The Return of Tamalaria

Greetings and salutations, all, Joshua T. Calkins-Treworgy here.  Very soon, I will be re-releasing the Tamalarian Tales fantasy novel series, one by one, on my storefront over on Lulu.com.  Allow me to explain.


For a little over a year now, my 5th Age of Tamalaria novels have been available here in this blog in chapter-by-chapter format, including those entries that never saw commercial publication.  They're still going to be here; however, I'm going to be releasing each novel in a stand-alone downloadable pdf format through Lulu, starting with Freedom or the Fire, which is soon to be available:  http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/joshuaofsidius

There's a reason why these novels are not going to be produced through the KDP program, which I've used for several projects over the last couple of years.  That reason is the Kindle Unlimited Program, which is going to undoubtedly, if left in the form it has taken thus far, completely undo a large number of small press and independent storytellers entirely if they don't find an alternative or revamp the Unlimited program.

This also means that eventually, if things don't get changed in a hurry over there at Amazon, I'll be bringing my KDP titles down from that outlet and bringing them to my Lulu storefront.  How things shape up is going to depend largely on how the Unlimited program proceeds.  I suppose we'll see, won't we?  The first step is already underway; I'm removing my KDP titles from the Select program, which should remove them from being offered through the Unlimited program.  I'll be checking in with a few friends at my day job who've already signed up for Unlimited to see what happens on that front, and will report back.

Until next time, thanks for stopping in, take care of yourselves, and as always, keep reading.

Addendum to the Last Post

Well, apparently, I CAN upload Youtube videos, I just can't record them with the use of my Chromebook webcam. This makes zero sense, because Youtube is owned by Google, who makes my Chromebook, so there's no reason for them to block my use of the webcam for making a video on their site. What gives?

Whatever the reason, I'm not going to go back to Youtube full-time. I think Daily Motion has the better setup, and I'm pretty pleased with the ease of use of their site. It'll be there I turn now, unless something changes.

What Happened to 'Do No Evil', Google?

It's ironic that I'm writing this post on Blogger, which is owned and operated by Google.  After all, I'm writing this post as a means of waggling my finger disapprovingly at the very company which is allowing me to publish it.  It's actually much in the spirit of journalism as it was originally intended in the United States, that the Third Estate should be allowed to serve as watchdogs to inform the greater public of what their government is up to.

I just got done reading a story on Raw Story laying out some recent shenanigans that Youtube is engaged in with an independent musicians' outfit regarding negotiations over their upcoming streaming music service, MusicPass. The language of the warnings issued by Google/Youtube boil down essentially to this: Use our pay service, or have your work removed.

What happened to the tagline 'Broadcast Yourself'? Youtube was supposed to be one of those tools that could act as a great equalizer, allowing talented individuals and entertainers to gather a grassroots audience of followers and take their skills to the broader public, without having to go in on travel, high-end production equipment, and the rigmarole of finding an available venue to perform at without being told to hit the bricks a hundred times before someone with a kinder heart opened up and said 'Sure, we'll give you a go'.  It was the online equivalent of CBGB, whose open-minded founder and owner, Hilly Kristal, helped give rise to the musical phenomenon known as punk rock by giving pretty much everybody who came through at least a minimal chance to show people what they could do.

This is all too SOP for the Google-owned video hosting site these days.  Want to try starting up a budding voice-acting career? Not unless you've already come with a pre-arranged host of subscribers and supporters, most of whom will have trouble these days finding the button that will give them access to their desired subscriptions.

I really wish Google would take Youtube back to what it used to be, a place by and for the dedicated content producers who are clearly trying to make an honest go of it without the aid of advanced and expensive editing/effects programs.  Mayhap I'm just complaining because I don't have access to those tools myself, and if you're reading this and thinking 'This guy's just jealous', you wouldn't be entirely wrong. However, I do take umbrage with the notion that Google only wants people who are potentially profitable primarily to THEM to have widespread coverage with their user base.

Do the indie users no longer matter, Google?  What happened to the days when someone could rise to at least moderate notoriety by offering quality material?

Google, you have done evil.  How will you respond, now that you've been called on it?

A Break For a Real Issue Momentarily (1)

Chase National Bank is under fire these days for attempting to play the part of morality police. They have been systematically closing the personal accounts of adult entertainment industry performers, less than affectionately referred to by their typical job title as ‘porn stars’, and they have been citing various reasons for doing so. Not only are they being targeted, but their spouses are also being targeted for being associated with them, as in the case of Joshua Lehman, husband of Teagan Presley, who is herself an adult film performer.

Chase gave him a multi-level run around as to why he and his wife were being closed upon. They began by saying it was the nature of their business. Next, the bank told him it was because his wife was an ‘infamous porn star’. Lastly, they offered that it was because the couple had done business with a former felon. Essentially, the bank and its officers want to deny business to these folks because they’re involved in ‘icky business’.

Chase forgets, in this instance, that they are a business, and as such, are supposed to be beholden to the abominable ethos that every other business in America is: preserve the bottom line for the shareholders and maximize profits, no matter how. How does a financial institution justify layoffs in order to protect its ledgers, and then simultaneously turn around and deny deposits and/or banking services to private customers based upon a moral objection to their completely legal career venue?

JPMorgan Chase is planning an overall headcount reduction of 5,000 workers for the 2014 calendar. Would anybody care to tell me how removing the accounts of adult entertainment industry employees is going to help add into the savings accrued from those layoffs? Oh, that’s right, it won’t!

The unfortunate thing in all of this is the fact that there is no precise discriminatory protection precedent set prior to all of this nonsense. Being a nongovernment entity, Chase can deny services to anybody they so chose under the law, as can just about anybody if there isn’t a clear-cut case of harm being rendered as a result of the denial. But it won’t be long until these performers can’t cash their checks or deposit them in order to make their bill payments on time, especially if the historically conservative-minded financial institutions of this country decide that this is a fine vehicle by which to destroy their entire working environment.

When you make a person’s career unprofitable, you render them unable to continue doing business. I wonder how many politicians would enjoy having Chase or Bank of America deny them their accounts or shut them down, or deny them and their staff loans based upon the fact that in their jobs, they routinely fuck people. They just don’t do it in front of a camera, and usually the risk of infection is minimal, unless the disease is total disenfranchisement.

As for telling Mr. Lehman and his wife that they could no longer have an account because they’ve worked (purportedly) with a felon in the past, I ask you this: go on Wikipedia and look up JPMorgan Chase. Give their page a read-through. Now, I’m not usually one for trusting Wikipedia to have all of the answers, but the profundity of civil and criminal proceedings against this banking institution over just the course of the last fifteen years has been staggering to behold. If Mr. Lehman were to be inclined to get in touch with the bank again, I would urge him to inform them that they were correct, he had indeed involved himself in business with a felon- the bank.

It is not the role of a bank to tell people how they may earn their money insofar as it is legally obtained through labors, services or sales of goods in a lawful fashion. And guess what, Chase? Adult film performers are engaged in legal labors, whether you think they’re morally acceptable or not. That isn’t your call to make. Your job is supposed to be to maximize the profits for yourselves and your shareholders, and nothing else. As much as I hate that corporate ethos and want to see it scrubbed from the face of the planet, I believe that for the time being, people need to start throwing it right back in the faces of greedy, self-righteous fuckers like those in charge of JPMorgan Chase.

That’s all for now.

A Final Free-For-All

Greetings and salutations, all.  Joshua T. Calkins-Treworgy here, and today I'd like to share a little news with you good folks.

On March 24, running through March 28, the following three novels will be available for free download through Amazon.com:

"A Midwestern Yankee in King Ovin's Court"
"The Chained One"
"Kingdom No More"

All three novels are the current run of the Kathy Potts fantasy series I've been working on for the last couple of years.  This will be the last time any of these titles is made free for promotional purposes.  Even though I have the option of making any of them free again in a few months through the KDP program, I can't keep giving things away at no charge if I ever hope to be taken seriously as an author.

A storyteller can only go on telling stories when he or she continues to get something out of it, whether that be reader feedback and commentary, financial gain, or affirmation that it's worth their continued efforts to keep telling the tales that flow through their mind.  Otherwise, it begins to feel like a waste of time.

I'm not to that point yet, but I can understand why some storytellers reach that place.

So anyway, this is a final freebie offer for the fantasy tales of Kathy Potts and her allies in the Ether Plane.  I hope you'll consider downloading them during the free period, and if you do, I ask only one thing in lieu of money- feedback.  I want to know what you think of the story, and field any questions you may have.

If you'd share the word, that'd be great too, but isn't expected (heh heh, a guy can dream, right?).  Thanks again, folks.

Cheers.

Excerpt- Motor City Shambler

Greetings and salutations once again, ladies and gentlemen. Joshua T. Calkins-Treworgy here once again.  It's time for yet another excerpt in the hopes of generating some interest in one of my novels for your consideration.

This one's a little different than those that came before, and for a couple of reasons.  For starters, this is one of my titles published and still under the publication/distribution of Booksforabuck.com.  Secondly, this is my second-oldest title.  The only book I've published to date that's older than this one is 'Freedom or the Fire', which is available entirely free of charge on this very blog.  Check the archives, some time, you'll find it.

Anyhow, this was the first tale of Bob the Zombie I wrote, and it began as just a short story, the first act of the novella that would ultimately become "Motor City Shambler".  Here, I'll be offering you a free look, the entirety of the first chapter.  If you find yourself intrigued and wanting more, head on over to Amazon or Booksforabuck.com to download your copy ASAP.  Thank you, folks, for reading!



Excerpt:

I suppose, looking back, it all started about five weeks ago.  I won’t be covering that entire time here, just a few days of it.  With any luck, I’ll be able to save this document to a disk and take it someplace safe to continue on it.  Nobody’s sure how it all started, be it a plague, a virus, or perhaps something slightly more biblical.  I certainly don’t know, nor can I often find the time to try thinking about it.  I have needs now, needs that are terrifying but which must be met.  I require flesh and blood, and if possible, brains.

That may seem like a disgusting diet to you, but I assure you that it isn’t exactly my prime choice of dietary needs either.  I’m a zombie, though, and zombies eat living human beings.  We aren’t great conversationalists, or athletes for that matter, despite what you may have seen in certain recent zombie film renditions.  George Romero had it right way back when he made the first zombie flicks.  We are a slow, methodical, and above all, stupid species for the most part.  

Yes, I am a zombie.  How, then, am I getting these words across to you?  Slowly, painfully, and with more mental effort than I believe most of my kindred to be capable of.  As I sit at this old computer, staring at the white screen and tapping away, I am only capable of typing out a maximum of about twenty words a minute.  Ask any secretary and they’ll inform you that that is incredibly slow.  As such, I’ll attempt to keep this brief diatribe to a minimum word count.  Oops, hold on a while.  I’ll be back.  My stomach is grumbling and I can hear someone living entering the floor.  

Hey there, I’m back.  Poor son of a bitch didn’t stand a chance.  However, I will say this; he put up one hell of a fight.  They just don’t seem to realize, in their panic, that if they took the time to actually aim at the head, they might make better effect of their firearms.  And contrary to popular belief, being shot in the chest over and over again may not kill my kind, but it does hurt like a bitch!  The karate instructor from about a week ago did more damage, tell the truth.  He broke my right arm when I took a swing at him.

Again, how then am I typing this out?  Well, I’m situated on the fourth floor of an office building here in downtown Detroit.  As a result, I don’t get too many visitors.  The zombie body has a limited ability to heal itself by making use of the organic tissue we consume.  There were a few survivors trapped in the second floor elevator, and, well, I did what needed doing.  I feel like hell having to give in to my compulsions, but survival is a more powerful instinct than you might believe.

We are more powerful in larger numbers, but trying to communicate this to others of my kind is nearly impossible.  We have a basic form of semi-telepathic communication, but it only works well with a few.  There’s one lass up here with me, and she too is a member of the walking dead.  She’s been bringing me coffee now and again, and warning me when she senses a living person enter the building.  She’s very helpful, though the coffee doesn’t do me too much good.  The only real result is me having to get up every now and again to use the bathroom.

Yes, the zombie body does process normal sources of nutrition.  However, we tend to excrete everything into our pants, since most of us don’t have the presence of mind to use a toilet.  And while normal food and drink could serve us, we need flesh and blood in the long run.  It’s hardwired into our systems from the moment of our un-birth.  The more often we feed, the more powerful and capable we become.  Once, a few weeks ago, I had myself a ‘family special’ down the street in one of the dilapidated apartment buildings dotting the interior landscape of this city.  

The wife went down quite easily.  I tore her throat open with one of my now long-nailed claws.  She gagged and tried to gurgle a shriek as she fell on her kitchen floor.  Again, I felt terrible, but I had to do it to keep going.  The husband, well, he struggled, and he was strong as an ox.  He hit me over the head with every damned thing he could lay hands on.  In the long run, he retreated back to his bedroom, where he kept a small .22 pistol.  He shot me a few times in the stomach before I jammed my thumbs into his eye sockets, and boy, that hurt.  It was the first time I’d been shot. The dog just cowered in the corner.  To be merciful, I snapped his neck with sharp twist and dug in.

Where am I going with all of this?  Oh, right, I remember now.  I wanted to tell you, whoever may eventually read this, what it was like being a sentient zombie in a world going to hell and breakfast.  Having access to the Internet and newspapers, I’ve kept up on the human perspective of this world-changing event.  Believe it or not, this whole series of events started in Ohio, but I’ll get to that later.

Oh, by the way, the name’s Bob.  Bob the Zombie.

Excerpt Time- Unfinished Fugitive

Greetings and salutations, folks. Joshua T. Calkins-Treworgy here once more, and today/tonight, I'm going to share with you an excerpt from the Amelia City novella, 'Unfinished Fugitive'. If you find yourself intrigued by what you read, then I encourage you to head on over to Amazon and pick up a copy of the full tale for your reading pleasure.  Indulge in the macabre, and immerse yourselves deeper into the warped and wicked mythology that is Amelia City!

And now, on with the show:

Daryl stood at the foot of his bed, baseball bat leaning against the footboard, his older brother stripped naked and laid out on the bed under a single white sheet. It was unmistakably his brother; Daryl recognized the face, the frame, and the tattoo of a mushroom with a skull on its cap on Charlie's left calf. Yet caution ruled, because he didn't recognize the one yellow and one red iris of the eyes. He didn't recognize the pirhana-like teeth. Lastly, he didn't recognize the patches of oily black flesh, slick to the touch, which pocked Charlie's body in various places. His brother had been returned to him, but not as he had been when taken away.

The sheer unreal quality of it all might have sent the average New Yorker into moderate panic, but Daryl Jarsin was not an average New Yorker; he was an Amelian, born and raised in a city whose urban legends had the unsettling tendency to never be shown up as hoaxes. In New York City, unexplained disappearances could usually be chalked up to abductions, human trafficking, and drug deals gone sour. In Amelia City, most denizens had an unspoken agreement to never discuss which of a hundred different horrors might have befallen the missing persons in question.

Now, here lay one of the missing, but changed, made somehow inhuman. The eyes, teeth, and odd flesh all held a predatory quality, something monstrous. And as Charlie let out a moan, eyes fluttering open, staccato notes of motion, Daryl grabbed the bat.

"Nnnng," Charlie offered, turning over onto his right side, heaving as something appeared to clench his gut. He gagged loudly, expelling some foul, brown sludge from his guts. When he was done, he sat up weakly, dragging the sheet to keep his lower half covered. "How long was I out," he asked in a weak, garbled voice. It sounded to Daryl as if he were just relearning how to speak.

"An hour, little more," Daryl said, keeping calm. But Charlie was shaking his head.

"I meant from here, from the world. How long was I gone?" Charlie turned his head toward Daryl, his strange, dual colored eyes meeting Daryl's own. Inhuman, yes, and haunted, Daryl thought.

"Eleven years," Daryl choked out, dry swallowing. Charlie made a strange mewling sound in his throat, like a cat bemoaning its fate.

"Christ, that long? They told me time would move differently here, but eleven years?" He held his face in his hands for a moment, sighed. "Well," he said, dropping his hands into his lap, "at least we can put an end to it. Loan me some clothes and we'll head over to Darrin Street, get at that mirror I was taken into. I'll explain everything afterwards."

"What are you talking about, Charlie," Daryl asked, lowering the bat.

"Darrin Street, that's where I got snatched," Charlie said evenly. "Come on, I can tell you this much- we break that mirror, I go back to normal. So lend me some clothes and let's go."

"Charlie, we're not in Amelia City," Daryl said. His older brother just stared wide-eyed at him, breathing coming on heavy, chest rising and falling rapidly with alarm. "We're in Queens, man."

"Queens? As in, New York?"

"Yeah."

"Well," Charlie said, looking down at the floor. "Fuck."

The brothers sat across from one another at the small kitchen table, Charlie relishing a cup of coffee, wearing one of Daryl's red and black lumberjack shirts and blue jeans, both now too large for his wasted frame. A belt kept the pants up, and though he'd lost mass, his feet were still the same size, one smaller than Daryl.

"So we need to get you back to that mirror," Daryl said, the first words either had spoken other than Daryl offering coffee and Charlie accepting in the half hour since Daryl had informed him of where they were.

"Yes," Charlie said. "I had no idea you'd left Amelia. I just found your mirror and made my escape. I assumed you'd still be there, or at least somewhere in Iowa. Des Moines, maybe."

"I had to stay on the move," Daryl said, sipping his own mug of mud. "Every couple of years, I'd start seeing this symbol, the one from the door I saw you get dragged into. I just kept moving east."

"Not much help," Charlie said. "They reach everywhere, though they're concentrated in Amelia." He sipped at his coffee, smiled. "God I missed this stuff."

"Charlie, where the hell were you all this time? What have they done to you?" Charlie rolled just one eye up at Daryl, the red one, and he saw it rotate like a dial in its socket.

"I was in their world, beyond the veil," Charlie said quietly, almost reverently. A tremor rocked his arms briefly, his eyes squeezed shut, forehead creased. Daryl felt something clammy rising up his spine, shrugged it off. "As for what they did to me, I think they were trying to make me like them, transform me somehow. I think they wanted to make me a wraith."

"A what?"

"Nevermind," Charlie said. "That's not important. We need to get to Amelia and get at that mirror. They'll realize I'm gone soon, if they haven't already. When they do, they'll send someone after me."

"Like the gorilla thing that nabbed you?"

"No, something worse," Charlie said, staring off at nothing. "Not Quoth, he almost never leaves Amelia, thank God. If they sent him a lot of people would die. No, they'll likely send one of the strangers for me."

"You're not making any sense," Daryl groused, rising from his seat. "Just answer me this, Charlie. Are you dangerous?"

"Yes," his brother said, yellow eye glowing with a faint light.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

"I'll try not to, as long as you stay clear if something comes after us."

"Are you human anymore?"

"Not entirely."

"Are you still my brother?"

"Yes," said Charlie with a genuine, peaceful smile.

"Then help me pack some shit. We're taking a road trip."

Daryl and Charlie Jarsin were neat freaks thanks to their mother. They were quietly capable and determined men thanks to their father, a gruff outdoorsman and machinist who taught them how to survive in just about any circumstances. Their lessons at his hands had never really covered the supernatural, but both men operated on the principle that it wasn't much different from the end-of-civilization-pandemic scenarios their father had laid out for them in the past.

Step one, always, was to quickly gather supplies. Daryl left the food and toiletries gathering to Charlie while he stuffed extra clothes in a Hefty trash bag. Next came his tool box, into which he slipped the Ruger .357 Magnum revolver he'd purchased on the street shortly after moving to New York City. Three boxes of ammo accompanied the weapon.

An animal hissing brought Daryl to his bedroom, where he found Charlie backed against the wall, shielding his eyes from the open closet door. The hissing came from his mouth, and he appeared to be on the verge of collapse. "What is it," Daryl asked quickly.

"Knife," Charlie gasped, pointing one narrow finger at the closet. Daryl walked over and looked at the shelf at the back, past his hung shirts and pants. A plain hunting knife sat on a small display placard, next to its sheath. Their father had given it to Daryl, claiming it had been blessed by a Sioux medicine man during his time doing wilderness survival training. Daryl had thought his father to be full of shit.

Wrong again, kiddo, he thought in his father's gruff, smoky voice. Sheath that thing and bring it. He did exactly that, and as soon as the knife was safely sheathed, Charlie ceased groaning and hissing.

"I may have to use this thing," Daryl said out in the living room as they gathered their final supplies.

"Just keep it from touching me and we'll be fine," Charlie replied testily. "I imagine you have a ton of questions."

"Just a few, actually," Daryl said, putting two of the bags over his shoulder. "I figure I can ask them once we're on the road." Charlie didn't respond, helping Daryl down the three flights of stairs to the street. In the gathering gloom of nightfall, they were just two more dark figures moving from building to vehicle, loading bags into the open back of Daryl's truck. They went back up for the rest of their gear, loading it in, and Daryl turned toward the building. Charlie grabbed him by the shoulder.

"What's left," he asked, looking around.

"Cap for the truck bed, it's in the storage locker on the ground floor," Daryl said. They went inside, carrying the cumbersome cap out with them and attaching it to the truck in mere minutes. As Daryl fired up the engine, the brothers heard exploding glass nearby, saw it rain down on the sidewalk, preceding a tall, dark man in a long duster and wide-brimmed traveler's hat, spurs on his dusty cowbow boots spinning as he landed in a crouch, the ground trembling with his arrival.

"Oh shit," Charlie hollered, hands flying to the sides of his head. "Drive! Drive! Drive!" Daryl needed no more incentive than his brother's initial reaction; he'd hit the gas on the second shout of 'drive'. In his passenger sideview mirror he saw the cowboy fellow standing up slowly, twirling a long knife in his hand like a professional killer. There was a flicker of movement, and the rear window on the detachable truck cap exploded inward. The thrown knife landed with a heavy 'thump' in the metal separating the truck bed from the inside of the cab.

"Holy shit," Daryl exclaimed, swerving onto the first available perpendicular street. "Who the hell was that?"

"That was the stranger named Roderick," Charlie rasped. "Roderick of the Blade. He's a younger one, but just as bad as the others I met over there."

"Well, we're in a truck, so unless he carjacks someone, we've got plenty chance to put distance between us." No sooner had he said this than the cowboy, Roderick, came barrelling out int the intersection ahead, running faster than any human being could. Other vehicles were honking their horns and swerving to avoid him, and to Daryl's amazement and terror, the stranger nimbly stepped onto the hood of a passing car, never breaking stride, and spun at the waist to hurl another knife right at them.

He veered hard left, and the knife buried itself to the hilt in the hood just inches from the windshield. Daryl angled right again to avoid going up on the sidewalk, turned around, and sped off southward.

The stranger didn't appear again, and ten minutes later, they were driving west, making their way towards an exit from New York City.

Excerpt- Empty Prayer

Greetings and salutations, all. Joshua T. Calkins-Treworgy here once again.  Today, I bring to you another excerpt, this time for the Amelia City novella, 'Empty Prayer'.  Considering the current goings-on with the Westboro Baptist Church, with Phelps Sr. near passing, this tale is particularly in touch with current events.  If you like what you read here, I ask that you consider heading on over to Amazon and purchasing the full work.

A little background: the character in this scene, Butch, is a member of the True Power Baptist Church, who have come to Amelia City to protest the funeral of a homosexual police officer killed in the line of duty.  I don't think I need to be much more obvious than that with the parallel, do I?  Anyhow, enjoy!



Excerpt

All Butch felt at the moment his mind clawed back towards consciousness was cold, all over his body. Without opening his eyes, he might have imagined himself lying naked in the middle of an ice field at the North Pole. In particular, his wrists and ankles felt frozen through.

              "Wake up, Mr. Garner," said a deep, thunderous barritone from somewhere nearby. Butch groaned, lifting his head from his chest and looking around with bleary eyes. At first, he could make out nothing more than some blurry blobs of color, but as he pulled himself to his feet, the details sharpened.

              Butch stood in the center of a boxy chamber lines in ice and frost, the walls all blue and white. Manacles clamped his wrists and ankles, and he could see that he was wearing only his dingy gray boxer shorts. The chains on each restraint went to the four corner points of the flat ice wall behind him, disappearing into the wall.

              Before him stood the bald weirdo Kelly had told him about, though she had left out one detail about him which creeped Butch out to no end- his eyes were solid black. Standing next to the weirdo was a steel rolling cart, atop which sat a large black box with tiny holes studded throughout. Something moved inside the box, making clawing, mewling sounds like an angry tom cat.

              "Hail, Mr. Garner, and well met," said the weirdo, giving him a sweeping bow. "I am the stranger named Marick, known to my kith and kin as Marick of the Chains. Do you know what this is," he asked with a lascivious smile, waving his hands at the black box in an impression of Vanna White showing off a prize on Wheel of Fortune. "Let me tell you what it is, Mr. Garner. It is that which will spell your certain demise, if you aren't careful. Are you listening to me, Mr. Garner?"

              Butch, nervous sweat running down his forehead, nodded. "Y-yeah, I am," he stammered.

              "You have a chance to win free of this place, to win free of the chittering demon I've put inside of the box. But to do so, you must free yourself of your binding chains. It will be hard to break them, though," said Marick thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "After all, they are made of your lies."

              "What?" Butch's vision quivered, the stranger blurring into a twitching stain of blue before suddenly appearing nose-to-nose with him.

              "Your lies," Marick roared, grasping the chain leading from Butch's left wrist back to the wall. "You are bound in chains, each one forged in the fire of your deceptions! And if you wish to survive this ordeal, you will listen! Do you understand?!"

              "I do, I'm listening," Butch sobbed, now blubbering from his terror. "Please, give me a coat or something, I'm freezing!"

              "No," Marick said flatly. "Now, I am going to ask you some questions, and you will answer truthfully. Are you ready?" Another nod. "Very well. Have you cheated on your wife?"

              "Naw, naw I haven't," Butch said weakly. The stranger threw wide his cloak, revealing the leather armor beneath, crisscrossed with half a dozen lengths of gleaming silver chain.

              "Already you lie," the stranger named Marick intoned, grasping one of the chains over his chest and tugging on it. The manacle on Butch's left wrist yanked on his arm as the attached chain pulled back and up into its corner near the ceiling behind him. Something crunched in his shoulder, eliciting a howl of agony from the cable installer. He drooped toward his knees, but the pressure of the manacle on his left arm kept him suspended.

              "Okay," he sobbed, "okay, yes, I've cheated on her, okay? But I begged the Lord's forgiveness!"

              "Each time? For I know t'was more than once, Mr. Garner. Does your repenting make it okay to go out and do it all over again? Your hypocrisy is typical of your kind, human. Your first chain has been drawn. Shall we proceed?"

              The stranger tapped on the black box, and the mewling thing inside whipped a wickedly hooked set of claws out through a hole in the side. Butch's heart, already drumming too fast, stepped up the pace a little more.

              "Speak true, Mr. Garner, and you may yet have a chance. Speak true, and you will be closer to getting what you need to escape your bonds. Now," the stranger named Marick said, holding one long finger skyward to emphasize that his next question was part of this bizarre test he was administering. "Mr. Garner, why did you marry your wife, Kelly?"

              The question was asked in a soft tone of voice, without any underlying hostility. Butch bit his lower lip, then said, "Because I love her." Marick seemed to mull this answer over, then twitched open his cloak and yanked another chain. The manacle on Butch's left leg yanked back painfully, dropping him toward the floor with a holler as his ankle snapped from the violent pull.

              "You mean well, Mr. Garner, but still you lie to me. I know that you married her because you got her pregnant with your son, Bobby. You do love her, yes, but it isn't the kind of love a good husband has for his wife."

              Dangling at an angle over the floor, right arm hanging so that the back of his hand lay on the frosty surface, Butch managed to lift his head and spit. "Fuck you," he croaked, blood welling up around his bare, naked foot where the manacle had ripped flesh. "Fuck you you fucking freak."

              "Now, now, Mr. Garner, there's no need for vulgarity. Your next question, Mr. Garner. Do you believe in God?" Butch looked up with an effort, meeting the stranger's pure black eyes.

              "Yes," he choked out. "If there are monsters like you in the world, then there has to be a God." The stranger named Marick tilted his head to one side, pursed his lips in a pout. He approached Butch and crouched in front of him, inches away.

              "Curious. You're telling the truth. Very well," he said, turning and striding back to the cart and box. He waved one set of widely spread fingers, and the manacle on Butch's right arm popped open, the attached chain pulling away into the wall. "You see? The truth, they say, shall set you free."

              "If I get out of these I'm going to kill you," Butch snarled.

              "Ah, temper temper," the stranger cooed, waggling a bony finger. "Not very Christian of you, my boy. What ever happened to 'turn the other cheek'?" The stranger knocked on the black box again, and this time the snarling sound that came from the caged thing within reminded Butch of wolves he'd seen on the Animal Planet channel. "One more question, Mr. Garner. You have cheated on your wife. You have lied a lot in your years. But what is the greatest sin you have ever committed against your God? The absolute worst?"

              Butch was silent a minute, the gears turning in his head. He thought about the scripture, about the teachings of the Bible. Finally, he looked up and met the stranger named Mareck's black eyes.

              "Murder," he said softly. "'For to be wrathful and think of killing another is the same as doing so, as wicked as stabbing him in the heart'. That's how I learned it when I was a kid." The stranger gave him three long, slow claps and waved a hand, springing open the manacle on his right leg. The chain retracted into the wall, and Butch immediately hopped and shimmied back and to the left, so that his agonized left arm and leg were no longer overextended.

              "Congratulations, Mr. Garner," the stranger boomed, spreading his hands wide. "As promised, you have earned that which you will need to escape this place." The stranger approached, pulling an eight-inch long serrated combat knife from his right boot. He stopped a few feet out of Butch's reach and tossed the weapon down at his feet.

              "What the fuck is this," Butch screamed, snatching the knife up. "Get me out of these," he shouted, hauling on his left manacle as hard as he could, rattling the chain.

              "I only ever promised you a way out," said the stranger, walking away. "I never said it would be painless or easy."

              "I ain't cuttin' through my foot and my arm," Butch cried out. "I ain't gonna! I'd sooner freeze to death in here!"

              "Oh, Mr. Garner, cutting through your arm and leg are secondary concerns," said the stranger, grasping the front of the black box. Butch held the knife in a white-knuckle grip now. "The first one would be our little friend here. I  wonder how you'll fare against him with only one arm and leg free to defend yourself."

              The box was opened, and Butch Garner began to howl as his doom skittered down off of the cart to the floor. Comprised of three long, segmented, brown-shelled sections, it looked like a gigantic cockroach with nine tiger legs flailing over its back, claws lashing at the air. Eyes blinked up and down its flanks as it clacked along the ice toward him, a gaping mouth full of shark's teeth gnashing wetly.

              Butch swung the knife down toward it when it closed, but its foremost segment wrenched aside from the stab, its head whipping around, teeth piercing down into his wrist. Blood sprayed, meat ripped, and bones snapped, the creature wrenching back and forth like a dog with a chew toy. The knife clattered uselessly to the floor, the sound drowned out by Butch's screams.

              The creature yanked once more, tearing the pulped hand free, swallowing its prize. Butch held the stump up to his watering eyes, his screams reduced to gibbering moans as the beast's claws raked up into his belly, disemboweling him in less than five seconds.

              As the creature arched up to begin feeding on his innards, Butch's last sight was of the stranger named Marick walking through the ice-layered wall, disappearing as if he'd never been there.

Excerpt Time (A Midwestern Yankee In King Ovin's Court)

Greetings and salutations, ladies and gentlemen, Joshua T. Calkins-Treworgy here.  As I had said yesterday, I'm going to be multi-tasking with this blog now, and I'm going to begin today with an excerpt from the first Kathy Potts novel, 'A Midwestern Yankee in King Ovin's Court'.  This is the entirety of the second chapter, and I hope it piques your interest.  I might do one other excerpt to promote the book later on, so be on the lookout.  Or, you know, head on over to Amazon to pick up a copy!

And now, on with the show!

Chapter Two

(K)Night Time

              Kathy groaned, her merciful reprieve from the sudden pain of what she thought must have been an electrical shock washing away. Stiffness in her neck, arms and legs, coupled with an achiness that ran through every muscle in her body left her wondering if she'd been mistaken, if the building had blown up or something.

              Her eyes cracked open into little slits, letting the blur of her environment make its initial impression on her sense of sight. Scent already turned its report over to her brain- antisceptics and clean, institutional linens. The consistent beep of some device in sync with her heart added to her conclusion of where she was.

              "Hospital," she croaked.  Blech, is that my voice, she thought. Like the Cryptkeeper with tits and a cold. Uncharitable thoughts about her own voice aside, she felt incredibly lucky to know she was at least alive still. She reached up to rub at her eyes to clear them, tugging on an IV line as she did. The room she was in had the look of a medium-to-long term patient to it, one she recognized. She'd been in rooms like this too many times, but always before as a visitor.

              She pushed thoughts of such things aside. By slow degrees she came more awake, looking to the windows to her right. The curtains were open, but the night was dark, shedding almost no light whatsoever into the room. A look to the left revealed a small rolling tray with a water pitcher on it with a straw. Kathy put the straw in, and with an effort, brought the pitcher to herself so that she could drink.

              Four measured, spaced sips, and she felt like a new woman. She was always struck by how little it took sometimes to make a person better. She now sat up, and despite her body's protests, she swung herself down off of the bed. She wobbled, one hand on the bed, the other holding her IV feed stand. When she felt confident again, she moved with dreadful slowness to the little bathroom and relieved herself. When she got back to the bed, she removed the bedpan provided and set it under the bed.

              She was still sore, but a strange noise from the hallway, like a dog's claws on tile flooring, caught her attention. She shambled over to the door of her room, already open a crack, and peered out into the hall. What she saw instantly burned itself into her memory.

              At the door to another room farther down the hall stood two giant cockroaches the size of Rottweilers. Their thread-like antennae twitched back and forth, and a sickly green light flowed in a gaseous stream from inside the room, into mouths she saw were great, gaping mandibles. She let out a girlish squeak of terror and revulsion. When the two creatures whipped their heads in her direction, she bolted back to the bed, her sore body fueled by fear.

              Kathy tucked herself under the sheets on the hospital bed, curled up like a child hiding from the monster in the closet. She dared lift part of the sheet only enough to peer at her doorway through. The clack-clack chittering of insectile legs echoed through the hallway and her room, and moments later, one of the gigantic bugs poked its head in. Its antennae twitched and twirled, but it made no sound or other movement. Kathy remained perfectly still, her every instinct screaming at her to flee, to dive out the window.

              Except, however, for a very small voice amid the clamouring inner shouts of alarm and terror. That tiny, barely perceptable voice said, such things always hunt the weak and hurt, the frightened. Be cool. Kathy did as this small voice bade, and after half a minute, the roach-thing slipped away, scuttling off with its partner, six pairs of legs clacking on the floor tiles.

              When the bugs were out of earshot, Kathy felt suddenly fatigued, and she fell into a deep, natural sleep.

              The knight prowled the darkened city streets of Minneapolis under a heavy blue cloak, the hood up, shadows magically held in a swirling pattern around his head. His talents with magic were few, but this much he could handle. It was necessary, for even the slightest sight of him by a human would result in fear and chaos ripping through their brains.

              The knight wore a heavy chain shirt and leggings beneath his cloak, the shirt covered by durable half-plate armor, padded with patches of leather to muffle his movements. The leggings were similarly muted by a thin pair of black trousers, worn over hardened leather boots. A long sword was sheathed at each hip, drawstrings looped through holes in the hilts to avoid the weapons sliding out during moments when they might normally slip free.

              The knight ducked down yet another alley, coming to a halt. He threw back his hood when he was sure no humans were in sght, revealing the head of a German Shepherd upon his humanoid body. His nose twitched as he picked up a familiar scent, one he hadn't smelled in years.

              "Gailuf," he said, his voice rumbly yet regal. He drew the hood up once again and started away. His mission, personally given him by king Ovin,was to go to the damaged twinning, check on the damage, and go from there to the home of the human who's essence had been struck by the twinning's tainted aura. The dog-headed knight, a member of the kennin race, dog-man faerie, had picked up the human's faint trace of essence, and now had to go to where she lived.

              He could also detect the residue left behind by the wyldfire that had swept through the region. A ritual had been used, had to have been, for the energy to still linger like it did. He conjured shadows once more around himself and moved on, thinking about the implications of what he'd observed thus far.

              The sage who had been in control of the twinning, a hobby shop in its Mortal Plane incarnation, had been an elderly man known to the knight as Garlin Trayen, a friend of Ovin's court for many years. He'd come outside into the lot when the knight approached, hands raised in welcome. The knight had grinned and greeted him happily.

              "Garlin," the kennin knight said, embracing the old human.

              "Sir Daggeuro," the human sage replied, clapping the knight on the back. Daggeuro asked about the human woman, and Garlin confirmed that he'd sensed her and her predicament even in the back storeroom of the shop. "I called 911, and gave them a line about how hot it had been out, she must have been dehydrated."

              "A smart move, my friend," Daggeuro replied. He had taken his leave of the sage, and five minutes later caught Gailuf's odor. He wondered what the centaur would have to say about recent events.

              That would have to take a back seat for the moment, though. His king had been very clear in his instructions, and a man like Daggeuro, for whom duty and honor came above all other things, could not ignore them. So he stalked down the alley, the trace of the human woman's essence pulling at his senses.

              It had been long and long, as the faerie put it, since he had crossed over to the Mortal Plane for longer than a few minutes. Daggeuro didn't care much for the world humans dominated. To start with, the air was filthy, especially in larger cities. In the Ether Plane, even in the capital of the Amermidst Kingdom, Celia, he could stand atop a tall building and see clear beyond the outer city walls for dozens of miles.

              The second thing he disliked about the Mortal Plane was the technology. The world of faerie, the Ether, was rich with magic, so technology was very nearly a forgotten pursuit there. Humans, few of whom had access to arcane powers, made up for their lack of magic with the advancements of science. This included his two most reviled forms of technology, guns and automobiles. The former turned anyone into a potential threat, regardless of skill or even intent. The latter, he felt, made people lazy and drove them apart.

              Daggeuro ran along sidewalks and down alleys, climbed the sides of buildings and leaped from rooftop to rooftop, trying at all times to avoid being spotted. At one point he found himself in a residential neighborhood, passing through a park, when the sound of approaching voices forced him to press himself against a tree, drawing the shadows around the tree to himself.

              There were, he realized, three sets of feet nearby, approaching a position only ten feet away. From the east came a single scruffy looking young man, pale and sickeningly narrow, a dark blue hooded sweatshirt worn over torn jean shorts and black lowtop sneakers. He trembled as he walked, his mouth slack, revealing pitted gums and jagged teeth.

              From the west came two burly men dressed like the kind of street thugs one could see in a police procedural show like Law and Order. Daggeuro had to give the humans that much; he enjoyed their forms of entertainment. The thugs each carried an automatic pistol tucked into their waistbands, and the shorter of the two, his forearms and neck festooned with tattoos, carried a brown paper sack in his left hand.

              Daggeuro slowly moved his hands to the hilts of his weapons, undoing the tie-downs silently. He didn't want to draw blades against humans, but he would if necessary. The three men stopped a few feet away from one another. The younger man shuffled nervously, looking around conspicuously, biting his fingernails.

              Drug deal, Daggeuro thought. The younger man nodded at the dealers and said, "That mine?"

              "Could be it is," said the one holding the baggie. "You have the necessary funds?" The buyer produced a tight roll of twenty-dollar bills and tossed it at the dealer's feet.

              "Whoops, dropped my money," the buyer said with a dopey smile. The dealer held the baggie out before him at arm's length and released it.

              "Wouldja lookit that, I dropped my bag. Hope nobody grabs it," he said theatrically, crouching down to snatch up the money. He turned his head suddenly towards the tree against which Daggeuro stood, eyes narrowed.

              "What's up, Gus," the other dealer asked in a squeaky voice. Daggeuro gripped his sword handles, breathing deeply, centering himself. The dealer named Gus slowly stood up, eyes still locked on the shadow-concealed kennin knight.

              "Nothin'," the man finally said, looking to the buyer. "Go on, get," he barked, and the junkie darted away. Gus and his partner started to walk off, and Daggeuro could hear him say, "For a minute there, it felt like the devil was watching me from inside that fucking tree, man."

              No devil, I, but watched you were indeed, fellow, Daggeuro thought. He refastened the tie-downs on his weapons and resumed his trek north. King Ovin knew the human was a woman, and that she needed to be appraised of her situation. More than that, she needed to be told of what exactly happened to her, so that she didn't run mad. Such things happened often after newly Awakened humans were put through such trauma. A member of the faerie kingdom the afflicted human resided beside almost always was sent to help them cope with their newfound reality.

              Seldom was the faerie sent as high in rank and status as Sir Daggeuro, High Knight of Ovin's court and the Amermidst Kingdom. The kennin knew  that something seriously foul was going on within the kingdom, something most likely involving Luga, a shade who routinely caused chaos within Ovin's realms. But Ovin had explained little else to Daggeuro, and what he did tell the High Knight, Daggeuro could not decipher the significance of.

              Another series of alleys and emptied sidestreets passed around the concealed faerie as he followed the trail. The scent of the city itself was an affront to his nostrils, the stench of exhaust fumes and cigarettes and chemicals heavy around him. He couldn't understand how the humans put up with it, much less local dogs.

              After another twenty minutes, Daggeuro stood in a mostly empty parking lot, an apartment complex before him. It was of the sort that was shaped like a horseshoe, with iron steps at the end of each floor's walkway leading up and down. Four stories high, he could see that each apartment except the ones on the ends of each level were one-bedroom affairs.

              The trail of the human woman's essence led him up to an apartment on the second floor on the western side of the horseshoe. He grasped the doorknob and tried to turn it, but it stuck. "Locked," he muttered aloud. Quickly he checked to see if he was being observed, then wrenched on the knob, snapping its inner lock and latch mechanism. He slipped inside without a word.

              Eyes upon him, the moment he entered. Daggeuro brought up his hands into a pugilist's stance, then spotted the turtleshell cat staring at him from the couch in the living room the apartment door opened upon. The cat meowed at him, then set its head back on its paws, ignoring him. He sighed, shook his head.

              It was a simple apartment, of a kind he'd seen many humans living in. Hell, he'd seen plenty of faerie live in them too. The human-like elves, only physically different by way of their pointy ears, slightly shorter stature and double-jointed arms and legs, tended to prefer very similar dwellings. A piece of paper had been left on the counter in the woman's smal kitchen. It read: 'Kathy, I took care of Tigger while you were in HCMC. Love, Mom.'

              A quick sweep of her apartment turned up plenty of signs that Kathy was already at least subliminally aware of the Ether. Many humans like her were drawn to what the humans called 'fantasy' literature and games. She could well have seen something of the faerie at some point in her life.

              Now that he had found her home, Daggeuro willed open a rift between worlds and slipped into the in-between to await her return to her home. The return would be short-lived, but he didn't want to terrify her by just being there when she came home. Sir Daggeuro was, if nothing else, a gentleman after all.