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

Patrick C. Greene, Sekhmet Press LLC, Wrapped Authors, Wrapped In Red

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.

Author Spotlight – Michael D. Matula

anthology, vampires, Wrapped Authors, Wrapped In Red

Michael David Matula

is the author of the short story

MY BOSS IS A VAMPIRE in the

NEW Vampire Anthology

WRAPPED IN RED

He is also the author of

 TRY NOT TO BURN

michael matula2

Excerpt from:

MY BOSS IS A VAMPIRE

“Well, Ms. Bailor, do you have any prior experience as a personal assistant?  Bartholomew Gannen expects a certain level of professionalism and know-how out of his employees.”

Cameron Bailor shrugged, the warm Louisiana air feeling stale in the mansion’s extravagant drawing room.  The whole place smelled of dust and antiques; almost like the mansion had hardly been lived in over the past century or two.

Mr. Haberson noticed her eyes wander down to the bandage plastered to his neck, half covered by the collar of his gray mock turtleneck.  Strangely, the bandage looked like it had been applied by a seven-year-old in the midst of a coughing fit.

Two rather distressing splotches of red had seeped through the gauze, and were starting to bleed into the fabric of his shirt.

Clearing his throat, Haberson shifted his backside in the premium leather of the lounge chair, angling his torso so his injury would be less noticeable.

“Not exactly,” Cameron replied, her eyes skipping back up to his face now that the seeping neck wound was hidden from view.  After looking at his sallow, droopy cheeks for a few seconds, she found herself starting to miss the neck wound.  “I can make a mean cup of coffee, though.  The kids I used to babysit for would absolutely rave about my cappuccinos.”

A frown drew his hangdog features even lower, looking like he’d just tasted something sour.  “I see.”

It took all of her restraint not to face-palm, as she could almost feel her ice-breaker falling flat and shattering the surface of the lake.

Why did she say that?  Why did she even attempt to crack a joke?  She wasn’t funny, not in the slightest.  She was the last person who should be cracking wise in the middle of a harrowing job interview.

Cameron could see him judging her in his bloodshot little eyes.  She couldn’t say she hadn’t been judging him from the moment she walked in the door, but still, it never felt particularly good to be on the receiving end of such withering contempt.

Should she tell him it was an attempt at humor?  That she wasn’t actually a caffeine pusher for toddlers?  Or would that be an insult to his intelligence?  Perhaps he knew it was a joke, and he was simply judging Cameron for her poor comedic timing.

“Do you mind if I ask…” she started to say, hoping to switch his mind off of her own shortcomings as a comedian and onto something he’d prefer thinking about.

Namely, himself.  Men loved talking about themselves.  If there was one thing she knew about men, that was it.

Except for when they had something to hide, of course.

“…what happened to your neck?” she finished asking, realizing the folly of her ways the moment the lead-laced words had fallen onto what remained of the proverbial ice.

She couldn’t help but wince at his complete lack of an expression.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he grunted.

Of course he didn’t want to talk about it.  It was the one thing he’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice.  Why couldn’t she have asked him about the weather or something equally bland and unalienating?  Why couldn’t she have complimented him on his fashion sense?  No, that might have actually made him like her.

After all, he probably injured himself in some sort of kinky asphyxiation thing, and no one wanted to discuss their deviant sexual practices with a total stranger.  Much less a pushy twenty-six-year-old who seemed to be unable to keep her mouth shut.

Mr. Haberson sighed.  “Ms. Bailor, I’m sure you know that Bartholomew Gannen is a very important man.  He may have retired from the limelight, but he still requires a capable, sturdy individual to fend off negative press and overeager fans.  He needs someone who is willing to work long daytime hours, and someone who doesn’t mind getting their hands dirty.  Do you really think you would be capable of handling these responsibilities?”

Cameron tried to pull herself together.  He was still talking to her.  That was a good sign, wasn’t it?  At least he hadn’t grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and tossed her sorry derriere out onto the regal front porch of the mansion.

She still had a fighting chance.  And she still had four full “release-in-case-of-emergency” buttons to go through on the blouse.  She had undone the first one in the car.  She’d wanted that casual look.

The second button would show that she could be playful.  She wasn’t desperate enough to release button number two yet, but she was getting there.

If she undid button number three, it would show that she could be saucy.  A real firecracker.  A fourth button would cross the line into epic levels of inappropriateness.  But she might still get the job.

She’d never had to go four full buttons before.  She knew the day would have to come eventually, though.

“Absolutely.”  Cameron’s mousy voice did its best to sound confident.

“Interesting.”

Interesting?

“I must admit, Ms. Bailor,” Mr. Haberson continued, “that I’m somewhat short on time this afternoon.  Today was the only day I could interview replacements for my job in person, for I’ll be unable to work days following tonight.”

“Um-hm.”  There you go, Cam.  Smile and nod.  Keep eye contact.  Don’t look at the gross sex bandage…

All right.  Well, don’t look at it again.

“It saddens me to say,” he told her with substantial hesitation, “that you’ve got the job, Ms. Bailor.”

Cameron flashed her best “deer in the face of blinding headlights” look.

“Really?  This isn’t some sort of joke, is it?”

“It saddens me to say,” he added, with just as much hesitation as before, “that it is not.  We haven’t had many applicants for the position, and I find myself unable to wait for anyone else.  If Mr. Gannen is not satisfied with your work, then he’ll deal with you later.”  Haberson cleared his throat.  “He’ll hire someone later, I should say.”

“Sure.”

She actually got the job?  Seriously?  With only one button undone?

She must be better at this whole interview thing than she thought.

Mr. Haberson knitted his fingers together.  “I must insist that you begin working immediately, however, as there is much you need to do, and I have limited time before the dawn arrives on the morrow.”  He inclined his head toward the rather fusty coffee table to his left.  “Your job responsibilities have been printed on the parchment there.  Mr. Gannen has been somewhat… quiet, shall we say, over the last few days, so I took an educated guess at what some of his needs would be.  If you require anything, try my mobile phone.  The number’s at the top of the page.  My flight’s at three o’clock this afternoon, though, so you may have some difficulty reaching me after that.”

So, two and a half hours from now.  Well, that should give her enough time to look over

the list and see if she…

“It’s settled, then.”  Haberson unfurled his fingers and rose to his feet, extending his right hand toward Cameron.  “Welcome aboard, Ms. Bailor.  Do strive to do your best, whatever that amounts to in your particular case, as Mr. Gannen is rather quick to do away with incompetents.”

She accepted his hand, too giddy about the fact she just got the job to concern herself with the heavy-handed dose of condescension.

He grunted daintily as he lifted up his suitcase, then started to power walk through the mansion toward the entrance hall.

“You’re leaving already?” she asked his rapidly retreating form.

“You know how the rat race can get,” he called back to her as the door creaked open.  “Busy busy busy.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

She waited to hear the tires squeal as he raced away in madcap cartoon fashion, but the walls and blacked-out windows of the mansion were much too thick to allow for it.

With him gone, Cameron finally allowed herself to take her first real gander around the place.  She hadn’t wanted to look like she was casing the joint in front of Haberson before.

As antiquated as it was, the mansion was still quite impressive, absolutely dripping with Southern charm and class.  Aside from Mr. Gannen’s apparent love of doilies, that was, as it looked like he had allowed his great grandmother to decorate the place.

“You’ve finally made it, Cam,” she said, talking to herself and referring to herself by name, which was by no means the mark of a crazy person.  “Actual, honest-to-goodness employment.  A career, if I can keep from screwing things up like I normally do.”

No more selling electronics of varying legality out of the trunk of her car.

Nope, she was in an actual building this time.  A mansion.  The kind of house that little houses wished they could be when they grew up. READ MORE

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Michael Matula is a novelist and story writer from Chicago, IL. He was born on a Friday the 13th, which could explain some of the darker themes in his writing. He once dreamed of becoming a comic artist, sketching pictures and caption bubbles in class when he really should have been studying. Unable to draw fast enough to keep up with all the words and images tumbling in his head, he started writing stories based on his characters instead. He ended up falling in love with writing and never really looked back.

The INTERVIEW with Fiona

Name Michael Matula

Age  35

Where are you from

I was born and raised in the Chicago area.

A little about yourself `ie your education Family life etc.

There isn’t too much to say.  I went to Glenbard North High School, enjoy watching movies when I can scrape up the time, and I find that I’m getting more obsessive-compulsive as each day goes by.

Fiona: Tell us your latest news?

My latest short story, “My Boss is a Vampire,” will be appearing in Wrapped in Red, the new anthology from Sekhmet Press, on October 29th.

Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?

I always wanted to be a comic book artist.  I wrote and drew my own comics as a teenager, usually during study hall, but occasionally during classes.  But I had too many ideas for the stories, and I couldn’t draw fast enough to keep up with everything I wanted to do.  Nor could I quite match the images that I was seeing in my mind.  So I wrote out a side story for one of my characters, and I never really looked back after that.

Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?

Pretty much right away.  I finished writing my first book in high school.  Looking back, it wasn’t very well-written, and I’d probably die of embarrassment if anyone read it now, but I still hold a lot of the characters and the story very close to my heart, and I hope to one day rewrite it.

Fiona: What inspired you to write your story?

I had an idea for a woman who was not too dissimilar to me.  She’s struggling to find work, doing lots of odd jobs while trying to be a writer in an age where print is dead.  And basically, every job she takes goes wrong somehow, though she would never admit to it ever being her own fault.

Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style?

I mostly just write the story as the character, placing myself in their heads as much as possible, and whatever they would think is usually how I tell it.  I always think that the key to writing is to find characters you like.  Then, the characters do most of the heavy lifting for you.

Fiona: How did you come up with the title?

I think I had the title before I actually wrote the story, which is often how I do things.  A good title can give you inspiration for the story, and makes me excited to write it.

Fiona: Is there a message in your story that you want readers to grasp?

Be wary of kids who learn voodoo curses off the internet.  You might have career trouble later in life.

Fiona: How much of the story is realistic?

Not much, if I’m being honest.  It’s part parody, part suspense, and hopefully all fun.  If any parts of it are realistic, then it’s probably unintentional.

Fiona: What books have influenced your life most?

Sunglasses After Dark was one of the books that made me want to be a writer.  That, and the Wheel of Time series, along with some of Michael Crichton’s books.

Fiona: What are your current projects?

I just completed the sequel to my first novel, Try Not To Burn, which is about three people struggling to escape eternal damnation and redeem their sins.  It’s part suspense, part psychological thriller, and part monster movie.

Fiona: Name one entity that you feel supported you outside of family members.

A teacher I had in elementary school, Mrs. McArdle, pushed me to join an advanced program, which may have helped steer me into a creative path.  I also remember one time that I was supposed to write down an answer to a question “What’s one thing you do better than anyone else?” It was supposed to just be a fun thing, a throwaway question, but I didn’t have an answer, as I’ve never felt particularly special.  So I asked her, and she said I was better at making her laugh than anyone else.  It was something that will always stick with me, and it was one of the first times as a kid that I’d ever felt like I mattered.

Fiona: Do you see writing as a career?

I’d love it to be.  There’s nothing I’d rather do full-time than write. READ MORE

Author Spotlight – Suzi M

vampires, Wrapped Authors, Wrapped In Red

Suzi M is the author of the short story

BLOOD IN THE WATER

in the

NEW Vampire Anthology

WRAPPED IN RED

She is also the author of

 Apocrypha of the Apocalypse

suzi m4

Excerpt from:

BLOOD IN THE WATER

The roar of the boat engine cut out, leaving only the slapping of waves against the sides of the craft. Lilith closed her eyes with relief and embraced the brief silence.
She could feel the eyes of the crew crawling over the back of her wetsuit and a cold smile lit her features for the briefest of moments until she remembered why she was on a boat a few miles off the coast of Rhode Island. She had business to attend and possible miles to go before she could enjoy any pleasure. She would wait.
“Ma’am?”
She acknowledged the ship’s captain without taking her gaze off the surface of the water and mentally checked their position. If the notes had been correct, they were close to their target.
“We’ve reached the coordinates you gave us.”
She tapped her long, red-lacquered nails against the boat’s railing as she contemplated the ocean. It occurred to her that time had the uncanny ability to slip away unnoticed in a way that was akin to a one-night stand sneaking out of bed in the wee hours of the morning. Lilith contemplated her own lost time and sighed. Millennia had crept by unnoticed since she last considered ruling mankind and since she had tried to reunite her brethren. She had lost track of them, assumed they had all been killed in the Flood, until a writer in the 20th century gave her reason to believe they might be very much alive somewhere. With the blink of an eye she was back in the present moment and staring out at the sea, closing in on her goal.
She made a show of sniffing the air, but in reality she was opening herself up in a way that she had reserved only for one man over the years. Her eyes snapped open and she sucked in air. It was faint but it was there, beneath the waves. The stories had all been true and the writer she had tortured for the information all those years ago had not been lying. She glanced again at the long-dead writer’s journal and gave a slow nod.
Turning back to the captain she said, “We need to go one more mile in that direction.”
She pointed further out and the captain’s expression shifted. “Why over there, if you don’t mind my asking, ma’am?”
Lilith closed the distance between them and leaned in close. The tension she felt coming off the man was like an electric storm and it excited her. There was a pale mark shining on his left ring finger where he had pried off his wedding band as she had stepped onto the deck of his boat, and she knew she could have him if she wanted him. She drank in the energy that emanated from the entire crew like steam off of a cup of hot coffee and relaxed just a little. She was always a bitchy flirt when she was hungry. With effort she forced her fangs to stay put so her smile would not appear odd to the already skittish sailors.
“I do mind your asking, Captain. I chartered this boat for a reason, and it wasn’t to get questioned.” READ MORE

_________________________________________

Lurking in a Pennsylvania town near historic Gettysburg, Suzi M is weaving webs of horror: including gothic, noir, ghosts, demons, angels, occult, and the occasional historic and/or post-apocalyptic thriller. Her storytelling has been compared to that of Tanith Lee and HP Lovecraft. Suzi’s writing explores the thrill and the secrecy; the untold mysteries waiting in the shadows. In addition to a few other humans, including the tiny Hypnospawn, Suzi shares her home with a 30lb black house panther named Mr. Pants. When she’s not busy with her own work or getting pictures and autographs with people who recognize her on the street, Suzi helps support the efforts of independent artists, writers, musicians, and film-makers. She is also a self-described “fiberfreak,” finding time to spin, knit, crochet or weave when the muse allows. She will most likely achieve fame and fortune with her hand-crafted socks.

The INTERVIEW with Fiona

Name Suzi M

Age: old enough

Where are you from: New York City

A little about your self `ie your education Family life ect

Suzi lives with her husband, son, and house panther in the wilds of Pennsylvania. When not writing she enjoys reading, spinning yarn, and knitting lace. She has also released several stories and novellas under the names Xircon and James Glass.

Fiona: Tell us your latest news?

Suzi: Working on several new projects, one is the next installment of the Murdered Metatron. The most recent works are ‘The Vampire of Plum Run’ written as James Glass, and my story ‘Blood in the Water’ was just released in the Wrapped in Red vampire anthology.

Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?
Suzi: I started writing in high school. Come to think of it, I wrote NEMESIS, the first book in my Immortal War series, in my senior year. My writing came about as a side effect of my English teacher trying to coax me to use a new technology: a laptop. Man, that makes me feel old as hell.

Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?
Suzi: When it became clear that calling myself an ‘epic storyteller’ left people confused.

Fiona: What inspired you to write your first book?
Suzi: My 12th grade English teacher, though I have to admit my intention was not to write an entire novel at the time.

Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style?
Suzi: I have several specific writing styles, it just depends what name I’m writing under at the time.

Fiona: How did you come up with the title?
Suzi: Going with the main character’s name for the title seemed like a good way to go.

Fiona: Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
Suzi: Yes and no. Depending on the story, sometimes it’s just a story. Since I have several novels and novellas, it’s hard to choose just one and say ‘This is the message’ because each reader will infer his or her own meaning from the work, regardless of what I might say. If someone contacts me to discuss my work, I’m happy to discuss their interpretation versus how I felt about it, but I won’t spoonfeed my readers.

Fiona: How much of the book is realistic?
Suzi: Again, depends on which book or novella we’re talking about. For example, my post-apocalyptic novella ‘The Lazarus Stone’ (written as Xircon) was very much realistic. I put a lot (maybe too much) research into it to the point I have a pretty decent description of how to build a functioning fallout shelter. My vampire novels feature formerly real places in New York, but it was a landscape that existed well over a decade ago. A lot has changed since then.

Fiona: Are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?
Suzi: I never kiss and tell. READ MORE

Author Spotlight – Maynard Blackoak

short stories, vampires, Wrapped Authors, Wrapped In Red

Maynard Blackoak is the author of the short story

Dangerous Dan Tucker: Vampire Gunslinger in the

NEW Vampire Anthology

WRAPPED IN RED

Maynard Blackoak

Excerpt from:

Dangerous Dan Tucker: Vampire Gunslinger

The north Texas night found me perched wearily atop my faithful mustang, Mesquite. We had been riding since the break of dawn, headed for a range war just across the Red River, into the town of Cale, in Choctaw Nation. Fred Sterritt, the man who had hired my gun hand, awaited my arrival with a one hundred dollar payday for my services. It was to be a quick job, with only a rival rancher’s young, inexperienced hired gun and a few slow handed cowhands that I would be facing.
Feeling Mesquite’s lumbering gait, I knew my horse and I would need a decent rest before continuing on to Cale to meet with my latest employer. As we topped a hill in Dennison, overlooking the Red River, I spotted a cantina sitting on the Texas side of the river. I decided to pay the little establishment a visit, for a few drinks and a period of rest before continuing with my journey.
While my horse refreshed himself in the waters of the river, I ventured inside the lively confines of Rosarita’s cantina. Strolling casually, I made my way through drunken cowboys and the saloon girls who coquettishly helped separate patrons from their money. Two of the ladies approached me, as I headed toward the bar. Not wishing to be relieved of my money, nor in the mood for their brand of company, I declined their offers.
After purchasing a cheap bottle of watered down whiskey, I searched for an empty table where I could enjoy my drink in solitude. Spotting a place in a corner, I navigated through the raucous crowd. Sidestepping stumbling cowboys and prancing saloon girls, I was vigilant to keep from bumping into anyone along the way.
The slightest wrong move on my part could instigate a fight that I wished to avoid. Not that I feared any man there. I knew that I could take any one of them if it came down to it. However, I lived by a strict code. I didn’t believe in looking for trouble. But rest assured, I was ready with a gun if it found me. That code had kept me alive in a dangerous profession for many years, while most my contemporaries had met their ends long before.
As I neared the table, my eyes inadvertently made contact with the most alluring woman I had ever seen. Her eyes were like the blackest velvet, sprinkled with stardust that sparkled in the flickering candle light. Long, black hair flowed behind her like a train, gently rippling in the breeze. Her silky smooth, burnt umber skin wrapped her in beauty, enhancing her perfectly constructed features.
I was struck by the odd nature of her presence there. While most the women who worked saloons had a tendency to be hard and coarse in appearance, she seemed soft, almost demure. She carried herself elegantly, passing among the rowdy patrons and shamelessly flirtatious women.
“May I join you?” she inquired, after gracefully strolling up to my table.
“Nothin’ personal, m’am. I’m just not lookin’ to share right now. I just want to have a quiet drink alone.” I refused, even though I could not take my eyes off her.
“I only want to sit and talk to you.” she countered with a sly grin, “I have no interest in your drink.”
Though I wanted to be alone, I found myself agreeing to her company. There was a mysterious hold her eyes had over me, something that not only prevented me from turning her away, but kept my own eyes fixated on hers. Never before had I encountered such mesmerizing beauty. The longer I stared into her sparkling pools of darkness, the more I felt myself drawn into a desire to be with her. I found the situation both vexing and at the same time, pleasing.
“I am Felina.”
“Dan Tucker m’am.”
“Dangerous Dan Tucker, the fastest gun in all the west?” she asked with a lilt of excitement in her voice.
I looked at her with a hint of surprise showing in my expression. I had not expected such a graceful lady to know of me and my reputation with a gun. Still, I have to admit it pleased me that she did.
“The one and the same.” I replied, a twinge of vanity showing in my tone. “But I ain’t so sure about being the fastest m’am. I ain’t faced ever gunslinger out there. Truth be told, if I had my druthers, I’d just as soon not.”
She nodded, chuckled amiably, then said, “Please Dangerous Dan, call me Felina.”
“Alright Felina it is. And what’s say we keep the Dangerous Dan talk under our hats. Don’t want any of these yahoos gettin’ ideas about makin’ a name for themselves by takin’ on ole Dangerous Dan Tucker.”
“It will be our little secret….Dan” READ MORE

______________________________________

Maynard Blackoak is a freelance writer living in the backwoods of Pawnee County, Oklahoma. He began writing as a student in high school. His first piece was published in 1976 as part of an anthology of stories and poetry written by high school students in Oklahoma. He has written many short stories, reviews, articles and conducted interviews for various magazines. His latest work, Under the Black Oak Tree, a short story included in The Endlands Vol 2 anthology through Hobbes End Publishing, is currently available in print and ebook form.

The INTERVIEW with Fiona

Maynard Blackoak

55

Lives in Pawnee County, Oklahoma

Prefers night to day and enjoys aimlessly walking along a dirt road or absorbing the darkness in a forgotten cemetery. Two daughters, two granddaughters and one grandson with another due to arrive in December.

Fiona: Tell us your latest news?

I will have two short stories in the soon to be released anthology, A World of Dark Spirits and the Fay.

Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?

I began writing as a senior in high school at the urging of my creative writing instructor.

Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?

I honestly don’t consider myself to be a writer. I just don’t have the body of work.

Fiona: What inspired you to write your story?

I was researching some interesting characters of the wild west and learned about a gunfighter who simply vanished from sight.

Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style?

I’ve never really thought about it. Perhaps I’m just a story teller in an old fashioned balladeer style.

Fiona: How did you come up with the title?

The title came from the main character, Dangerous Dan Tucker

Fiona: Is there a message in your story that you want readers to grasp(?

I don’t know. Perhaps it’s just to show that history can be fun

Fiona: How much of the story is realistic?

Only the main character is based on reality. He was a lawman who decided he could make more money selling his gunhand.

Fiona: Are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?

I wish!

Fiona: What books have most influenced your life most?

Dracula, Sherlock Holmes and A Christmas Carol

Fiona: If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

I’d be insulting one of the classic authors to consider them a mentor

Fiona: What book are you reading now?

I recently read The Grapes of Wrath

Fiona: Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest?

There are a few I’d like to read. However, there are still some classics I need to read first.

Fiona: What are your current projects?

I really don’t have anything new at the present. I’m in somewhat of a holding pattern, waiting to see if something good happens.

Fiona: Do you see writing as a career?

Not really. I just don’t believe the talent is there.

Fiona: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book?

I haven’t published a novel. So I can’t answer that.

Fiona: Do you recall how your interest in writing originated?

My high school teacher suggested it. I just didn’t pursue it seriously until recently. One day about twenty years ago I dabbled with it, though.

Fiona: Can you share a little of your current work with us?

About a month ago, I wrote a novella about antihero who tortures and assassinates corrupt politicians and corporate heads

Fiona: Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?

The challenge is to get published. There are too many talented writers out there.

Fiona: Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work?

Poe for his darkness. Dickens for the images his stories paint in my head. Conan Doyle for the way his novels challenge my mind. READ MORE

Author Spotlight – Mark Parker

anthology, short stories, vampires, Wrapped Authors, Wrapped In Red

Mark Parker is the author of the short story

 THE SCARLET GALLEON in the

NEW Vampire Anthology

WRAPPED IN RED

He is also the author of WAY OF THE WITCH and HALLOWEEN NIGHT

mark parker headshot

Excerpt from:

THE SCARLET GALLEON

ADRIFT – 1634 A.D., Somewhere off the Coast of Spain

The Orenta has been at sea for so many days, my crew has nearly lost count.  Days melt into nights, nights bleed back into days, until sunlight, starlight, and moonlight together, have become one relentless fabric of waning hope. Teasing us like an all-too-distant mirage. Tempting the weak of heart, and causing even further suspicion, in the minds of those seafaring souls who have lived long and hard enough – to not be misled by the beguiling vixens that are the celestial bodies above.

Santos Consuega, Captain of the Orenta, had all but run out of excuses to offer his men for all this maddening drifting they’d been forced to endure.  The war had not been kind to the Orenta.  Her sails had been irreparably damaged by round after round of cannon fire, and her two main masts were listing – much like the Captain’s own flagging spirits.  And, if that wasn’t enough, night was once again upon them.In deep, velvety folds, the night air stood deft and infernal around the Orenta, much like the abysmal nothingness of Hell itself, had only the Fates been merciful enough to deliver the vessel and her bereft crew to its obsidian shores.

But alas – as of yet – it had not.

Rather, Consuega and his men had been consigned to this earthly hell of supposition, knowing full well that land must be out there somewhere…perhaps neither close nor far…but surely within enough proximity to keep the Captain’s mind from forever guessing of its whereabouts.

If only I could deliver the galleon and my crew to the hope of some distant shore by the fanciful endeavor of imagining it so.

 In his despair, Consuega knew nothing could be further from the truth.

Even now he found himself wondering if he and his men would ever see land again.  But then, as if in answer to his unarticulated question – not yet voiced to the entombed silence of the listless night around him – came a clamorous sound that all but tore the night in two.  It was as if the stalwart crust of the earth itself had somehow risen up through countless fathoms to meet the vessel’s sea-ravaged bow, just as the wayward warship’s bulk came to a sudden and hull-shearing halt beneath Consuega’s own uncertain footing.

The mind-rending thought was like a sulfurous thing; exploding and re-exploding in the Captain’s mind until he was able to wrap the breadth of his well-schooled intellect around the enormity of the matter.  The Orentahis Orenta – had run aground under the blackened veil of night.

Once the sky-splitting cacophony of the vessel’s grounding had subsided, all the creaks and growls gradually put to rest, there came a moment of the most unnerving silence, the likes of which Consuega had never before encountered.  Such voluminous silence caused the Captain’s already unsteady mind to question whether the grounding had occurred at all.

Despite the caustic heat of his surroundings, the air in Consuega’s lungs had frozen.  His mind was a jumble; thoughts colliding one into the other.  He desperately fought to seize upon anything that might help stabilize his battle weary mind and reconnect him to at least some sort of rooted truth.

Try as he might, Consuega couldn’t find a single thing to latch onto.  Not one moment’s worth of consolation to stave off his most disparaging of fears.  There was no vestige of reprieve to glean strength from, nothing to rightly exorcise the thrashing tangle of demons that assaulted him from all sides; tearing at his weakened will with their most tortuous of tests.

The Orenta’s grounding was a fate he and his crew would be forced to endure together, just as they had so much since first departing from their beloved Spain all those months ago.

Although the Orenta boasted a crew of a hundred men or more, Consuega had never felt more alone in his life.  Such deafening silence threatened to undo him at any moment.  A solitary soul adrift on a sea of malignant isolation; a man desperate to find his way home.

In the expanse of a single well-drawn breath, the Captain could feel the weight of his current predicament seated upon his chest, as if the Orenta itself had somehow been hoisted upon him – the weight threatening to crush the very life out of him where he stood.

The warship’s waywardness had been dreadful enough, to be sure, but it was his orders alone that had caused the vessel to veer so completely off course, to encounter grounding as it had.  With the supine expanse of blackened night draped over them like a moisture-laden funeral pall, it was as if they were already dead. READ MORE

_______________________________________

Mark Parker was born in the Midwest, but has lived all over the country, partly while serving in the United States Navy.  For much of his life, he has called coastal New England home—a place rich in literary history—with authors such as Melville, Lovecraft, Poe, Hawthorne, and King, to influence his own mixed brand of horror, suspense, and mystery fiction.

The INTERVIEW with Fiona

Name: Mark Parker

Age: 50

Location: Boston, Massachusetts

Tell us a little about yourself (education, family life, etc.)

I studied at Boston College and hold a Bachelor’s Degree in Philosophy, and two years towards my Master’s Degree in Theology.

Share some of your latest news.

I recently debuted on Amazon with two short pieces of fiction.  First one is what I would term a “quiet little vampire story” titled BIOLOGY OF BLOOD.  Second, a short “psychosexual-thriller” titled LUCKY YOU.

When and why did you begin writing?

I first began writing when I was twelve or thirteen.  I remember creating a neat little story titled THE ICE CREAM MAN.  My mother loved it and encouraged me to “keep on with it.”  She even bought me a manual typewriter that I clunked away on for years.  The thing was my prized possession, and I was elated to have it.  I remember the story had quite a frightening premise that I still think would make for a cool read today.  And I guess I first knew I wanted to write, when I came across a blood-splattered mass market edition of Stephen King’s CARRIE in 1974 or so.  I think it must’ve been the movie-tie in that had Sissy Spacek on the cover.  It wasn’t so much the story itself that made me want to write—or even the fact that it was horror—but rather that a world could be created with words, and could exist between the foil-lettered covers.  I can remember thinking that was very cool.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

That’s a tough one.  I’ve had people tell me “Writer’s write, so therefore you’re a writer.”  But I guess it was when I first saw my stories go live on Amazon, that it all began to sink in.  I might’ve even said to myself, “Okay, now it’s real…you’re officiallya writer.”  That’s big, heady stuff for someone who’s been dreaming about such a day all his life.  Part of me still thinks I won’t really believe it all until my work is represented by an agent and published by one of the BIG New York publishers.  I supposed if that day ever comes, I’ll know I’ve truly arrived.

What inspired you to write your first book?

The first book I ever wrote was a literary thriller titled FOR THE SAKE OF THE STORY.  I remember it beginning with the question: “How far would you go to get published?” That line was the inspiration for the story and kept me thinking it would be cool if a has-been author met up with a cocky (but talented) young Turk, who might just possibly reinvigorate his waning career and help put him back ON TOP if the two were to collaborate on a project that might even become a bestseller.  I still want to write and publish that novel.  I think it might need to undergo a title change however.  Perhaps something simple like THE COLLABORATION or THE BESTSELLER.  I’m open to title suggestions.

Do you have a specific writing style?

I have been told by some that I have an “old world” style.  What I feel about my writing is that while I aim to entertain, chill, and even terrify, I tend to do it all in an admittedly “quieter” way than most.  In my opinion subtlety is a lost art and is very effective if done right.  I have always loved stories like Shirley Jackson’s THE LOTTERY for that very reason; the creep-up-on-you factor I guess you would say.  That is the way I write or the style I tend to most readily implement.  I have a very diverse taste in stories, which is either a plus or minus.  I am interested in writing all kinds of stories, but they most definitely need to have that unexpected element to them; the twist at the end.  When I’m reading a story or a novel, the puzzle is everything for me.  If there isn’t anything for me to figure out or discover for myself, I’m simply not engaged.  An opening with the proverbial hook is what I love and do my best to strive for when beginning a story.  For some reason straight fiction doesn’t hold my interest very much.  Slice of life stories are okay, but again they have to have that element of shock or surprise.  I am most interested in the horror, mystery, and suspense genres, and have most particularly been influenced by the literary works of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Clive Barker, Shirley Jackson—and even the classic works of writers like Melville, Dickens, Poe, and Hawthorne.  I’m currently working on a series of whaling mystery chapbooks that are written in an “old world” gaslight dock style, and have American whaling as their atmospheric backdrop.  For me atmosphere is extremely important.  I oftentimes find myself drawn to a story’s setting as much, if not more, than I am to its plot.  For me, mood is essential. READ MORE

Author Spotlight – Brian D. Mazur

anthology, short stories, Wrapped Authors, Wrapped In Red

Brian D. Mazur is the author of the short story

SHATTERING GLASS in the

NEW Vampire Anthology

WRAPPED IN RED

He is also the author of the short story DUMAINE in the anthology Dying to Live.

Brian D. Mazur

Excerpt from:

SHATTERING GLASS

It was the second time that Harry Kirkland’s life had changed; it was also the last. It began with a knock at the door as he sat watching the news, a human-interest story. The knock was light, but authoritative. It was a small hand he decided, shuffling to the door.

Rap music boomed from somewhere in the condominium complex, greeting Harry and ushering in a pair of women standing on his front stoop. The older of the two was an attractive woman, about thirty-five or so, he guessed. Her brown hair, short, swept across her forehead, trimmed neatly framed around ears that displayed silver earrings in the shape of feathers that sparkled in the setting sun. She wore a dress brushed with the colors of the rainbow. Her eyes were emerald green and she greeted Harry through a Mary Tyler Moore smile with big gleaming teeth.

Next to her stood a young woman, about the older woman’s height, but not so effervescent in her appearance. She was thin, hollow cheeked, rather morose as she stared at Harry with dull, lifeless eyes. Her hair was straight, dull brown, well past her shoulders, lying lightly on a dress that was too big and seemed as if it should have the same design as her companion’s, but like her, lacked color, life. She hung on almost desperately to the older woman, her right arm intertwined with the woman’s left, hand clutched tightly into her companions until her knuckles were white, her left hand grasping the woman’s upper arm.

Harry thought that he’d seen them before.

“Hello,” the older woman said, brightly, her free arm extended in greeting. “My name is Jennifer Warston. This is my daughter Melissa. We moved into the complex a short time ago. We’ve been so busy that we haven’t had time to introduce ourselves.”

Harry realized that he was still staring at the young woman. He found that looking into Melissa’s eyes a little longer that, yes, he had seen them before. They’d moved in about three months back. It was as if they were just suddenly here. There had been no moving van of any kind. None of the activity normally associated with moving. They had just been . . . here.

“I’m sorry. Harry Kirkland.”  He shook her hand. “Welcome to the neighborhood. Actually, I think that introductions should have been my responsibility. I have seen you and your daughter around but neglected to introduce myself.”

She didn’t respond, only smiling a very pretty smile.

“Won’t you come in for a moment?” he stepped back and swung the door open wider. “If you don’t mind the bachelor’s ambiance that  . . .”

Jennifer shook her head vigorously, her earrings dancing with slivers of sunlight off its metal.

“No, no, no, thank you anyway. Melissa and I have to get to the grocery store. We just came by to introduce ourselves and to invite you to dinner tomorrow night at our place. Number twenty-four.”  She turned and pointed back across the court.

Harry glanced quickly to Melissa, who was staring blindly, still clutching at her mother as if she were about to be taken away forever. He looked back to Jennifer who was still smiling.

“Can you make it, Harry?”

Harry considered the invitation for a moment and the twinge of guilt that rode with his thoughts. He hadn’t realized his devotion to Lois was still so strong, but there it was.

It came at first, the changing of his life, in total silence. It greeted him, as he stood in the entranceway of the old Victorian, unmoving; the house vibrating with what was not in the air. When he came home, he would always hear Lois singing in the kitchen as she cooked. That night being their fortieth anniversary, he had expected her to be singing loud and clear with that alto warbling voice of hers.

“Lois?” he called out.

He placed his lunch bag on the little table between the umbrella stand and a fifty-year-old cherry wood coat tree. His gaze skidded along the immaculately polished wood floor of the short hallway ahead, to the kitchen door at the end. A yellowish white glow around the doorjamb reflected white pools on the floor and on the thirty years of memories that covered the walls on either side.

He stepped forward with some hesitation. Something wasn’t right. It was too quiet.  READ MORE

____________________________

In the summer of 2009, Brian’s short story “Raven and the Darkness” appeared in Horror Bound’s anthology Return of the Raven.  2011 saw “What She Dreams” in another Horror Bound publication, Fear of the Dark. In 2012 his short story, “Home Coming”, was published in Wicked East Press’, Behind Locked Doors and from Jaletta Celgg & Frances Pauli, the weedy anthology Wandering Weeds: Tale of Rabid Vegetation, is his horror/dark fantasy influenced, “Oh, Dark Tumbleweed”. The last twenty years have seen numerous publications in smaller press magazines as well.

Brian also leads a local writing group of no specific genre, from which evolved his first public reading, June 2013.

Author Spotlight – Justine Dimabayao

anthology, vampires, Wrapped Authors, Wrapped In Red

Justine Dimabayao

 is the author of the short story

BORN OF THE EARTH

in the

NEW Vampire Anthology

WRAPPED IN RED

justine headshot

Excerpt from:

BORN OF THE EARTH

The pebbled balustrade is cool against my hands, which look ghostly against the moonlight. The moon at the zenith is waxing–due to reach fullness by tomorrow. Like myself, my family’s vineyard–at least, what is left of it–is practically a ghost of its former self. The leaves have fallen, and the branches have shriveled up.

I close my eyes and inhale the nocturnal air. I could almost smell those fresh grapes as my family’s employees picked them bunch by bunch. Then I imagine daylight glowing through my eyelids as I oversee this vineyard myself.

Mama would have been proud. Or perhaps not–she was conventional, to say the least.

My family ran a vineyard in Cotnari, Bukovina, and we were considerably wealthy. Being the only daughter among seven children, I had little idea of what was to become of me. My mother was contented with having a man to support her and sons to follow their father’s footsteps. Unfortunately, I shared my brothers’ adventurous spirit.

Time and again, I would listen in the shadows of our mansion as my oldest brothers bragged about how many women they had taken and the youngest ones dreamed about going across the Carpathian Mountains to see the rest of Romania and if they could, cross the Black Sea and explore Constantinople before sailing into the Aegean.

Every other time, my mother would find me in the hallway leading to the bar and reprimand me, claiming that what I heard from my brothers was not meant for a lady’s ears. Often, she would pull me out of the dark and put me back in my bright bedroom. She would put me in front of the mirror and brush my luxuriant golden locks. In order to take my brothers’ ambitions off my head, she would praise my beauty and call it my greatest asset.

“You are lucky, Aranka,” she would tell me. “Most girls are happy to have one man running after them. But you will have many. You will be free to choose which one would make the best husband. He will provide for you, as your father has done for me. You will never have to work or worry. …”

My mother’s words were prophetic: as soon as I turned fifteen, boys of varying degrees of boldness offered me almost everything from love notes to jewelry in exchange for my attention and companionship. Having many suitors made me rather pleased with myself. For the first time, I truly acknowledged how beautiful I was. For once, my parents and the household servants weren’t the only ones telling me so. No matter how much I dreaded seeing myself as a wife doing nothing but admire her husband’s marvelous work, I liked being pampered. I delighted in being showered with gifts and compliments–by rich and handsome young men, no less.

In return, I did my best to be a respectable young lady. My mother taught me everything I needed to know about etiquette. Learning punctilious manners was exceedingly boring, but I practiced them all in my eagerness for favor. My father, on the other hand, valued intelligence as much as manners; he would instruct me to read one or two books every week. He would make me read everything from the Bible to Romantic novels. I found this activity surprisingly enjoyable. I liked reading anthologies of Slavic myths the most. Once or twice, when I would join my three youngest brothers in exploring the forest, I would imagine Rusalka waiting for us in muddy ponds, or the hauntingly beautiful Iele dancing among the trees. We were also careful not to stay out past sunset. Vampires were not easy to hide from; they were also talented shape-shifters; they could appear harmless or enticing if they pleased. They could appear as the mist settled on the forest floor, the shadows between the trees, or the bats hovering over our heads. READ MORE


 

Born April 16, 1988, Justine Dimabayao came into the world with a flair for the arts. An introverted bibliophile who grew up in an Air Base in the Philippines and was educated in a Catholic school, Justine was exposed to a wide array of reading materials. It was not until she saw Bram Stoker’s Dracula when she was 7 years old and read the movie’s source material when she was 13 that she became fond of vampires and the mythology surrounding them. Inspired by Stephen King and J.K. Rowling, Justine aspires to be a novelist.

The INTERVIEW with Fiona

Name: Justine Dimabayao

Age: 25

Where are you from: Philippines

A little about your self `ie your education Family life ect

I’ve always been artistically inclined. I am lucky to belong in a family that encourages my penchant for the arts. The Catholic school I was educated in also encouraged my talents for drawing and writing. I was raised bilingual (English is the second language), and by the time I was in elementary school, I was among the best to express myself in English. I also love drawing and singing, and I’m also pretty good at both.

Fiona: Tell us your latest news?

I’m currently working on my first novel. It’s been in progress since I was about 13 years old. I’m glad I didn’t hurry too much to get it published; it’s gone through several revisions at this point, each better than the last.

Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?

I’ve had a good grasp at writing with good grammar in both English and Filipino by elementary school, but I didn’t know I can make a career out of writing until I was 11 or 12, when my best friend encouraged me to write Harry Potterfan fiction.

Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?

When I decided to make an original works of fiction.

Fiona: What inspired you to write your story?

“Born of the Earth” is actually part of a larger story telling the life of the blonde “bride” living with Count Dracula in his castle. It was initially my response to the whole Twilight craze, but when the pop culture obsession with vampire fiction died out on its own, it’s just simply my take on the vampire mythos and my expression for my love of vampire fiction.

Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style?

I don’t quite know how to describe my writing style. My writing style can shift slightly depending on the setting and/or the main character. However, I make it a point to strike a balance between simple and concise and elegant and elaborate.

Fiona: How did you come up with the title?

I am fond of the version of vampirism where the new vampire literally rises from the grave, so I used that image in the story itself. “Born of the Earth” is also a reference to the main character’s name Aranka, which means “golden.” It comes from the same etymology (aurum) as the names Aurelius, Aurelio, and Aurelia. READ MORE

Author Spotlight – Sarah I. Sellers

vampires, Wrapped Authors, Wrapped In Red

Sarah I. Sellers is the author of the short story

BLOOD TIES

in the

NEW Vampire Anthology

WRAPPED IN RED

Sarah I. Sellers

Excerpt from:

BLOOD TIES

“Death has found me…” Toby whispered as shivers racked his small, malnourished form. The rain came down in sheets, wind blowing furiously, showing no mercy. The boy was obviously ill, with abnormally pale skin, his cheeks were gaunt, and his eyes almost life-less. He cowered in an alley, trying to escape the relentless storm. He was small for his nine years, and maybe forty pounds soaking wet.

“It is only me, young one,” A man’s voice, like gravel, rough and uninviting, startled Toby. A cold hand grabbed the boy’s shoulder. A dark robe cloaked the man’s body, and shaded his face. Rain seemed to avoid him, as if each drop feared the hooded monster.

“All things considered, you may wish for death to come next.” He paused with a grin. “To hell with you!” He boomed with cruel laughter, tightening his grip on the boys shoulder. Toby cringed. Tears joined the rain cascading down his sunken cheeks. He coughed. His throat was dry, and his heart was beating rapidly.

“Why are you so cruel? Who are you” The boy’s voice shook as he spoke, and he was trying not to look at the man who had tormented him relentlessly. He whispered horrid things about hell into Toby’s ear and stabbed at him with bony fingers. Only when Toby slept did the jeering cease. Exhaustion had gotten him now, and he was slumped against the alley wall.

“That is of little consequence;” He sighed, “but you can call me Legna.” He took a step away from Toby. “I knew there was something wrong with you. I never wanted-” he paused. “I saw that vile creature and I want no part of it.”

Legna held up his cane and whispered into the air, “You’re a monster, not a protector. And you cannot protect this one. He’s not yours to protect.” He spat the words. “Parasite.”

As the cane struck his legs, Toby thought he felt a soft hand on his shoulder and was grateful he’d seen his friend this morning.

Everything went black and the pain was insufferable. This couldn’t be death, Toby thought, for death would have been a gift. He felt as if his lungs were being torn from his chest while hands clutched at his throat. Toby was falling endlessly through the darkness. When he hit the solid ground, the impact didn’t hurt as bad as it should have. His back only ached dully. He actually felt stronger; more alert.  He felt… alive. Wherever he was, it was dark. Only the light of twin moons illuminated the gravel road.

He didn’t know where he was or why, but he felt unusually calm, considering the circumstances. This was a strange place, somewhere other worldly. Toby felt Legna’s presence before he heard his cane tapping the ground. His sense of calm vanished.

“Welcome to your new home,” Legna cackled. His words sent shivers down Toby’s spine. “You will soon meet your master.” He tapped his cane menacingly on the ground, “Until then, stay put. Beasts dwell in this area. Beasts that will not hesitate to rip your head off.” Then he vanished, not allowing the frightened boy to comment.

Under any other circumstance Toby would have fled, but here, in this unfamiliar place, he had no advantage. No familiar street corners or secret hiding places. He sat at the edge of the dirty road and cried. As a small consolation, Toby realized that he wasn’t as skinny as he had been. He was still small, of course, but his skin didn’t hang on his bones like it once had. His face and clothes were covered in grime from the city streets, but despite his exhaustion and some soreness, he felt better physically. He wasn’t starving. The joy of this discovery didn’t last long though. He still had no idea where he was or why. He cried himself to sleep in the dark of night, on the side of the road, in an alien world. READ MORE

Author Interview with Fiona

Name-   Sarah I. Sellers

Age-    15 (Almost 16!!)
Where are you from-  Fairview, North Carolina
A little about your self `ie your education Family life ect-
I was raised with my two older sisters and my parents, until I was 9. Tragic events occurred, and I was sent to live with my grandparents- while my 2 sisters went to other family. When I was 13, I moved in with my best friend’s family. I now have 3 more sisters, two dogs, and a pig (Plus my recently passed Sugar Glider). My new parents own a local restaurant in Fairview.  I’m in the 10thgrade. I enjoy writing and drawing, I also enjoy the ROTC program at my school.
Fiona: Tell us your latest news?
My first published work is Blood Ties, in the Wrapped In Red Anthology- which came out today (10/29/13)
Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?
I guess I began writing when I was almost 10, and I started writing to deal with everything that was happening in my life at the time.
Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?
About a month ago!
Fiona: What inspired you to write your first book?
I just decided ‘Why not?’ The opportunity came up, so I took it.
Fiona: How did you come up with the title?
Not really sure, It ties into the story- I suppose. It made sense in my head, at least.
Fiona: What books have most influenced your life most?
The book The Outsiders, by S.E. Hinton. It makes you think differently about life and friends and family. The book A Long Way Gone, by Ishmael Beah (I’d like to thank my 10th grade English teacher for this one)- It also makes you think greatly about life- makes you look at what you have, and appreciate it… rather than just wanting more.
Fiona: What book are you reading now?
I’m currently reading two- The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, and The Shack by Paul Young
Fiona: Do you see writing as a career?
I can see it as a hobby, but not as a career. But you never know what could happen.
Fiona: Do you recall how your interest in writing originated?
I have always enjoyed reading and if I wanted to read a certain kind of book- and I couldn’t find one, I could write it instead. It was also a way for me to escape my reality, and go into a world of my creation- where anything I want to happen, will happen.
Fiona: Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work?
S.E. Hinton is one of my favorite authors. The way her books are written, you become part of the book, you feel what the characters feel. I would also call John Green one of my favorite author- Why? Well, have you read his books? READ MORE

Author Spotlight – Chantal Noordeloos

vampires, Wrapped Authors, Wrapped In Red

Chantal Noordeloos is the author of the short story

THE BLOOD RUNS STRONG

in the

NEW Vampire Anthology

WRAPPED IN RED

She is also the author of COYOTE: The Outlander and DEEPLY TWISTED

chantal pic 2Excerpt from:

THE BLOOD RUNS STRONG

“It is all about blood,” the Master preached to his followers, who kneeled around a stone casket, dressed in grey hooded robes. Their heads bowed in reverence.
“The blood gives us strength, it gives us power. The blood runs strong.”
“The blood runs strong.” The followers hummed in agreement, their voices echoed slightly through the damp cold tomb.
One of the robed figures moved towards him and kneeled, head still bowed. Delicate white hands presented the Master an ornate silver ceremonial knife. He took the slender blade from her hand, and touched it to his lips, the cold silver a stark contrast with the warmth of his skin; then he returned the knife to her hands.
“Master. My blood is your blood,” a husky female voice said. One dainty hand took the knife and cut into the soft white flesh of the opposite palm. Her blood welled up from the cut, gathering in a dark pool in the center of the palm. Several drops escaped, trailed down the pale arm and disappeared in the wide sleeve of the robe. She offered him the blood covered hand, and with a cruel smile he bit into her flesh, sinking his sharp teeth further into the skin. He could hear a slight hiss as she inhaled from the pain, but she was brave and loyal. When he was done, he licked the blood off with his rough tongue. He released her hand, the blood still specked on his lips, and she recoiled slightly. The Master licked his lips, and the hooded girl handed the knife to another of the followers. The ritual repeated itself. Each time a new subject would offer a bleeding hand.
He spoke to them, his words filled with fire, his message was about blood and death. As he spoke he directed his face towards the light of the many candles, so that the sharp canines in his mouth glistened. He was aware of his body, and every move he made, every word he said, was deliberate. The followers chanted the words of the ritual in his name, chanted praise for the blood, and – he imagined – dreamt of immortality.
The ritual ended in darkness, the many candles that illuminated the tomb were extinguished, casting the interior of the stone building in pitch black. Only the musty smell of ancient stone and death remained, and a vague odor of the extinguished candles.
The Master made his exit from the tomb with two females, one clung to each of his arms. The air outside was fresh and cold. A million bright stars greeted them from a velvet sky.
“Draco,” said one of the girls. “Will you take us home with you tonight?”
He looked down on her. His eyes glanced over the vivid red hair with dark roots showing underneath. She was a short girl with small breasts; her body was lithe and thin, resembling that of a young boy.
“I will take you home with me.” He spoke with an accent, which he hoped was Transylvanian. READ MORE

Chantal Noordeloos (born in the Hague, and not found in a cabbage as some people may suggest) lives in the Netherlands, where she spends her time with her wacky, supportive husband, and outrageously cunning daughter, who is growing up to be a supervillain. When she is not busy exploring interesting new realities, or arguing with characters (aka writing), she likes to dabble in drawing.

In 1999 she graduated from the Norwich School of Art and Design, where she focused mostly on creative writing.

There are many genres that Chantal likes to explore in her writing. Currently Sci-fi Steampunk is one of her favourites, but her ‘go to’ genre will always be horror. “It helps being scared of everything; that gives me plenty of inspiration,” she says.

Chantal likes to write for all ages, and storytelling is the element of writing that she enjoys most. “Writing should be an escape from everyday life, and I like to provide people with new places to escape to, and new people to meet.”

The INTERVIEW with Fiona

Name

Chanti: My name is Chantal Noordeloos (try to pronounce, that one, hahaha. –Nor-duh-lows- ) *throws hands in the air* say it with me now… lol, sorry, just kidding.

Age

Chanti: Never ask a lady her age… good thing I’m not too ladylike. I’m 37. I was born in 76.

Where are you from:

Chanti: I was born in The Hague, which is one of the bigger cities in the Netherlands. I live in a suburb there now, but I’ve moved around. I even lived in the UK (Norwich) for three years during my time as a student.

A little about your self `ie your education Family life etc

Chanti: I don’t know why it’s always so difficult to tell things about myself. I struggle to find the words (that really doesn’t do me credit as a writer, now does it… in my defence I write fiction) So let’s see. First and foremost, I’m a mom. My daughter, Elora (6) is amazing, and I try to keep her on the path of good, because I think she has the makings of a diabolical genius. My husband and I have been very happily married for 9 years. We met each other at this LARP (live action role play) event I used to organise. I think I need to warn you that I’m a bit of a nerd (or geek, or whatever). I always loved comic books, role play and games. And of course, books are my passion. Besides writing I do a little bit of drawing. I even draw for some of my projects too.

Fiona: Tell us your latest news?

Chanti: Hmmm latest news, I have so much. I think my most exciting news is that the first novel in my COYOTE series, called “COYOTE: THE OUTLANDER” is now out on most platforms. I loved working on this project because it has a second screen. Basically that means it has its own website with extra content, and even music, to make reading the book a more engaging experience.

Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?

Chanti: I’ve been writing since I knew how, but always for a bit of fun. As a small kid I made up a lot of stories, and when I became a teen, I decided writing sucked, until I met my English teacher Mr. Harrison at age 15. He gave me a picture to write about and I knew then that I loved it above all other things. It took me a while to grab the courage to really start writing for an audience. I wrote just for me. In June 2012, I had a novel finished (it was terrible, really terrible) and I met another writer (Mike Jansen) who said I had potential. He urged me to get out there, get myself published, and I did. It went really fast after that. I’ve been very spoiled with getting most of my work accepted.

Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?

Chanti: I don’t remember, it sort of happened gradually. It took some time though, even when I was holding a copy of the first anthology I was published in, it didn’t sink in. But I know I feel like a writer now.

Fiona: What inspired you to write your first book?

Chanti: Let’s ignore the crap books I wrote, and only acknowledge the first one I published. Coyote was an actual role play character of mine, about 15 years ago. It’s a character I’ve always loved and wanted to write a story about. There was an anthology I wanted to write for and it asked for a science fiction story. I thought: This would be a great opportunity to write a Coyote story. And so I did… only, what I wanted to say didn’t fit in a short story. So I wrote something else (in the same setting) for that anthology, and kept Coyote to myself.

Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style?

Chanti: I think I do, but I’m not sure. I’m too close to my own writing to tell. However, I know I tend to write stories with a bit of a twist. So, I guess that’s my style ;)

Fiona: How did you come up with the title?

Chanti: Confession time: I am terrible with titles. I mean: DREADFUL. The choice to call the whole series “COYOTE” was easy; it’s the name of the main character. The Outlander… well, there is a good reason for it, and it’s in the book. I should explain: Outlanders are creatures from other worlds in my novels.

Fiona: Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

Chanti: I’m not sure I have a clear message, but I do work with ‘tolerance’ in my novel. Coyote is a female bounty hunter, which isn’t a common thing. Her partner, Caesar, is a freed slave. I liked working with characters that are meant to be ‘the underdog’ yet rise above that. Coyote demands a lot of respect and I liked writing about a strong woman.

Fiona: How much of the book is realistic?

I did research to make it as realistic as I could. There is some guess work in there too, because I could only work with what Google provided me with. I have made up a lot as well, because that’s part of the charm. Don’t worry, there will be no Rips in Indiana, and no Outlanders will come tumbling out! ;)

Fiona: Are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?

Chanti: I might use reactions of people in my novels. I didn’t use real life experiences, but I would use examples of friends (or myself) in my head when characters would respond to certain situations.

Fiona: What books have most influenced your life most?

Chanti: I am a very big fan of Neil Gaiman, and almost all his books have influenced me greatly. His book Neverwhere is still my favorite book.

Fiona: If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

Chanti: If I got to choose any writer? Because you’ll see this one coming: I’d get Neil Gaiman, lol. But if you mean who do I consider a mentor? That would be Apple Ardent Scott. She’s my editor (and a very dear friend), but she’s taught me so much about writing. Working with her has been amazing.

Read more HERE

Author Spotlight – Billie Sue Mosiman

short stories, vampires, Wrapped Authors, Wrapped In Red

Billie Sue Mosiman is the author of the short story YE WHO ENTER HERE, BE DAMNED in the

NEW Vampire Anthology

WRAPPED IN RED

She is also the author of the New

SINISTER –  TALES of DREAD 2013

Billie Sue Mosiman

Excerpt from:

Ye Who Enter Here, Be Damned

As he opened his eyes the dark thickened, and grew as black as the bottom of a barrel. He lay in the depths of a grave. Swaddled in rotting clothing from a former century, his long nails clawed patiently at the shredded satin padding of the coffin. He had been at it even in his sleep-dream.
His heart beat slow as an African drum he’d heard once as a young man in Uganda. It came from a tribe he stalked, a group of primitives who wore carved sticks over their penises and sported black tattoos on their shoulders. He had drained dozens of them before he was done. The memory of blood made him lick his lips. His stomach was flat, his veins collapsed, but his brain festered with atoms sparking and igniting in the center of each brain cell.
Now he listened to his heartbeat, as he clawed away stinking satin and clots of cotton stuffing pressing down inches above his head. Only when he was free and fulfilled would his heart beat with new energy enough to carry him through into the future.
They had pushed the stake through his unholy heart, but as soon as they closed the coffin lid he’d withdrawn it. It had taken every ounce of his remaining strength. The pain, excruciating, left him faint and weak. But not dead. It had taken nearly a hundred years for the damage to correct itself, for it was his black heart that propelled him. With it punctured he had lain like the corpse they thought him for years, dreaming.
His nails reached the wood of the lid, having gotten through the batting. He methodically scratched at it, imagining it clarified butter, imagining it as cloud. The wood gave and rained down bits of damp splinters onto his chest. Finally earth filtered through the cracks. It smelled rank and full of worms, fertile as a river delta. He forced his right forefinger nail into the split wood and pushed it down and down, widening the gulf between him and the ground holding him hostage.

He came forth in darkness -a lucky matter for him. He hadn’t seen the sun for a hundred years, even as a shadow cast on a wall. That great orb’s beam would have rendered him blind for some time. It was not always true they could not take the sunlight. He was a creature living beyond all myths, even the deadly stake through his heart.
He sat beside his own grave, noting they had left a stone marker holding a warning: DO NOT ENTER HERE, FOR THERE BE DRAGONS.
He smiled. He was more powerful than any dragon and longer-lived, for the dragons had long gone from the earth even before mankind swam through the mud puddles as tadpoles.
He raised his head to see the moon and it was full. He arched his neck, letting the light bathe him in silver essence, renewing his soul. For he did indeed have a soul, though a black one. It responded to the celestial body circling the earth to bring reflected sun to those like him, who could not bear the brighter star for too long at a time.
He stood, shucking the tatters of his suit, leaving him a skeletal and naked man. He brought up his hands and ran his fingers through long raven hair, knocking loose dirt. He brushed his face down and clapped his hands to be rid of what earth still clung to him.
He put a hand over his heart, judged it strong enough to animate him for at least a while more, and set off into a lope out of the lost graveyard for the plantation house belonging to his murderer.
He -Charles Highgood -would not still be alive. No. It had been too many decades and taken him too long to release himself from the deep grave. But Highgood’s descendants…they might still be in the big house, unaware he was coming.
For he was coming. READ MORE

Author of more than 50 books, Billie Sue Mosiman is a thriller, suspense, and horror novelist, a short fiction writer, and a lover of words. In a diary when she was thirteen years old she wrote, “I want to grow up to be a writer.” It seems that was always her course.

Her books have been published since 1984 and two of them received an Edgar Award Nomination for best novel and a Bram Stoker Award Nomination for most superior novel. Billie Sue has been a regular contributor to a myriad of anthologies and magazines, with more than 150 short stories published.

The INTERVIEW with Fiona

Name – BILLIE SUE MOSIMAN

Age- What? Oh no. No, no.

Where are you from- Alabama originally.

A little about your self `ie your education Family life ect

I’ve been writing and publishing for thirty years. It’s been my life, along with raising children and being a wife to my good husband. You’ve heard of a life well-spent? Mark me down for that.

Fiona: Tell us your latest news?

My collection of all new short stories was just published. The title is SINISTER-Tales of Dread. Fourteen short stories, many of which will be in anthologies too. I just sold my fifteenth novel, a suspense, to Post Mortem Press, for publication in April/May 2014.

Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?

I began writing in journals and diaries as a kid. I began writing (trying to write) short stories when I was eighteen. I’m not sure why except I always knew I wanted to be a writer.

Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?

When I wrote my first short story. Writers write and that’s what I was doing. I worked at it with dedication and finally began to sell my work.

Fiona: What inspired you to write your story?

I hadn’t written a vampire story since DAW Books published my trilogy of the Vampire Nation novels. I wanted to try one and in my mind I saw a swampy, foggy area in the South and a house where gene4rations of vampires had lived.

Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style?

Lately I’ve been called a “quiet horror” writer, meaning the opposite, I guess, of “extreme horror” writer. I am also known for realistic suspense novels.

Fiona: How did you come up with the title?

It came from the quote to the entrance to hell “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

Is there a message in your story that you want readers to grasp?

Not really.

Fiona: How much of the story is realistic?

The setting, and I hope the emotions.

Fiona: Are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?

Some are, but not in this story. The last vampire I knew made me promise not to speak his name in public.

Read more HERE