My debut novella is free on Amazon through this weekend. I hope all can take advantage of the offer and take a chance on “Green”.
“Near Fall”, the continuation of the story begun in “Green”, sits comfortably at about the halfway mark as I pause for a ghostwriting assignment, but I plan to post another excerpt soon, and will be aiming for a release, appropriately enough, near Fall of this year.
Thanks to all who continue to spread the word and tolerate my relentless shilling. More to come… \m/
Author Charles LeoGrande offers a glimpse of early 1970’s pro wrestling with his novella Green. It’s reasonable size at 111 pages, published November 30, 2016, and runs just 99-cents at…
Source: Charles LeoGrande “Green”
Plenty still for Ryback to feed on; for the moment, “Green” is the #1 contender among New Releases.
Thanks to all following on WordPress, Goodreads and on Facebook – and special thanks to my good friend, Steve Corino for tweeting his support with a 5-Star review.
I will have a special ‘Thank you” gift for readers next week. More soon… \m/
Thanks so much to those of you who have entered already; 425 at last look. Roughly 12 hours remain, with fantastic odds still at winning 1-of-10 print copies of “Green: A Pro Wrestling Novella” through the Goodreads Giveaway.
Thanks also to those who have read and those few who have reviewed (including the 5-star review from WWE’s Steve Corino!)
Good luck to all entrants.
Enter for a chance to win 1 of 10 paperback copies of “Green: A Pro Wrestling Novella” through the Goodreads Giveaway. Opens for entries Jan.10- 18th. Thank you and good luck.
Enter for a chance to win 1 of 10 paperback copies of “Green: A Pro Wrestling Novella” through the Goodreads Giveaway. Opens for entries Jan.10- 18th. Thank you and good luck.
Tis the season for reading. Please take advantage of my FREE offer for “Green: A Pro Wrestling Novella”, available NOW on Amazon. Giving IS better than receiving, so give yourself a freebie and enjoy.
an excerpt from “Green: A Pro Wrestling Novella”
“Ay,” he said to me, tugging the ropes, “is gonna be a coun’out— da bot’ of us outside. I tell you when. You jus’ coun’ ten, eh?”
“Count-out?” I said. “I thought …”
“You taught nuttin’! Jus’ count when I tell you!”
They announced his opponent and the guy came out to cheers— smiling, dark-haired and muscled and shaking hands in the aisle. I didn’t see or even feel him leave the ring, but under the guy’s ovation, Frenchie pounced on him from behind— mauling him onto the aisle floor and peppering him with both fists. Fans threw trash, aiming for Frenchie as he kept on their man— pulling his ring jacket up over his head and jabbing his ribs with kicks.
He left the guy in a pile in the aisle, scrambling back inside the ring.
“C’mon referee!” someone yelled out. “Throw that bum out!”
Frenchie answered him and the others, turning and flipping his fist at him. It made the whole place holler.
“Start da count,” French said. “— not so fast,” so I started to. Between five and six I asked French if the guy was getting up.
“Don’ know,” he said, laughing. “We see!”
At seven though the guy got up, propping himself on the rail— and at eight, with a burst, he ran for the ring— sliding inside like a bullet. He tore off his jacket and charged Frenchie— but French, a step ahead of him, beat it through the ropes and out of the ring— circling and riling everyone up at ringside. It carried back to the walls. The whole place was hot.
The guy chased after and eventually caught up to Frenchie, hurling him back in the ring and battering him down with dropkicks and a slam. He backed Frenchie to the buckles and climbed the ropes, balanced above French while he brought his fist down a dozen times to his face. French brought his hand up, as if to slow or block the barrage— but it fell to his side and blood began to trickle down his forehead to the bridge of his nose. Punch drunk, French looked defenseless as the guy hooked his head and hoisted him off his feet, bringing him down in the center of the ring— both their backs hitting the mat heavy.
My eyes followed the guy, getting the fans excited again as he pumped a fist in the air and ran to the corner. Starting to climb, the cheers got louder.
“Dis is it!” French said. Blood had crawled across and down the sides of his skull— to his temples, staining his sideburns and striping his face.
“Dis time coun’ ten!”
from “Near Fall” by Charles LeoGrande:
Whiteknife showed up during match #3. We were match 6, ahead of the Devils. He said little, except to say he’d go over with a sleeperhold. I told him some offense I’d take as he got changed but I couldn’t tell if he was listening. He seemed mostly interested in getting his gimmick together, brushing out the feathers of his headdress and smoothing the creases of his cowhide skirt.
“I knew an Indian worker, up in Winnipeg— Chief Big Tree. Heard of him?”
Without looking up from his laces he told me no.
Steve asked us for twenty and the timekeeper had it at 18:30. Whiteknife blew me up with a fast pace at the start, but I slowed it once I took over. He bitched to me, saying I stiffed him with a clothesline.
“Belt me in the throat again,” he said, “an’ I’ll bust your mouth.” I whipped him to the ropes and gave him another.
He tried for my face with a dropkick— the prick, and slapped me hard on the back to wake me from his sleeper. He never thanked me, but Steve did— slipping me my pay.
“Thanks, friend,” I told him, holding it, “but you’re light.”
“Five,” Steve said, “I know. I didn’t get the gate I hoped— …”
“I feel for you,” I told him, hardening my eyes, “but we said twenty-five.”
Steve forked it over with no more fuss than that so I didn’t tell him to try promoting his show next time. I thanked him once more, and told him to call anytime.
The ride back was racking; my body sore and braced, a chill through my bones and the snaking drive back to the turnpike through the fog of my breath on the windshield. By the time it had defrosted even halfway my mind was on Frenchie.
Charles LeoGrande 