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.