Saturday, March 8, 2014

INTERVIEW: F.E. Feeley Jr.

Today we are talking to the fantastic F.E. Feeley about his thoughts on everything from feral vampires to handwriting!

Hello F.E. and welcome to The Hat Party! <3 Thank you so much for subjecting yourself to the RANDOMNESS that is a Raine O'Tierney interview! Please don your best hat, and let's get started!


Describe your style in 3 ½ words.

Serious fucking fun

If you could go back to any point in your timeline to encourage yourself, when would you go and what would you say?

I would go back to highschool, go find the overweight, bad skinned, greasy, scared version of me and tell him how beautiful he was inside, tell him to start loving himself, work out, and fuck what everyone else tells him.  They’re miserable assholes and your brilliant.  Keep reading those books.

A genre-specific virus has attacked you, rendering you INCAPABLE of writing your chosen genre. What do you do now?!

I think I would go heterosexual. (laughs) yeah right. I’m married so I’d dictate my stories to my husband.

Describe yourself using song lyrics.  
Here’s to us- Halestorm

"Here's To Us"

We could just go home right now
Or maybe we could stick around
For just one more drink, oh yeah
Get another bottle out
Lets shoot the shit
Sit back down
For just one more drink, oh yeah


Here's to us
Here's to love
All the times
That we fucked up
Here's to you
Fill the glass
Cause the last few days
Have kicked my ass
So lets give em hell
Wish everybody well
Here's to us
Here's to us



Stuck it out this far together
Put our dreams through the shredder
Let’s toast cause things got better
and everything could change like that
And all these years go by so fast
But nothing lasts forever



Here's to us
Here's to love
All the times
That we messed up
Here's to you
Fill the glass
Cause the last few nights
Have kicked my ass
If they give you hell
Tell em to go fuck themselves
Here's to us
Here's to us



Here's to all that we kissed
And to all that we missed
To the biggest mistakes
That we just wouldn’t trade
To us breaking up
Without us breaking down
To whatever's come our way



Here's to us
Here's to love
All the times
That we fucked up
Here's to you
Fill the glass
Cause the last few days
Have kicked my ass
So let's give em hell
Wish everybody well



Here's to us
Here's to love
All the times
That we messed up
Here's to you
Fill the glass
Cause the last few nights
Have kicked my ass
If they give you hell
Tell em to go fuck themselves
(Go fuck themselves)
Here's to us
Here's to us
Here's to us
Here's to us



Here’s to us
Here’s to love
Here’s to us (Wish everybody well)
Here’s to us
Here’s to love
Here’s to us



Here’s to us

Do you think you’d fare better against feral vampires or zombies? 

I would fare better with the vamps. Zombies scare the shit out of me. I can’t watch walking dead it gives me nightmares. I’m a horror writer. Go figure. (shrugs)

You have 200 words—Make. Me. Swoon. (PLEASE!)

“You left.” David said and there it was the two words and the truth that hung between them. 

Jason looked down at his feet and felt the guilt of it creep up his chest and burn in his face. 
David watched him feeling his insides in turmoil, it had been three years, no note, no phone call, no nothing and now here he was. Every word jammed up in his brain and refused to come down the pike to his mouth.

Jason raised his eyes and David saw his cheek twitching. It wasn’t a good sign. It meant he was angry. It meant someone was in trouble and before David could react he closed the few feet between them and David found himself pressed against the wall with nothing between them but a breath.

Jason grabbed his hand and put it under his shirt, against the hot flesh of his left pectoral and David felt his mouth run dry. And Jason reached under David’s shirt and did the same thing. Both their hearts were furiously beating.

“I was no place that far was I?” Jason whispered in his ear. “I was in here with you, and you were in here with me.”

“No.” David whispered.

“Yes.”

“Every second of everyday.” Jason groaned as David’s thumb ran across his nipple.

“Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“Make love to me.”


What is your most irrational fear and what makes you inexplicably happy? 

I can’t fly anymore.  I don’t know why, I flew all the time with the Army and Air-Force. Now? I can’t get near an airport.

What makes me inexplicably happy? Cigarettes, whiskey, a warm night with gulf wind, and music.

Be honest. Be TOTALLY honest. How’s your handwriting?

Actually, I write like a girl. Or so I’ve been told. Very curvy. I don’t know what that fucking means, but hey, at least I don’t have the handwriting of a serial killer.

Worst mistake you’ve made in your career and what you’ve learned from it?

I haven’t been in my career to really fuck up yet.  Here’s to a doozy!

And finally, for THE most important question of all: what kinds of dachshunds are the BEST kinds of dachshunds?

The German Shepherd Dachshunds.  They’re a tough breed.


Their new home on Frederick Street in Clay Center, Kansas, was supposed to give writer Jonathan David and his husband, Clinical Psychologist Dr. Eddie Dorman, an opportunity to enjoy married life.  Jonathan has just released his first major bestseller, and he hopes to finally escape his traumatic past and find the quiet existence he has always craved. Eddie has taken a job at the Kansas State University psychology department, and they intend to begin anew.  They have barely settled in when the nightmare begins.  Noises, disembodied voices, and mysterious apparitions make Jonathan’s life hell.  Part of the house has decided to bare its teeth, show its jagged edge, and bring back the worst of Jonathan’s past.  At first, Eddie cannot perceive the spectral events and fears for his husband’s sanity. When he’s also affected by the haunting, he’s unsure of what to do but refused to be beaten.  Together, they seek a way to fight the forces trying to tear them apart.  The world is a frightening place, but confronting their fears plunges Jonathan and Eddie into absolute horror.






Excerpt: 

LET ME go!”

Jonathan gasped as his senses were assaulted by a quick awakening. He was standing inside the front door of the home he used to live in as a kid. It was all the same: the pictures on the wall, the furniture draped in covers, the TV, everything. He looked down at himself and found that he was clothed in the same pair of sweatpants he’d put on before he went to sleep.

“This is a dream,” he said to himself. “Wake up. Wake up.”

“You’ll take this or you’ll take my fist” came the angry retort. Jonathan jerked and blinked rapidly at the realization that he also knew when this was. He surged forward to the room on the left but stopped dead when his mother wandered around the corner. She didn’t see him, didn’t hesitate, just walked calmly to the bedroom, where the other voices were coming from. She did stop at the doorway to the bedroom, though, and smirk.

“Beat the hell out of him!” she said. “Serves you right for hanging down the street with those whores! Smoking cigarettes!” She was referring to the girls Jonathan was friends with. They were his only friends. Both girls’ parents smoked and the houses were saturated with the smell. He had never smoked before, but when he’d continually been screamed at over it, he’d figured what the hell?

Jonathan continued walking forward and fearfully peered around the corner into the bedroom he had occupied for a couple of years before he and his family had moved. What he saw both broke his heart and enraged him. There he was, or rather, the sixteen-year-old version of himself. The fat, acne-scarred, greasy-faced version of himself afraid of the man who held a wooden board about the length of his forearm and brought it down several times across the kid’s back and ass.

“Leave him alone!” the older Jonathan screamed in the face of his father. The man didn’t flinch, instead sneered and brought it down harder as the kid screamed and cried. Jonathan looked at his sixteen-year-old self and screamed.

“Fight back! He’s a pussy! He’ll cave if you put him on his ass! Fight back!” he cried as he watched the young man being tortured. Jonathan cried out in dismay as tears rolled down his face. The father raised his baton once more, and Jonathan locked his gaze on it, stepping forward, trying to intercede and wrench it from his hands, but to no avail. To Jonathan’s surprise it simply passed through his body as if he wasn’t there and landed on the backside of the boy crying out in pain.

Jonathan whirled around, shaking, confused, and angry. “Oh God! Wake me up!” he cried out, his voice cracking. His mother was there, the fifteen-year-old memory as accurate as anything he could remember. The screams of his younger self being tormented made him gag. Pure panic, rage, and fear burst inside him and made him want to cower in the corner and beg for mercy. But one glance at the woman who stood in the doorway filled him with murderous contempt. Jonathan stalked away from the scene toward her and got in her face.

“Stop him. Stop him! He’s your son! Stop him, you bitch! He’s a good boy! He’s not done anything wrong! Stop him!” When she wouldn’t respond, he raised his fist and swung as hard as he could, his hand passing unencumbered through her so he stumbled forward and crashed silently into the wall, sobbing in frustration and fear. He could still hear the boy’s harsh weeping, his voice hoarse now. The bruises would last for weeks. They would hurt, burn, as the pummeled flesh struggled to repair itself.

Grief and despair filled him at not being able to intercede. He was reliving the nightmare. He thought his mind was finally going to shake loose as a hand came down on his shoulder. Startled, he looked up to see that same blond man looking down at him with sympathy. Then suddenly, everything was different. The house he knew was gone and replaced with the house he lived in now. But not exactly. The wallpaper was back, and Jonathan looked around as the blond boy beckoned him to follow.

“Who are you?” Jonathan asked dumbly, but the boy’s eyes grew frantic, and he waved his hands for him to stop. The boy stood there, eyes wide and a finger over his lips, as if he were listening. Jonathan went still. Finally, the young man motioned for him to follow. They walked into Jonathan’s bedroom, but it too was different. Rather than his lover sleeping in bed and their own trappings, the walls were adorned with things a normal teenager would have.

The boy pointed to the floor, and in a voice that sounded far away, said just two words: “Help me.”

“Help you. Who are you?” Jonathan asked, stepping forward. The door behind him kicked open and the blond boy screamed and ran for the window. Jonathan whirled around in time to see a middle-aged man built like a linebacker with a huge beer gut stalk forward out of the hallway. The smell of liquor saturated his breath, and at first, Jonathan thought he too couldn’t see him, but he was mistaken. The man in fact saw him plainly and screamed in his face. “Get out!”
Then everything went black.


About the Author:

F.E.Feeley Jr. was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan and lived there for twenty years before joining the military.  He is a veteran of the U.S. Armed Services; and having done a tour in support of Operation Iraq Freedom in 2002- 2003, he turned college student, pursuing a degree in political science and history.  He now lives in Southeast Texas where he is married to the love of his life, John, and where they raise their 3 year old German shepherd, Kaiser.
As a young man, reading took center stage in his life, especially those novels about ghosts , witches, goblins, and all other things that go bump in the night.  His favorite authors include such writers as Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Anne Rice, whose works allowed him to travel to far off places and meet fascinating and scary characters.  As a gay man, he wishes to be able to write good fictional literature for those who love the genre and write characters that readers can relate to.  All in all, he is a cigarette smokin’, whiskey drinkin’, rock and roll lovin’, tattoo wearin’ dreamer of a man whose wonderful husband puts up with his crap and lets him write his stories.



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