R. Thomas Riley's Blog

Political Decisions are ACTIONS

Political decisions ARE actions.  People who voted for a racist, misogynist, xenophobic, narcissist liar and con man have demonstrated by their actions where their priorities lie.  They have demonstrated, by the action of voting, they consider that racism, xenophobia, homophobia, ignorance and blatant denial of facts are perfectly acceptable, as long as they're personally okay (not that they will be, in reality - as some of them may now be starting to realize).  They've said, with their vote, that they don't care about facts, they don't care about anyone who isn't just like them, and that everyone else can just go fuck off and die.  To me, that's more than sufficient basis for judging that even if their concerns are worth considering when debating public policy, they're not people I want as friends.

Facebook and how to use it in the coming months...

Something I've been mulling over...

Take a look at your friends list. Who's on it? Is it diverse? I'm not talking politics, I'm taking human beings?

Originally, my list was pretty writer friendly because I used to write professionally. Then I stopped. When I did that, I whittled my list down to mostly people I knew personally and/or admired.

Since my list was no longer contingent on my writing persona, I got very insular and private and screened new request very strictly. This was my private page with pictures of my son and private moments. Chances were if you were a writer I didn't know and you requested, I deleted it. If you weren't and I didn't know who you were, I deleted it.

Then Donald Trump happened. And interacting with those "people" made me value my privacy even more. I locked my profile down, and someone not friends with me couldn't glean much about who I was. Before I locked down my profile, they'd take a look at what was public and then try to use it. When I locked everything down it was amusing to see these trolls flounder when they couldn't see my profile and gain any ammunition.

Then November 8 happened, and our world changed significantly.

I've never done much with twitter, but I've found it to by my way of dealing and it's helping. And I plan on using the fuck out of it for the next 1380 days (or whenever he gets impeached) and doing what I can to listen, hear, and amplify voices that need our help in being louder.

Now, I realize insulating myself was the wrong move to make. I need to hear voices, I need to hear ideas, I need to connect with my fellow Americans who are fighting now. The marches, the protest. We all need to hear them, help as we can, including marching, if able, contributing financially. We all have a role to play.

I will work on my Facebook becoming more diverse, but it's still going to be locked down. At this time, I feel twitter is more conducive to being heard, I'm just preaching to the choir here.

We need to listen and hear...

Take a look at your friends list, are those voices there? Are they being heard?

New direction of the Blog

Hi there,

I used to be a writer. I wrote and published a few books. In 2014, a few things happened, both in my professional and private life, that made me realize I was wasting my energy and needed to step away for a few minutes and catch my breath.

That few minutes has turned into two years (as of this writing). I walked away from publishing and didn't look back. I concentrated on myself, left a 13 year career with the military and started a new career from scratch. Put simply, I took a huge gamble on the unknown. I concentrated on the new career path and put all my energy and drive into doing that. Writing, as a career, was over for me at that point. I had been working up to it, in hindsight, but I didn't realize it until I made the decision.

To be honest, it was refreshing not having to obsess over where to place my next piece of short fiction or novel. Not to beat myself up for having not written anything of substance that day. Not to constantly be thinking about a certain story plot or feeling guilty because I wasn't jotting down notes.

The new job has had its bumps and detours, but it was the best decision I've made in a long time. I love my new job, I don't cringe anymore like I did in my last career about having to go to work. Looking back, I realize the enormous amount of unhappiness I was going through between that old career and trying to juggle a writing career at the same time.

I needed the break, and the distance, to concentrate on myself. Figure out what I was doing wrong and take steps to fix it. I suddenly enjoyed reading books again. I was no longer reading to research or figure out my next story. I was reading for the pure enjoyment and pleasure of it. I read a lot. I read some more. I caught up on TV shows and movies. And watched them for enjoyment.

My writing partners John Grover and Roy C. Booth understood what I was doing, I think. Roy, especially. He didn't prod (too much) and he managed to keep my writing persona active by helping submit unpublished collaborations in anthologies. Probably from the outside it looked like I was still active, when I actually wasn't, and I will always be highly appreciative of his doing that for me. John has continued writing and publishing and he's never once given me grief for stepping away.

This isn't my fiction writing comeback. At least, not yet.

This blog has been dormant since 2014, but I think I'm ready to write again. This time it'll be non-fiction and political. We all know what happened November 8, and it's been eating at me since it happened. I need to deal with the ramifications of all this and that's through writing. I realize that now.

I can't promise this blog will be consistent, but I need to get my thoughts down, if only for my own mental well being. There's going to be a lot of people over the next four years that are going to be counting on those of us to stand up for them, ensure certain things don't happen and fight to make sure we're all not left behind.

I'm a liberal, I'm a Democrat, I'm ready to be even more active than I've ever been.

Twitter is where I'm starting and this blog for longer thoughts.

Let's make sure we don't forget what happened on November 8. Let's make sure we're ready for what happens January 20, 2017.

More to come...

Flip the Page - Both Sides of the Permuted Press Decision

For better or worse, I took a stand to night, here are my thoughts on the whole Permuted Press debacle and how to try and move forward, if possible

http://bit.ly/1rjzHis

Permuted Press changes tactics and says deal with it or walk

Well, Roy C. Booth and I had a book releasing on October 28th, now we don't and here's why:

Permuted Press decided they didn't want to honor a contract that was signed over a year ago. We were told repeatedly that our book was on track to be released via multiple emails, with the most recent dated Oct 3rd. Then out of the blue, on Oct 9, Permuted President, Michael L. Wilson sent out a mass email to over 100 authors and informed them that all pending and future releases (except for a select few) would be released in ebook only. Mind you Permuted has our print rights, among others. So naturally, I emailed them back and asked two very distinct questions:



1) What does this mean for MORTUARY OF MADNESS release and now the rights that you have, if you are not going to exercise POD/Paperback rights, do they revert back to us? If not, then we have a major issue. 

2) What does this mean about a backlist book, ie, IF GOD DOESN'T SHOW, does the POD/Paperback cease there as well? And if so, do those rights revert back?
the response was direct and to the point: "...All backlist titles, including If God Doesn't Show, will not be affected by the new changes in policy. Mortuary of Madness will be released as an ebook only, and not be in print...Permuted will retain all rights per the contract, whether or not the books are released in ebook or print."

Say what?!? You have no intention of exercising print rights, yet you are keeping them. More importantly, you are telling me this 20 days before release, after you previously sent me an email saying nothing of the sort.

So, I did some digging.

Edited with new info via Jake Bible: At a convention in Nashville (which all authors were invited, but only a handful could afford to attend) back in September, President Michael L. Wilson told that group of Permuted authors the plan to go ebook only and halt the release schedule and told/asked them NOT to discuss this plan in the Permuted Facebook authors group. They were told, according to Jake Bible, they could talk amongst themselves, but not about in the private group. Hence the uproar, with over 100 authors being blindsided with this news days before release. 

Read that last sentence again. Go ahead, I'll wait.

So instead of being up front with their entire roster, Permuted Press decided to act as if everything was business as usual and LIE to their authors. Yes, an outright, deliberate decision to LIE to their authors by continued emails assuring me, and others, their books were on schedule, when they had no intention of honoring that schedule.

This is just my personal situation, you can read even more about their deceptive practices and the monetary damage they're causing here on Gabrielle Faust's Blog

I'm sure in the coming days, we'll start to hear even more stories of the damage they've caused.

Updated: https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=1550478995182689&id=100006618100242

As for those authors that knew this was coming and chose to keep quiet, I hope karma is real nice to you. 

You and Permuted Press deserve each other.

His Touch of Ice by Kody Boye

I've known Kody for a few years now and read much of his work. It's been a real pleasure watching him grow as an author, getting better with each release. 

It's my honor to lend a bit of help in the cover reveal for his newest novel. Check it out, releasing soon.





His Touch of Ice by†Kody Boye
| Erotica | Paranormal | Urban Fantasy |
Publication Date TBD

After being kicked out of college due to false claims of plagiarism, Jasonís life has taken a turn for the worse. Swamped with student loans and unable to pay rent, he is literally at his witís end when he meets Guy Winters. Everything about Guy is fascinating: his lifestyle, his appearance, his generosity. So when Jason faces potential homelessness, he agrees to move in, but it isnít long before he realizes that Guy seems different. Heís vague about where he works, the temperature is always freezing in his home, and his touch renders Jason breathless beyond what any passion should.
After a home invasion leaves a man dead, a horrifying truth comes to life. Guy isnít human, and another of his kind is in Austin, leaving trail of bodies in its wake that frames both men for murder. With Jasonís fingerprints in the apartment and a gunshot that will have sent the police department scrambling, thereís no time to explain. The only thing they can do is run.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born and raised in Southeastern Idaho, Kody Boye began his writing career with the publication of his story†[A] Prom Queenís Revenge†at the age of fourteen. Published nearly three-dozen times before going independent at eighteen, Boye has authored numerous worksóincluding the short story collection†Amorous Things,†the novella The Diary of Dakota Hammell, the zombie novel†Sunrise†and the epic fantasy series†The Brotherhood Saga. He†is represented by Hannah Brown Gordon of the Foundry Literary + Media Agency. You can visit him online at kodyboye.com.
† † †

Permuted Press' CORNUCOPIA OF CARNAGE

My publisher is running a little foodie-related feature for the month of November. Who knew there were so many authors that liked to cook?

Follow the link below to my contribution and entry. And yes, the pic is of the actual finished product.


CORNUCOPIA OF CARNAGE

The Walking Dead - ZombieBloodFights.com Wild Speculation series Guest Spot

I'll have an ongoing guest spot on fellow Permuted Press author, Bowie Ibarra's blog during this season of THE WALKING DEAD.

Post #1

Post #2 

Post #3


Be sure to check out Bowie's Main blog for other material as well.


Stay tuned for all the upcoming episodes.

Friday the 13th Massive ebook sale from Permuted Press!

Friday the 13th means GOOD luck for readers of horror and post-apocalyptic, dystopian and survival fiction. Nearly every title in Permuted Press's catalog is on sale this weekend, and most are less than a buck per book. Stock up while the thrills are cheap all weekend at Amazon! 




Including IF GOD DOESN'T SHOW, only .99!!!! Click on the book cover above to pick up your copy this weekend. 

Read a free excerpt from Permuted Press's IF GOD DOESN'T SHOW

      


EBOOK
PRINT

REVIEWS FOR IF GOD DOESN'T SHOW (A CTHULHU MYTHOS NOVEL)
"An excellent thriller that never fails to keep one guessing."- Steven L. Shrewsbury"Mix one part Lovecraft, with a liberal sprinkling of demons and a pinch of nuclear holocaust and it creates a true recipe of horrific proportions."- Scott T. Goudsward"A well-crafted story with sharp edges and subtle beauty. Definitely recommended!"- Christopher Fulbright




SHADOW CREATURES ARE ATTACKING
Thaddeus Archer is an ex-police officer whose missing daughter holds the key to the mysterious force that threatens to lay waste to what’s left of our world. It’s a race against time for the broken and desperate Archer who must trust the only man who understands what’s happening, Gibson Blount, an agent of a secret government agency that doesn’t officially exist.
AN ISLAND HAS RISEN OUT OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN
As their world spirals into chaos both men must overcome their differences and personal demons in a world besieged by the re-animated dead, natural disasters, and elder god set on destruction.
CTHULHU IS ABOUT TO WAKE


- Excerpt from IF GOD DOESN'T SHOW -              The SUV accelerated up the drive. Inside, the president clutched the armrest. To his right, Melissa was on the SAT phone with D.C. briefing them on the situation. Across Washington phones began ringing, beepers chirped, and cell phones vibrated. Power breakfasts, closed-door power plays, and secret trysts were interrupted as news of the NOLA attack spread like wildfire.      The SUV stuttered to a stop.      “What's going on up there?” Melendez asked.      The window on the right of the passenger's side turned red, as if a water balloon, ripe with blood, had collided with it. It took a few seconds for the passengers to reconcile what they were seeing. Outside, a man flung himself against the glass once more. Fresh blood splattered the window from his shattered fists. Bits of bones and flesh were all that were left of his hands after the third blow.      “Jesus!” President Wendell said, as another attacker came from the left.      Secretary Carling flew forward and collided against the back window, bumping her head. It made a sound like a wet melon, and she slumped, unconscious.      The president was aghast. “Give me that phone,” he demanded, snatching the phone from his aide. “Who is this?”  He listened for a few seconds, then said, “General, this is your President…”      Melendez leaned forward and hit the driver, Park Policeman Albert Jossart, in the shoulder. “Drive the fuckthrough them.” His tone left no room for argument.      Jossart floored the gas and cringed as the heavy SUV slammed into a woman who refused to move out of their path. There was barely a noticeable bump as the woman disappeared beneath the heavy vehicle. Something dark splashed across the windshield. At first, Jossart thought it was blood, but there was something different about the substance. It was more tar-like, almost syrupy. He shouted in surprise as a visage formed in the black liquid and pressed against the glass with an open-mouthed scream, then the substance drifted off the window like wind-blown ash.      The sharpshooters on the walls fired into the pursuing crowd behind the SUV. Jossart focused his attention forward on his goal: the gate opening slowly ahead. Decorative foliage lined both sides of the drive and, from these shadowy recesses, men and women, even some children, jumped out by the twos and threes. Jossart didn't slow.      Ahead, agents fired their automatic weapons at the ones that attempted to breach the open gate. Everything went so fast, no one had time to really think about what was happening and how surreal it all became. A chattering that lurked amongst the chaos grew.      Jossart expertly maneuvered through the narrow gate opening. Behind him, one of the protesters managed to snake an arm between the gaps in the fence. The gate ground to a halt as it crushed the woman's arm, but she didn't seem to notice. Jossart looked in his mirror, watching Agent Darren Gibbs toss aside his rifle and pull his service pistol. He extended his weapon and rested the barrel against the slobbering monstrosity's forehead. Jossart was a huge Romero fan and, for a brief moment, before Agent Gibbs pulled the trigger, the woman resembled a zombie. No, that was all fiction. What was out there was real--not a monster from some movie. Still…        The woman opened her mouth, and something dark and fluid erupted from it. This shadow slid between the bars and took a chunk out of Gibbs' forearm. Jossart's mouth dropped open. What the hell? He couldn't believe what he was seeing.      Agent Gibbs screamed in agony and stumbled back, firing his pistol wildly in the air. The woman wrenched her arm back, dislocating it at the elbow. She pulled her body back and forth, trying to dislodge her trapped arm. With a sickening rending, her arm came free at the elbow.      She stumbled away a few steps, glanced at the bloody stump, and then charged, clambering up the fence with unnatural speed. Agent Gibbs was almost to his feet when the woman fell on him with such savageness the other agents froze in hesitation and horror.      “Someone shoot that bitch!” Jossart heard a voice ring out from above.      The agents glanced up like deer caught in headlights. Jossart saw Archer come into view, pull his service pistol, and fire rapidly. The woman writhed and screamed as the hollow points ripped into her, but they didn't cease her attack. If anything, the bullets seemed to energize her actions. Somehow, Gibbs managed to roll free, and as she leapt to attack once more, he brought up his pistol.      The woman screamed in agony and rage as her teeth shattered on the barrel that disappeared deep into her mouth. Her head jerked as the gun's slide cycled each shot. The woman's face and head was an unrecognizable red and black mass when he was done. Gibbs scrambled back, disentangling himself from the corpse.      ###      Archer hurried down the steps to the man's side. He was almost there when Gibbs glanced around erratically then shoved the gun into his own mouth. The man yelled in frustration as he realized there were no more rounds in the gun.      “No!” Archer sped up.      Gibbs flung the empty gun aside and reached down to his ankle, pulling his backup. With a gleeful smile of triumph, he stuffed the compact gun in his mouth, and the back of his head disappeared in a pink mist. Archer stuttered to a stop as his head passed through the splatter. He grimaced and closed his eyes as he felt blood, bits of brain, and skull spray his chest and face. It smelled like black licorice and spoiled milk.      Disorientated, Thaddeus barely sidestepped the woman as she reached out for him. His attention had been fixed on the shadow that had appeared to guide Gibbs's hand to his mouth. He fired four rapid shots into what was left of her face, but it seemed to have no effect.      Rearing up directly behind her, the shadow figure was nearly seven feet tall. What he was seeing was impossible, Thaddeus knew, but he was seeing it all the same. It was more than a shadow, he noticed, close up. It was like an absence of light--a black cut out surrounding the woman. He could see something moving in the darkness, like ghost images on a snowy TV set, but darker.      Tentacles of dark matter wove about the vaguely humanoid figure (like coral on a reef). Where the trailing wisps touched his wrist, they engulfed it in an icy coldness that took his breath away. The thing pulled back its hand as if to strike, and the woman followed suit. Without thinking, Archer fired into the black mass. It exploded into black ash and flew off with the breeze.      The roar of the onrushing crowd brought Archer back to the present. They slammed into the iron-gate as one force. The gate groaned in its moorings, and decades-old cement puffed into the air when the hinges broke free of their casements.      Archer reloaded his pistol as he backed away. He slid the magazine of unused ammo into his coat. He had a feeling he'd need it shortly. Any second the gates would give way, and they'd be overrun.      He had never seen a crowd so fierce in all his time in the service. He'd studied mob theory, and was familiar with how one acted and reacted, but this--this was something he'd never seen or read about. The ones at the front of the throng were being crushed against the gate, but they didn't seem to notice or care. The expression on their faces chilled his blood. They frothed at the mouth and sputtered obscenities at him.      The wind changed and the stench of vomit, blood, and excrement wafted over him. Archer's eyes welled at the smell, and it took everything he had not to vomit. With the smell, came the crowd's guttural moaning. The sound of so many people groaning the same, low note made his insides feel as if they were vibrating.      He squinted as something caught his eye. He looked up behind him at the sky, noted the position of the sun, and then glanced back at the mob. Their shadows weren't right.      “What the--”      Archer realized the sharpshooters had ceased firing. Confused, he glanced up at the walls. The agents were now facing inward, and their rifles were aimed right at him. He raised the pistol in his left hand in a non-threatening manner (at least, he hoped it was non-threatening), and he said, in as clear and strong a tone as he could manage, “Men, the bad guys are out there.”       One of the agents, Chris Prestin, turned to his fellow agent of seven years, raised his high-powered rifle, and casually blew the man's head into a red oblivion. Prestin's features contorted. His movements were stuttered, like those rooms in carnival funhouses with the rapidly flashing lights, where it made the person appear to be moving in spurts. Prestin's shadow seemed to move before he did. Like stop motion, Archer thought.      Something bad was happening to Agent Prestin--something utterly beyond Archer's experience--and it scared the crap out of him. Along the wall, the other agents turned on one another. Some shot each other, while others grappled then fell over the side, into the waiting mob below. As their limbs were ripped from their bodies, the torn joints snapped and popped, sounding like a dog worrying a bone.      Archer turned and ran for the house as chaos erupted behind him. Something terrible was going on, and he knew time was short, if it had not already run out. He had to get the president and the secretary off the ground to safety.  
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