashful–the booksellers love it!

ETTIQUETTE - It’s during one of the delicious buffet-style meals. You’ve got your plate piled high with something that might be meat in gravy, and you’re searching for a place to eat and see an empty chair between Judith Guest and Libby Fischer Hellmann. Do you dare ask to sit there? In a word, NO! That seat belongs to someone a lot more important than you are. Go sit by Jon and Ruth Jordan, who publish this magazine. Always plenty of chairs around them. The surrounding tables are usually free too.

ATTENDEES - Conferences are a great place to meet new people who share common interests. They’re also a great place to get abducted by some weirdo and killed with a blowtorch. Wise convention goers avoid talking to anyone else, at all times. Try to keep some kind of weapon on you. They sell $59 letter openers in the hotel gift shop, right next to the $42 tee shirts and the $12 bottled water. If you’re an author, save the receipt—it’s deductible.

Or try carrying around a plate piled high with that stuff they served at lunch–the stuff in the gravy. That way, if someone tries to assault you, you can say, “Hey! I’m eating!”

AWARDS - At most conferences, the writers like to congratulate themselves by giving each other awards. They usually do this over a nine course meal that takes eleven hours, and a cash bar that charges so much for a Budweiser you’ll need to put it on lay-away. Be sure to congratulate the lucky winners. It’s also a lot of fun to go up to the losers and congratulate them for winning, and then pretend to be confused when they tell you they’ve actually lost. Do this two or three times to the same loser. They’ll start to find it funny, eventually.

CONCLUSION - Remember, if you want to have a good conference, that responsibility rests squarely on one person’s shoulders—the person running the conference. Be sure to complain about every little thing, at any given time, even if it’s something they can’t fix such as, “The carpet is too soft” or “Robert W. Walker touched me inappropriately” or “I hear voices in my head.” Demand a refund. Threaten to contact an attorney. And above all, remember to have fun.
 

I'm not a huge sci-fi fan, but I've read enough to appreciate the genre. The following piece was written a few years ago, and it still amuses me. But then, I'm pretty easily amused...


MR. SPACEMAN
"I have traveled many billions of light years to mate with an earth woman."

Debbi eyed the john and licked her bright red lips. Freak, she thought.

He was dressed up like some kind of gooey alien, and she had to admit the make-up was pretty good. His face had scales on it, like a fish, and his mouth had little dangly things that moved when he spoke. The spacesuit, made of some kind of metallic silvery fabric, was Hollywood-quality---not surprising, considering they were on the Sunset Strip. It was probably an old movie prop.

The only fake thing about the costume was the eyes; big yellow orbs that were attached to his head on stalks. They looked like tennis balls.

The freak leaned closer to Debbi. “Will you mate with me?”

Any other night, she would have told him to take a hike. Weirdos were best avoided. But rent was due tomorrow, and business had been slow. Besides, her horoscope said today was a day for taking chances, and Debbi always put her faith in the stars. She launched into her pitch.

"Straight is twenty-five, half and half is fifty. And for seventy-five I’ll take you around the world, sugar."

"I have already been in orbit around your world eight hundred and forty-two times."
 
"Couldn't find a parking space, huh?" Debbi smacked her gum. "How much money you got, Mr. Spaceman?"
 
Mr. Spaceman stuck one of his lobster claws into his tunic and pulled out a roll of cash that would choke a horse.

"Don't flash money like that around here!" Debbi looked up and down the street, scanning for predators. "This isn't a nice neighborhood."

“I thought this was the city of angels.”

“The angels carry knives and guns.”

She took the john by the claw and led him down the block to the flop house. The desk clerk, a fat, greasy guy named Larry, raised an eyebrow.

"Does Mars need women?"

"Screw you, Larry. Gimme 214 for the rest of the night."

Larry handed her the key and winked.

The room was dark, dingy, the bed still rumpled from the previous rental. Debbi took off her halter top and hot pants, nudifying herself.
 
"See anything you like, ET?"

The john nodded several times. "I am aroused at the sight of your mammalian infant feeding vessels."

"You should be. They cost six grand."

She sidled up to him, her hand seeking the front of his shiny outfit. The things I do for a buck...

"So, can Mr. Spock come out and play?"

"Who is this Mr. Spock? My name is Gnerlok. I am from the planet Norbulon in the second quadrant of the Xaldorgia Galaxy."

"A tourist, huh? I had a feeling. Isn't Norbulon somewhere east?”

To a Californian, everyplace was east.

Gnerlok narrowed his bulbous eyes. “Yes. It is east. Near the state called Florida.”
"I can spot an out-of-towner a mile away. How about slipping out of those tin foil pants?"

With the deft move of a pro, Debbi southicated Gnerlok's zipper. His outfit fell with a clanging sound.
 
"Oh my." Debbi bit her lower lip to keep from laughing, Fire Engine Red *    *    *    *    *03 rubbing off on her teeth. "I've never seen one that small before."

Gnerlok frowned.

"I assure you, that this is an average size for a male from Norbulon. I'm actually a bit larger than most."

“Go ahead and think that, sugar. You want to take a shower, get all that make-up off?”

“I am fine.”

You’re about as far from fine as you can get, Debbi thought.

“Okay, Mr. Spaceman. What would you like to do first?”

“Please give my full access to your uterine cavity."

Debbi laid back on the bed. “Like this?”

“That is perfect.”

Gnerlok climbed on, then immediately climbed off.

Debbi frowned at him. “What’s the matter, sugar?”

“Nothing is the matter. The coupling was most enjoyable.”

"You're done?"

"Yes I am. Was our mating pleasurable to you?"

Debbi sighed. She sat up, giving him a pat on the claw. "You're a machine, honey. I'll never have better."

Gnerlok pulled up his pants and dug out his wad O'bills.

"Here is three hundred earth dollars. Thank you for procreating with me."

Debbi reached for the cash. "Anytime, sug---"

Her words were cut off by a rumbling sound. It came from her abdomen, loud enough for them both to hear.

“Excuse me. I had a couple chili dogs for dinner, and it sounds like those dogs are barking.”

“That is not the sound of your digestive system.”

The sound repeated, louder this time. Debbi looked down, unable to comprehend what she saw.

Her belly was expanding.

"What the hell is going on?"

"We have succesfully mated. My brood incubates inside of you."

Her stomach was now the size of a basket ball, and the growth showed no signs of stopping.

Even worse, Debbi felt something deep within.

Something moving.

"You freak!" Debbie screamed. "Take off that stupid mask and tell me what you've done to me!"

She bolted to her feet and reached for Gnerlok's face, her fist closing around one of his eye stalks.

"Please do not tug at my face, earth-woman."

Debbi recoiled. That wasn't a mask.

"My God! What part of Florida are you from?"

"I am not from Florida. I have used deception to gain admission to your birthing portal. Now my progeny shall be born, and we shall enslave the world and---"

"I'm not ready to be a mother!" Debbi cried. "I haven't finished Junior College yet!"

"Nor shall you ever, earth-woman. My species shall destroy---”

Debbi slapped Gnerlok across the face.

"Our agreement was for sex, not motherhood! You owe me a lot more money!"

Gnerlok held his cheek, his bulbous eyes widening.

"But money will not be necessary when we take over---"

There was a popping sound, and a flood of green cascaded down Debbi's legs.
She stared, horrified, as her uterus contracted and a tiny yellow crustacean, the size of a golf ball, shot out of her and plopped onto the floor.

"Waaa," it cried.

Debbi's eyes got moist. She swallowed back the lump forming in her throat. "My baby."

She bent down to pick it up, and the motion caused more creatures to shoot rapid-fire from her womanhood.

"Don't just stand there like an idiot!" she hissed at Gnerlok. "Pick my children up!"

Gnerlok didn’t move until Debbi slapped him again. Then he moved as fast as he could.

It was hard to keep up. Debbie's body spit them out like watermelon seeds.

For five minutes, the room was a combat zone. Multi-colored alien crayfish flew through the air---BING! BING! BING!---Gnerlok scurrying after them, mindful where he stepped.

Debbi finally expelled the last child and let out a huge sigh of relief. She felt like an empty corn popper.

"How many is that?" she asked.

Gnerlok placed the final three on the bed and tugged at his dangly mouth thingies.

"One hundred and seventeen."

"Did you get the one that flew behind the TV?"

"Yes I did."

“Check to make sure.”

“I am sure.”

Debbi clenched her teeth. “Are you sassing back?”

Gnerlok checked behind the TV again.

“None of my progeny reside behind the TV,” he said.

“Your progeny? Don’t you mean our progeny? I’m the one that did all the work.”

Debbi approached the bed and picked up one of the kids. Her kids. It looked like a crawfish, complete with lobster claws and a tail. But its tiny face was almost human.

"They're kind of cute. What do they eat?"

"They are supposed to feast on your rotting corpse until they are large enough to dominate---"

Debbi grabbed Gnerlok by the eye stalk once again, squeezing out a stream of tears.

"Let's get one thing straight, Mr. Spaceman. All this talk of taking over the world, it
ends right now. Got it?"

"But I've traveled for billions---"

Debbie yanked. Gnerlok screamed.

"Enough! You're a father now. You have responsibilities. I hope you have a damn good job, because diapers alone are going to cost a fortune."

"My job is to dominate---" Gnerlok cast his free eye, fearfully, at Debbi. "I mean---I have no job."

“But you’re rich, right? Where did you get that big roll of money?”

Gnerlok mumbled something.

“Speak up, Mr. Spaceman, or I’ll tie these eye things into a big bow on your ugly head.”

“A scratch-and-win lottery ticket.”

Debbi scowled. “So that’s how it is. You come up to me all slick, flashing your cash like you’re a real player. Then you knock me up, and you don’t even have a job. Do you at least have a place to live?”

“I arrived on this planet only two earth hours ago, and have not had a chance to establish a permanent residence.”

Debbi sighed. Ugly, hung like a Chihuahua, and a homeless deadbeat.

“How about a car? No! Wait! A space ship! You’ve got a space ship, right?”

Gnerlok glanced, one-eyed, at the floor.

“When I landed, a group of three disaffected youths assaulted me and absconded with my interstellar vessel.”

Welcome to LA.

Debbi needed to think, and she mentioned as much.

“While you are thinking, could you please release my---”

"I got it! My brother-in-law works for a furniture place. I bet he can get you a job in upholstery. But first, we have to go to City Hall and get married."

"Married? But I am not ready for marriage. I still require a few more years to play the field."

"Should have thought of that before you started mating with earth women. This is your responsibility, Yoda. And you're not weaseling out of it."

Debbi released Gnerlok's eye and turned her attention to the kids on the bed. A feeling of pure joy welled up in her chest, a place she hadn’t had much feeling since getting the implants.

"Hello, my darlings. I'm Mama."

"Mama!" several of them cried.

"Yes. Mama. And this is your homeless deadbeat father. He's going to do good by you, or else your Uncle Joey will break his knees. Say hello to your children, Hubbie."

"Hello, children." Gnerlok frowned and gave them a half-hearted wave.

"Tracy! Jerry! Don’t eat your brother! Daddy will get you some food." Debbi jabbed a finger at Gnerlok’s chest. "There's a pizza place down the street. Get an extra large with anchovies. I bet they'll like anchovies."

"Anchovies," Gnerlok repeated.

"And I'm starving too. Get me a meatball sandwich. And move your alien butt, or I'm picking up the phone and calling the CIA. I'm sure they'd love to hear about your plans to dominate the world."

"Yes, earth-woman."

Gnerlok slunk out the door.

Debbi sat on the bed and tickled little Alphonse under the chin. He giggled.

So did Debbi.

She’d always put her faith in the stars. And for good reason, it turned out.

"You know what, kids?” Debbi’s eyes became moist. “I think we can make this work. We can be a big, happy family."

And if it gets too weird, Debbi decided, I can always make a big pot of gumbo and eat the little buggers.

"Come to Mama, my delicious little babies. When your father gets home we're going house hunting. We're going to get a nice, big place in Beverly Hills."

With an extra large stove, Debbi decided.

Just in case.
 



Years ago, when I still labored under the delusion that I had talent, I thought I'd become the next Dave Barry and write a nationally syndicated humor column. The syndicates didn't beat down my door, and Mr. Barry was spared some very mediocre competition. But while poking through my old stuff I found this essay to be not as bad as the others. Anyone who has ever joined a health club will find something to recognize in this piece. 


WEIGH TO GO
 



 

I was watching "The 20 Minute Workout," sitting back in my easy chair and eating a box of Twinkies. The blonde aerobics instructor (I think she was blonde--I was having trouble seeing over my stomach) was chirping away about how eating healthy and exercising were the keys to a better you, while doing thigh lifts that made me exhausted just looking at her.

Among other health conscious things, she said that if you are truly satisfied with your body, you should be able to stand naked in front of a mirror and like what you see. I accepted the challenge, and after finishing the Twinkies and two bowls of Frosted Sugar-O’s Cereal (now with 30% more corn syrup), I disrobed and went straight to the full length mirror.

Much to my dismay, I looked like a giant sack of potatoes with a penis. This did nothing for my self-esteem, and I hid in my room with a Piggo Size Jay's Potato Chips and refused to leave for the rest of the day.

It was not until later that I realized most of my problems, such as not understanding my income tax return, were directly linked to my overweightedness. I decided at that very moment to start a strict regimen of diet and exercise, but soon just limited it to exercise, not wanting to give up my favorite meal, beer and Snickers Bars.

The thing I had to do, as told to me by countless celebrities on TV who can't get work elsewhere, was join a health club. I went to a popular one nearby, housed in a building the size of the Library of Congress. Inside was like stepping into The Jetsons: chrome... mirrors... flashing lights... techno music... treadmills... futuristic exercise machines... Elroy, walking Astro...

I was greeted at the door by a very muscular guy who’d been packed into a Spandex outfit so tightly I could see individual corpuscles pumping through his veins. His name was G.

"How do you spell that?" I asked.

"With a G."

"Do you have a last name?"

"It’s just G."

"So on your birth certificate..."

"Enough about me." G grinned big, making his neck muscles ping out. "Let’s talk about you."

G herded me through a throng of beautiful people, telling each in turn that he was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed even if Madonna called with a Pilates emergency. We went into his office, which was decorated with pictures of G with his shirt off and smiling, G with his shirt off and scowling, and G with his shirt off and looking apprehensive, probably wondering where he’d put his shirt.

G handed me a bottled water from his personal mini-refrigerator and sat me behind his desk. He remained standing.

"It’s a good thing you came today, Mr. Konrath, because you’re about five beats away from a major myocardial infarction. If you don’t join our club right now, I’ll ask you to sign this waiver to absolve us of responsibility when you walk out this door and your heart explodes."

"I actually just had my heart checked, and..."

"Plus, you’re so disgustingly fat, no one will ever love you."

"My wife says..."

"Hey, Joanie and Brenda, come in here and meet my new best friend, Mr. Konrath." G motioned for two attractive young women standing in the hall to come in and smile at me. "Don’t you think he’d benefit from our programs?"

"I’d love to get him in one of my Prancercize classes," Brenda said, licking her lips. "I’ll help you take off that disgusting, icky fat."

Joanie put her head to my chest. "I hear his pulmonary artery crying out like a sick kitty."

"You truly are a disgusting man, Mr. Konrath," G said. "I suggest the Super-Duper Extra Special Presidential Package. That will give you access to all of the club’s facilities."

He handed me a color brochure filled with pictures of smiling, healthy people. The Super-Duper Extra Special Presidential Package monthly dues were slightly more than what I earned in a month, but I would have full access to everything, including unlimited use of their one racquetball court, should I ever decide to take up racquetball.

"Here's our special Mid-July Madness contract," G said, dropping a sheaf of papers in front of me. "And if you sign now, you'll get the first ten minutes of your first Prancercize class for free."

"In ten minutes you could prance away almost 400 calories!" Brenda said.

I squinted at the contract. There were a lot of big words. "Maybe I should take this home and look it over before I sign anything."

G flashed me a hurt expression. "What for? Reading is for fat people. Just sign it."

"Sign it and we’ll be your friends forever," Joanie said.

"Sign it or you’ll get sick and die alone," Brenda said.

G put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Hard. "I don’t want to sugar coat this–"

"If you did, I’d probably eat it."

"–but if you don’t sign this contract you'll miss out on the greatest opportunity you've ever had in your whole life and you'll never ever have another chance."

I stared at G and had a momentary delusion that I, too, might be able to look like someone stuck a tube up my ass and inflated me. Sure, his shoulders were so broad that he probably needed help wiping his own ass, but he looked so damn good without a shirt.

"Sign," they chanted. "Sign. Sign. Sign..."

I signed, and left the club feeling cheerful about my new commitment to get in shape. The pounds would soon begin to drop off. They had to, because I no longer had any money for food.

When I shared the good news with my wife, she was equally excited.

"It cost how much?!?!"

"Don’t think of it in terms of costs," I said, repeating what G had told me, "think of it in terms of benefits."

"You tell the kids they can’t go to college because their father spent all of our savings."

"College is overrated. You don’t really learn anything useful. Trade schools–that’s where it’s at these days. You see that one on TV, teaches you how to repair air conditioners?"

My wife shook her head. "You’ve got issues, Joe. In fact, you’ve got a whole damn subscription."

"Why don’t you come down to the club, check it out? G said there’s a discount for spouses."

"Are you saying I’m fat?"

"I’m saying that your support hose isn’t hiding your little pouch like it used to when we were dating."

My wife smiled. She was obviously coming around.

"How long is this stupid contract for?" she asked.

"Three years."

"That’s how long you’re going without sex. Enjoy the couch."

The couch was close to the refrigerator, so it wasn’t too bad.

During my fourth week as an Extra Super Special Guy Member, G called me up.

"Mr. Konrath, you joined a month ago. When are you going to come down and start working out?"

"I can't now, G. I'm waiting for a pizza."

"Come on, Mr. Konrath. Joining was just the first step. Now you've got to start coming in. I’ll blend you a fifteen dollar kelp smoothie, personally train you on the equipment for sixty dollars an hour, and give you a nice thirty dollar rub down afterwards."

"I thought all of that was included in my Jumbo Deluxo Mega Membership."

"Did you read the fine print?"

"It was in a different language."

"Don’t let money keep you from being the best Mr. Konrath that you can be, Mr. Konrath. Come in today and you can take my Jazz Kwon Do class for 20% off."

"What do you drive, G?"

"A Mercedes. And my payment is due."

G was right. I'd made the commitment to get in shape. It was time to put up or shut up. Even my wife, after having our lawyer try unsuccessfully to break the heath club contract, had begun encouraging me to go.

"You wasted all that money!" she’d say, encouragingly. "Put down the cheese wheel, get off your lazy ass, and go work out!"

But, truth be told, I was scared. I knew if I went to the club I’d be surrounded by beautiful people, and I would be alienated and my self-esteem would sink even lower.

My plan was to get in shape before I went to the club. It could happen. I lost four pounds just last week, though I found it later, in my upper thighs.

"G, I feel too uncomfortable to come in. Can we do this over the phone?"

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Konrath. There are plenty of fat, ugly people who come here every day. You'll fit right in."

"If they come there every day why are they still fat and ugly?"

"You're disappointing me, Mr. Konrath."

"Sorry, G. I'll drop by later today."

"Great! See you then."

"Are you mad at me, G?"

"No. Not this time."

"Good. I was worried."

I hung up the phone, happy about recommitting myself to getting into shape. Twenty minutes later I was in the health club parking lot, finishing the last of my pizza. G greeted me warmly, pumping my hand like I was a lat machine. He was bigger than I remembered. I bet he had more definition than Webster’s Unabridged.

Yeah, I groaned too when I wrote that.

"How’s my bestest buddy, Mr. Konrath?"

"Hungry. How about that smoothie?"

"Sure thing. You bring your Visa?"

"My wife took it. But I found some change in the couch."

G led me to the juice bar, and he spent five minutes measuring out assorted powders into a stainless steel blender.

"The base is macrobiotic organic yogurt," he told me. "Low fat and sugar free."

"What flavor?"

"Plain."

"Sounds good. Can you add a few scoops of those chocolate chips?"

After the smoothie, G and I hit the equipment. Almost immediately I knew we were going to have problems. First of all, he wanted me to start a program he called "weight training." From what I gathered, this involved picking up weights, and lifting them up and down. G gave me a preview, grabbing a barbell the size of a Cadillac (when they still made them big), and curling it up to his chest several times. I very politely told G that he was out of his freaking mind if he thought I was going to do that. You couldn't pay me to do that. I certainly wasn't go to pay them to let me.

G let out a friendly laugh and told me to get started while he went to the juice bar for a creatine shake. "For a boost of energy," he said.

"Put in some of those mini marshmallows," I told him. "And some ham."

While I waited for my energy boost, I sat on an exercise bike, content with watching a girl in a string bikini do leg presses. She had a body that could make a priest give up choir boys. When G came back I was sweating like a pig.

"How are we doing, Mr. Konrath?"

"Great, G. This was a good idea."

"Let’s not overdo it your first day. Time for your rubdown."

While G rubbed my achy muscles for three dollars a minute, I had to admit that this health club thing was a good idea after all. Sure, I had to take out a second mortgage to pay for it, but seeing that girl do those leg presses gave my heart a workout it hadn’t had in years.

And later that night, I actually got in a few minutes of strenuous exercise. With my wife, while thinking of the leg-press girl.

I was so quiet I didn’t even wake her up.
 



I enjoy stories about the process and experience of writing. Though they are often self-indulgent, they are a lot of fun for writers to read, and to write. I wrote the following for an online crit group, to poke gentle fun at some of the conventions in out profession.


THE ADDICTION
 



  		The first time I ever saw it was at a party.

College. Dorm. Walls constructed of Budweiser cases.  Every door open, the hallways and rooms crammed with people, six different rock tunes competing for dominance.

Rituals of the young and innocent--and the not so innocent, I found out that night.

I had to give back the beer I'd rented, popped into the first empty room I could find.

He was sitting in the corner, hunched over, oblivious to me.

Curiosity made me forget about my bladder. What was he doing, huddled in the dim light? What unpleasant drug would keep him here, alone and oblivious, when a floor thumping party was kicking outside his door?

"Hey, man, what's up?"

A quick turn, guilty face, covering something up with his hands.

"Nothing. Go away."

"What are you hiding there?"

His eyes were wide, full of secret shame. The shame of masturbation, of cooking heroin needles, of snatching money from Mom's purse.

Then I saw it all-- the computer, the notebook full of scrawls, the outline...

"You're writing fiction!"

The guilt melted off his face, leaving it shopworn and heavy.

"Leave me alone. I have to finish this chapter."

"How can you be writing with a party going on?"

He smiled, so subtle that it might have been my beer goggles.

"Have you ever done it?"

"Me?" I tried to laugh, but it sounded fake. "I mean, when I was a kid, you know, drawing pictures and stuff, I used to make up stories..."

"How about lately?"

"Naw.  Nothing stronger than an occasional essay."

"You want to try it?"

I took a step back. All of the sudden my bladder became an emergency again.

"No, man..."

The guy stood up. His eyes were as bright as his computer screen.

"You should try it. You'll like it."

"I'm cool. Really."

He smiled, for sure this time, all crooked teeth and condescension.

"You'll be back."

I hurried out of the room.

*    *    *    *    *
 
The clock blinked 3:07 AM. I couldn't sleep.

To the left of my bed, my computer.

My mind wouldn't shut off. I kept thinking of the party. Of that guy.

Not me. I wasn't going to go down that path. Sitting alone in my room when everyone else was partying. I wasn't like that.

My computer waited. Patient.

Maybe I should turn it on, make sure it was running okay. Test a few applications.

I crept out of bed.

Everything seemed fine. I should check MS Word, though. Sometimes there are problems.

A look to the side. My roommate was asleep.

What's the big deal, anyway? I could write just one little short short short story. It wouldn't hurt anyone.

I could write it in the dark.

No one would ever know.

One little story.

*    *    *    *    *

"Party over at Keenan Hall. You coming?"

"Hmm? Uh, no. Busy."

"Homework?"

"Uh, yeah. Homework."

"That sucks. I'll drink a few for you."

"Sure."

I got back to plotting.

*    *    *    *    *

I raised a fist to knock, dropped it, raised it again.

What's the big deal?  He probably wasn't in anyway.

One tiny tap, the middle knuckle, barely even audible.

"It's open."

The room was dark, warm.  It smelled of old sweat and desperation. 

He was at his desk, as I guessed he'd be.  Hunched over his computer. The clackety clack of his fingers on the keyboard was comforting.

"I need... I need to borrow a Thesaurus."

His eyes darted over to me, focusing.  Then came the condescending smile.

"I knew you'd be back.  What are you working on?"

"It, uh, takes place in the future, after we've colonized Jupiter."

"It's impossible to colonize Jupiter.  The entire planet is made out of gas."

"In 2572 we discover a solid core beneath the gas..."

I spit out the rest of my concept, so fast my lips kept tripping over one another. 

"Sounds interesting.  You bring a sample to read?"

How did he know?  I dug the disk out of my back pocket.

*    *    *    *    *

I knew it was coming.  Short stories weren't enough anymore.  The novella seemed hefty at the time, but now those twenty thousand words are sparse and amateurish. 

I was ready.  I knew I was.  I had a great idea, bursting with conflict, and the two main characters were already living in my head, jawing off at each other with dialog that begged to be on paper.

All I lacked was time. 

"Hi, Mom.  How's Dad?  I'm dropping out of college."

I couldn't make much sense of her reply; it was mostly screaming.  When my father came on the phone, he demanded to know the reason.  Was I in trouble?  Was it a girl?  Drugs?

"I need the time off to write my novel."

I hadn't ever heard my father cry before.

*    *    *    *    *
 
I don't need understanding.  Certainly not sympathy.  The orgiastic delight that comes from constructing a perfect paragraph makes up for my crummy apartment and low-paying job at the Food Mart.  They let me use the register tape for my notes, and I get a twenty percent discount on instant coffee.

Reality is tenuous, but that's a good sign.  It means I'm focused on the book.  I'm not really talking to myself.  I'm talking to my characters. You see the difference?

Sometimes I need to take days off, like for that problem I had with Chapter 26.  But I worked through it.  The book is more important than food, anyway.  Who needs to eat? 

*    *    *    *    *

The tears were magic, and the sob was more beautiful than any emotion ever felt by anyone who ever lived. 

Helium had replaced the blood in my veins.  My hands trembled. 

I typed The End and swore I heard the Voice of God.

*    *    *    *    *
The alley is cold.  I stuff my sweatshirt with newspaper and hunch down by a dumpster, my CD-ROM clutched in a filthy hand that I can barely recognize as my own.

It is my third week on the street.  I've made some friends, like Squeaky, who is sitting next to me.

"They locked me out.  Sold my stuff to pay the back rent.  Even my computer."

Squeaky squeaks.  I offer him an empty Dorito bag, and he scurries inside, looking for crumbs.  I don't mind him being distracted.  He's heard the story before.

"I've still got my novel, though."  The CD isn't very shiny anymore, and it has a crack that I pray hasn't hurt the data. 

"Best thing I've ever done in my life, Squeaky old pal.  Wouldn't change a damn thing about the path I chose."

It starts to rain.  I stare at the CD, at my reflection in it.  My beard is coming in nicely.  It gives me sort of a Hemingway look. 

"Did I tell you about the Intervention, Squeaky?  Right before I got kicked out.  My parents, my brother, the chaplain, and some guy from WA. Tried to get me to quit writing.  Follow some stupid 12 step program."

I still feel a twang of guilt, remembering my mother's pleas.

"They wanted me to admit I had a problem.  But they don't understand. Writing isn't an addiction.  It's a way of life.  Like being a rat. Could you stop being a rat, just because your family wanted you to?"

Squeaky didn't answer.  The rain was really coming down now.

"I have to write.  I don't have a choice.  It's who I am."

The CD in my hand got warm to the touch, glowing with an inner spirit that I knew for sure isn't just my imagination.  It's worth something. Even if it never sells.  Even if I'm the only one who ever reads it. 

It validates me.

"I'm no one trick pony, either.  I won't rest on my laurels.  I've got more books in me."

I pull out my collection of gum wrappers and sort them out, chapter by chapter.
After reading what I wrote that morning, I take my stubby pencil from my shirt pocket and start where I left off.

After all--writer's have to write.

It's what we do.
 



I enjoy writing dark fiction almost as much as writing mysteries. Here's an example of a traditional ghost story. It's a bit more descriptive than my usual prose, done when I was a decade younger.


EMBRACE
 
  She comes at night.

I push the rocking chair to the balcony so I may watch her, antique cherry that squeaks and protests much like my old bones. This affords me a towering view of my back yard; the hedges trimmed to lollipops, the fountain cherub eternally spitting water, the ocean in the distance.

The sun takes a lazy bow and exits, raking orange and purple fingers across my acres of thick lawn. Years ago, it was champagne cocktails and croquet. Now, I can't even recall the last time I walked the grounds. An acquaintance, deceased like most, once described men as fine single malt-- fiery and immature when young, mellowing with age.

I am finally palatable.

The portrait of my younger self hangs above the fireplace, stern face and eyebrows tempered with resolve. Eyebrows that have grown gray and bushy and without direction.

Once, I would settle for nothing less than crushing all opposition.

Now, I'll settle for some honey in my tea.

I watch as the mist arrives, a soft, ethereal blanket, glowing in my yard lights.

She always comes with the mist, and I feel my pulse quicken, warming me. I drop the blanket from my lap-- I don't need it anymore.

The first sight of her is magic. Awe and wonder, feelings known only to the young and to me. Worth more than I have ever earned. She is clothed in translucent blue, the color of the moon, a robe that moves like silk. Her face is always peaceful, her movements sure, and I am both enthralled and pacified. Her dance is nature and life, ebb and flow. Slow, languid turns and comfortable poses, arms always beckoning, the tune known only to her.

Beneath my balcony she stops and smiles, as she has for many years.

"Dance with me."

Tonight I shall.

I grip the armrests of my rocker with gnarled hands and tremble to my feet. The thousand pains that plague my days, the gagging pills that keep me beating, the nights of disquiet-- all nullified by my resolve. I finally have the strength to know I have none left. The hand has been played, and folded.

Legs shaky, a yearling, knock-kneed and wide-eyed, I lean over the railing. Into her arms I fall, and break...

And then I am free. I bow to my Lady, and take her hand. "May I have this dance?"

The music is crisp in my ears, light and airy. I embrace her, and we waltz on the mist, above my lawn, away from my empty prison. Through the cherub and the hedges, across the beach, over the sea to chase the sun.

Her mouth flutters closer to mine, soft lips parting.

Black teeth. Sharp.

I cry out, my voice muffled by her hungry kiss, ripping at my face, peeling, pulling.

I gaze up at her through lidless eyes, milky with red.

Her maw finds my soft belly, bites, probes deep.

I am tugged into the ground by looping coils of innards.

Down.

Down.

Down to heat so strong the very air sears, baking raw flesh without ever killing nerves.

We dance again on rusty nails, on white coals and fish hooks, my bowels roping us together for eternity.

For another dance.

And another dance.
 

I've never been a huge fan of the supernatural. The stuff that scares me most is stuff that can happen. Human nature is scarier than any vampire...


FIRST TIME
 
  "Were you nervous your first time?"

Robby didn't break stride. He could clearly remember the smelly hotel room, Father paying the money, the girl naked and waiting.

"A little," he answered his brother. "Everyone's nervous the first time."

"I guess I am too. A little."

Pete looked it. Thirteen and small for his age, lost in one of Robby's old T-shirts. But that's how Robby was at thirteen, walking into that room. And ten minutes later, he walked out a man, ready to take on the whole damn world.

Robby wished their father was there, then cursed himself for the thought. He was the man of the family now, since Father had gone away. It was his job to initiate Pete.

"How long do I have?" Pete asked.

"Long as it takes. Once you pay, you're there 'till it's done."

"Is it a lot different from animals?"

They lived on a farm, so both boys had a lot of experience with animals.

"A lot different. Think about it. A real woman, like in one of those magazines. Naked and all yours. Maybe I'll even do one too."

"Really?"

Robby knew he wouldn't. They didn't have enough money for two. Besides, Robby did it enough at home. He was eighteen, and picked up women whenever he liked. His boyish good looks, just this side of full blown manhood, attracted girls like flies to compost. Robby was a real lady killer.

"Are we almost there Robby?"

"Almost."

The neighborhood was seedy, all cracked sidewalks and graffiti and urine soaked winos. It hadn't changed at all since Father brought him here, those years ago. He could still picture the face of his first girl-- oval, with high cheek bones and bright red lipstick that made her mouth look like a wound. Her eyes were vacant, wasted on some drug, but not so wasted that she didn't moan when he stuck it in.

You never forget your first.

The boys cut through an alley, rats scurrying out of their path. Pete moved a little closer to his brother. He was nervous, but didn't want to show it. Robby was his hero.

He wanted to make him proud. He relished every story Robby told him about his times with women, forever caught between awe and envy. Now it was his turn.

"Did Father watch you?" Robby asked.

"Yeah. He watched. Afterward he said he was real proud of how I gave it to her."

Pete's face bunched up.

"I don't remember Father so good. Before they took him away."

"Father's a great man. We'll see him again some day. Don't worry."

Pete looked up at his older brother.

"Will you watch me, Robby?"

"If you want me too."

"I want you too."

"I will then. Here we are."

The alley door was brown and rotten. Robby kicked it twice.

"I got money!"

That was what Father had said five years ago, and Robby's chest swelled saying the same words.

After a moment the door inched open. A red eye peered through the crack.

"You the ones called earlier?"

The boys nodded.
"You cops?"

Pete giggled.

"Hell no, we ain't cops!"

The door opened, revealing a short, thick man with hairy arms.

"Thirty bucks."

Robby took six fives from his pocket and laid them out one at a time. They quickly disappeared into the man's dirty jeans.

"You or the kid?"

"It will be Pete tonight," Robby said.

They followed the man through a hall lit with single bare bulb, down some stairs, and into a basement thick with mold. Against the wall, naked and waiting, was the girl.

She was fatter than Robby's first one, with dirty knees and smeared lipstick and so much blue eye shadow she looked like a peacock.

But there was some life in her eyes, a tiny spark that hadn't been totally dulled by the drugs.

"Hey, hey guys," she said, her voice slurring. "Untie me and we can party, okay?"

"You bring your own?" the man asked Pete. Pete nodded, patting his pocket.

The man spit on the floor, and then left the basement.

"What's you name, beautiful?" Robby asked. He put a hand on her cheek and she nuzzled against his touch.

"Candy. Can you untie my hands? I'm better when I can use my hands."

"Hi Candy, this is Pete. You're gonna be his first."

"Hey Petey," she flashed him a whore's smile, a curved mouth without any trace of warmth. "Come get some Candy, baby."

Pete licked his lips and gave his brother a glance.

Robby nodded his approval, and backed away.

"She's all yours, Pete. Do her good."

Pete looked at her, hanging there by her wrists, and couldn't believe this was really happening. It was almost as if he wasn't there, but rather above himself someplace, watching everything going on.

She protested when she saw the knife. The protest was soon replaced by crying.

Pete made some tentative cuts at first. Her screams were so loud that it freaked him out.

"No one can hear," Robby assured him. "Just mind the blood."

Getting brave, Pete jabbed deeper and harder. It was just like Robby had told him. She cried. She begged. And every sound made Pete hate her even more. The excitement built and built, and he cut faster and harder, and finally he lost control and stuck the knife in her neck and there was a gurgling choking sound and then she wasn't moving.

Pete took a step back, his heart hammering, the thick smell of blood filling his nostrils. He was excited, but disappointed that it ended so fast.

Robby patted his shoulder.

"Nice job. I'm proud of you. Father would be proud too."

"It wasn't... too quick?"

Robby laughed.

"The first one is always quick. You'll be able to last longer the more you do it."

The door opened behind them. It was the short man, with a mop and bucket.

Pete looked at the dead girl, wishing he could take her home as a trophy. He settled on the left breast, putting it in a plastic bag we brought with for the purpose.

"A breast man," Robby laughed. "Just like Father."

"When can I do it again, Robby?"

"Whenever you want. I'll teach you how to get women, just like Father taught me. It gets more and more fun each time. Remember to wipe off your knife. We'll ditch it down a sewer grate on the way home."

Robby made a show of eyeing the body.

"Good work. You really wrangled some screams out of her. Didn't I tell you it was more fun than slaughtering a pig?"

"A lot more fun. I'm gonna write Father in prison, tell him I finally did it."

"Good idea. He'd like that. Now I think you deserve--some ice cream!"

Pete grabbed his older brother and hugged him.

"Thanks Robby."

Robby took a deep breath, filling his lungs with pride. He thought about Tommy and Ed and Jasper, all younger than Pete, all anxious for their first times.

"After the ice cream, let's tell our brothers. Tommy's turn is coming up in October."

"He's gonna love it," Pete said, and the two of them walked out of the basement, through the building, and down the alley, searching the seedy neighborhood for a place that sold soft serve.