A Literary Micro-Press

Author Spotlight (and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!) – Patrick C. Greene

MASTER eBook CoverPatrick C. Greene is the author of the short story NIGHTBOUND in the

NEW Vampire Anthology

WRAPPED IN RED

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He is also the author of PROGENY, a contributor to the anthologies ENDLANDS 1 & 2, and writer of multiple short stories including TRICK, SILVER SURROGATE, FINDERS KEEPERS, and the collection DARK DESTINIES. And for his birthday Hobbes End Publishing is giving away FREE Kindle editions of PROGENY. Click the image to get your copy!birthday pcg progeny

Excerpt From WRAPPED IN RED

NIGHTBOUND

Freedom should be better than this, Blake Zagarino thought, dabbing sweat from his neck with a bandana, as yet another bout of shrill laughter assaulted his ears from the backseat of the lot-fresh, stolen Buick. But Zagarino played it cool. DeWitt, the laughing man, raised a snub-nosed .38, childishly making shooting sounds while he mimicked the gun’s recoil. Like the .38, he was small, oily and deadly. “Blamblamblam!” DeWitt bellowed, “No! Don’t kill me!” he said in a mocking falsetto, then came a fit of giggly laughter, and finally: “Please! I got a daughter!” More laughter. “Blamblam! Daddy’s gonna be REAL late tonight, sweetheart! HeeheeheeHEEEE!” Continuing to drive the winding road between hilltop homes, Zagarino did nothing to betray the disgust he felt with his partner, confident DeWitt would grow distracted soon, as he usually did. Bonner, the boss of their criminal triumvirate, was considerably less patient. “Put that down, you idiot!” he snarled. “If you get us caught, I swear I’ll beat you dead, boy!” Bonner’s grayish brush cut glistened with sweat, which then rolled down into his stubble. Zagarino hoped he wouldn’t turn his head around too swiftly and thus sling some of the grimy sweat onto him. “Okay okay, sorry” DeWitt began, “I can’t help it! Man was that fun! I never knocked over no armored car before! And wasted the guards to boot! WHOOO!” “Shaddup,” Bonner ordered, and DeWitt looked out the window, issuing a low titter to himself. “If your girl’s info was right, we’ve got at least ten minutes before the guards are supposed to check in. We should be dug in by…” Zagarino checked his watch and calculated. “…11:30.” “Don’t you worry about MaryAnn. She wouldn’t tell me wrong. She knows better. You just better be right about this hideout,” Bonner grumbled. “Couple that owns it live in Eastern Europe,” Zagarino reiterated again, “They only come here on vacation. And who’d wanna vacation in this Godforsaken heat?” “Get used to it, Zag. Two weeks, we’ll be in Mexico.” “Now you’re talkin’ my language!” DeWitt enjoined. “Here I c-c-c-come, senoritas!” “Gotta eighty-six this car,” said Bonner. “Hope you boys are up for a hike.” Zagarino drove into one of the many small forests surrounding and separating the clusters of secluded and exclusive neighborhoods in the rural outskirts of Chicago. He drove behind a thick pine and they quickly concealed the Buick under branches and lightweight fallen pine logs, until it looked something like a teepee fort made by local kids or hobos. The forest ended at a weedy hill some sixty yards high and steep enough to be daunting to outsiders; one of the selling points pushed by its developers and realtors. There was no wind to cool the cons, who had grown used to the cool comfort of medium security. Trudging up the uneven, scrubby hill carrying four heavily-loaded canvas sacks, Zagarino wished he had exercised more in prison. But he had never cared for the company of the aggressive, steroid-addicted meatheads who hovered around the weight benches and the penitentiary’s depressing excuse for a running track. DeWitt shared his regret. “Hey, slow down!” he huffed. He had stopped entirely-and this would not be acceptable to Bonner. Though stocky and physically very tough, Bonner was in his early fifties and heading toward “pudgy” himself, but he wasn’t about to abide DeWitt’s complaints. “DeWitt, get your ass up and move it! Now!” “Wait a minute, boss. …I need a break. Heat’s killing me…all this cash must weigh a hundred tons.” “Get up, or so help me, dipshit, your corpse will fry in this heat,” Bonner warned. “Okay, okay. How much further, Zag?” DeWitt asked, as much to buy another second of rest as to know. “The house is just a few yards from the top of the hill,” Zagarino answered evenly, and started moving. From the top of the hill, there was still a good ten yards to the large, oddly plain house. The nearest neighboring homes were a good distance away and arranged so that rows of trees fairly concealed them from one another; the very wealthy apparently needed comfortable degrees of separation even from one another. But the three desperate men nonetheless hunkered low, using the high weeds of the unkempt backyard to hide behind as they dragged the moneybags around to a front door sheltered under a pair of leafy poplars. Drawing a small black case from his pocket, Zagarino kneeled and went to work on the lock with measured finesse, feeling the antsy tension coming off his partners in stinking waves. “Come on, man!” DeWitt stage whispered. “Shut it,” Bonner ordered quietly, knowing that the kind of work Zagarino did was best not rushed. After a moment, Zagarino removed his tools from the lock and rolled them up in their pouch, then stood, opened the door and took a step inside, into pure darkness. DeWitt tried to go in next, but Bonner muscled him aside, raising the sturdy flashlight he had taken off one of the dead guards. He traced its beam over the sheeted furnishings, capturing huge dust motes that seemed to swim toward them curiously. For a long moment, they silently took measure of the enormous front room, the dusty stairway that dominated the center, the many doors on either side leading to reading rooms and the like. Swinging double doors at the rear gave way to a kitchen, beside which was a plain and heavy black door that could only lead to a basement. “Made in the shade, man!” DeWitt said aloud. Bonner turned to him sharply. A mouse scurried somewhere close to the walls, drawing startled grunts from DeWitt and him. “It’s all right,” Zagarino reassured them, “Just vermin. No one’s been here in months.” Bonner dropped the money bags on the floor, and the other two followed suit. The muffled thump echoed back at them from the mahogany walls. “These curtains are thick as a woolly mastodon’s hide,” noted DeWitt. “I don’t even care what that is,” Bonner grumbled. “Open ‘em, but just a little bit, so we can see to move around in here,”. Bonner wiped sweat from his brow as he regarded the dark forms of his partners. “MaryAnn’ll be here after five.” Zagarino cleared his throat, sparking a zippo to light a three-pronged silver candelabra. “About that…” “…What?” Bonner asked sharply. “You sure we can trust her? I mean, she is selling out the company she works for. Who’s to say she wouldn’t do the same to us?” Bonner laughed. “That bitch wants money, Zagarino. Just like all of ’em. When I was in the joint, and she was sending me those letters, I knew right away that what she really wanted was a man that could give her a great big, thick…wad of dough. And that’s all.” Bonner’s face took on a discomforting, slimy grin, as he grasped his crotch. “Fine by me, ’cause she’s damn sure gonna give me my money’s worth before it’s all over. And if for one minute, I start thinkin’ she’s lookin’ to screw me in anything less than the literal sense… BAM!…just like I’d do to either one a you. Got it?” Bonner’s face looked as crazy as it was cruel in the crossfire of candlelight and muted sunshine. READ MORE.

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Some dark serendipity plopped a young Patrick C. Greene in front of a series of ever stranger films-and experiences-in his formative years, leading to a unique viewpoint. His odd interests have led to pursuits in film acting, paranormal investigation, martial arts, quantum physics, bizarre folklore and eastern philosophy. These elements flavor his screenplays and fiction works, often leading to strange and unexpected detours designed to keep viewers and readers on their toes. Literary influences range from Poe to Clive Barker to John Keel to a certain best selling Bangorian. Suspense, irony, and outrageously surreal circumstances test the characters who populate his work, taking them and the reader on a grandly bizarre journey into the furthest realms of darkness. The uneasy notion that reality itself is not only relative but indeed elastic- is the hallmark of Greene’s writing. Living in the rural periphery of Asheville North Carolina with his wife, youngest son and an ever-growing army of cats, Greene still trains in martial arts when he’s not giving birth to demons via his pen and keyboard.

Patrick’s INTERVIEW with Fiona

Name:Patrick C Greene Age: Trying not to. Where are you from? The hills of Western North Carolina. A little about yourself… My father was an acclaimed writer of a very literary style of fiction, so I decided to write about monsters and gore. After high school, I immersed myself in martial arts, filmmaking and occasional writing classes. Grew up on the streets. …Well, actually a house near a street. More of a dirt road actually. Married to a very demanding editor/publisher (Sekhmet Press). Two genius sons, one a grown entrepreneur, the other an eleven year old philosopher. Fiona: Tell us your latest news? There’s lots! My debut novel PROGENY published by Hobbes End Publishing is celebrating its one year anniversary this week. PROGENY has received great reviews so far and has maintained a solid ranking on Amazon the entire year, so I’m very grateful for that. My short story NIGHTBOUND will appear in the vampire anthology Wrapped In Red published by Sekhmet Press, which releases next week on October 29. I’m honored to be included among some very talented authors in that anthology. Twisted Fates, a multi-story horror film will be shooting under the auspices of SaintSinner Entertainment and director Amel Fugueroa in the coming months. A comedy script and a web series are also in the works. And finally – I’m polishing my latest novel THE CRIMSON CALLING, Book One of The Sanguinarian Council – an action-packed vampire trilogy. Fiona: When and why did you begin writing? I started when I was around twelve, but I put it away mostly, beyond the odd poem or song, till a few years ago. I was toiling in small roles as an actor and, taking inspiration from Sylvester Stallone, decided to try and write a script and sell it with myself as the lead. That didn’t happen–but the writing continued. Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer? It’s difficult to pinpoint. After that first screenplay, I wrote another, and then another, still thinking I was working toward bolstering my acting career. Then it just became habit. I guess I have to say in retrospect, that that first screenplay, a martial arts actioner titled The Tiger Within, was when I became a writer. Fiona: What inspired you to write your first book? I had a collection of short stories under my belt, that I had written just for fun, and I received a lot of encouragement from my wife, so I started submitting them around a bit. Got some good nibbles, but my biggest coup was having Hobbes End Publishing include two of my stories in their prestigious The Endlands collections. Vince Hobbes and Jairus Reddy, the Hobbes End honchos, encouraged me to submit a novel, so I took the screenplay for PROGENY, which had just come off option, and re-worked it into a novel. So to answer, I guess it was that simple suggestion from Vincent and Jairus that got me going on the first novel. Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style? I always try to experiment, whether it be writing in different tenses or perspectives, doing that hardboiled detective thing like Mickey Spillane, or a minimalist, fast moving style that echoes my screenwriting experience.  I would say my style is best described as cinematic. Fiona: How did you come up with the title? For PROGENY, there’s a theme of parental and especially paternal relationships, so the title applies to the children of the story. For NIGHTBOUND, it’s a sort of double entendre, in that the mortal characters are seeking the night to hide their activities while the vampires are of course bound to the night by nature of their aversion to the sun. THE CRIMSON CALLING, my next novel, refers to the vampire’s need to feed on blood. Fiona: Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp? PROGENY expresses an appreciation for my role as a father, and hopefully speaks to that of the readers as well, or just why we shouldn’t take our loved ones for granted. The Crimson Calling’s theme would be that there is always hope, even in the darkest circumstances. Fiona: How much of the book is realistic? PROGENY is very realistic up to the point of how much you believe in the bigfoot legend. THE CRIMSON CALLING has a higher fantasy quotient. Fiona: Are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life? Screenwriter Keith Strandberg, whom I consider something of a mentor, wrote “Everything goes in the hopper” meaning the least little stand-out experience can become a part of your writing. I definitely draw upon people I know, but even so most of my characters are composites. As far as experiences, they come almost entirely from imagination. Fiona: What books have most influenced your life most? Bruce Lee’s Tao Of Jeet Kune Do was a tremendous influence. It’s more than a martial arts manual; Lee’s Taoist philosophy is spelled out in some excellent and passages. King’s On Writing has been a great education. Every writer should have a copy! My favorite novel is probably Clive Barker’s The Damnation Game, due to its rich characterizations and layered story. Fiona: If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor? Strandberg, as I mentioned above, in terms of screenwriting, but Vincent Hobbes is easily the most gracious and giving writer I’ve personally had the pleasure of knowing, in addition to being just an amazingly gifted and disciplined storyteller. After finishing up THE CRIMSON CALLING, I plan to spend some time on a few short story ideas I have percolating, and I’ve contributed a short story to an upcoming collection of stories set in the zombie universe of Armand Rosamilia’s DYING DAYS series. Not sure when that will see release, but given the roster of authors involved, I expect that to be a big deal. Fiona: Name one entity that you feel supported you outside of family members. I mentioned Vince and Jairus of course, so I’ll take this opportunity to acknowledge my friend Regina, who has been a wonderful beta reader and has contributed a lot toward managing my career. Fiona: Do you see writing as a career? Definitely. I can’t see myself not doing it. Fiona: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book? My latest being THE CRIMSON CALLING, I still have a minute or two to do so if need be.  But with PROGENY, I truly feel it came together quite perfectly. Fiona: Do you recall how your interest in writing originated? My father was a writer, so I had some exposure and encouragement early on. As a child I was kind of a late bloomer and not athletic, so I didn’t really feel capable of doing much else until I discovered martial arts and later, acting. Writing was an easy enough alternative, given the ability of paper and pen, and my father as an early teacher, Fiona: Can you share a little of your current work with us? Heeeeere you go: an excerpt from THE CRIMSON CALLING “Shake your ass feathers, Girlie.” Liv allowed a full second, then spun to give Rex a dagger-eyed glare meant to precipitate either an apology or an ass-beating. The cook stared back, an indecipherable grin at the corner of his lips. Holding the hard look, Liv dropped the rag she had been using to clean the counter and stood up straight, giving Rex plenty of opportunity to choose the apology. “Well. So much for this job,” she began, but before she could storm out or leap the counter and shatter Rex’s teeth-she hadn’t decided which yet- Dolly appeared at her side. “Rex, you butthole, you know better than to start that shit with these girls their first day.” Rex’s expression suddenly became harmlessly buffoonish. “Huh? Surely she knows I’m just trying to break the ice.”  His crooked nose might have been a souvenir from some previous ill-advised comment. “Looked to me like Liv here was about to break something of yours,” Dolly said, “she don’t know what a big teddy bear you are just yet.” Rex’s apologetic smile managed to melt the tension, and Liv remembered she was a civilian now, among other civilians. Just because she could beat his ass didn’t mean she should. Joe had certainly taught her better than that. Of course, if Joe were here, she wouldn’t be shaking her ass feathers. “Ah hell, Liv. I guess that was outta line,” he said. Liv smiled at him. “Yeah. But we’re cool now.” Rex smiled back and returned to the grill. “That’s a nice smile, Liv,” said Dolly, “bet it could bring you some pretty good tips.” Dolly’s comment made Liv aware that she was still being aloof, very much caught up in memories and protocol. The tips didn’t matter so much. Fitting –or rather disappearing- into mainstream society did matter. And it was taking time. On her way to refill the tea pitcher, Liv tried her smile on an elderly couple sharing a slice of pie, and was pleased to see it easily returned. Liv’s heart first warmed then ached as she considered the couple. There may have been a time she’d believed in love like that. Believed such a thing could last. She thought of Tony, her first, and how she had naively believed he would be by her side forever. She remembered how happy the pregnancy had made her, however unplanned and unacceptable it may have been. She thought of Joe, and how he accepted her. She thought of how tough he was mentally and physically, how secure he had made her feel, and how he had driven her to become something more than even her boldest aspirations. That was when the robbers made their entrance, and Liv recognized the familiar caress; invisible tendrils of trouble that followed her everywhere. Fiona: Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work? Clive Barker, because of his incredibly vivid and lyrical prose. He’s a painter as well, and his writing seems to reflect that in some indefinable way; in word compositions that have a sweeping effect, like broad, even angry brush strokes at times. read more of the interview HERE.

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