As a long time user of The Internet, who started in the very old clunky day of the mid-nineties when we all thought Excite Chat was really cool, I must admit that the feeling of freedom and independence it gave is slowly fading away. Gone are the pioneers who battled away night and day building a website using Microsoft Frontpage and battling the snail’s pace of a 28k modem.

Long gone are the 50 meter long telephone cables connecting our first portable IBM laptops. Also long gone are the awfully expensive prices we paid simply to be connected. One good thing. Back then, Yahoo and Excite were the biggies and no one had heard of Google yet. Apple was there of course, but it was a bit of an Internet dud because Apple’s of that era couldn’t talk to PC’s. At least this language barrier has been broken.

Yes, it was all clunky, fuzzy and unreliable, but boy it was fun and one could proudly boast that you were a ‘Surfer on The Web’ and emailing while your dinosaur friends were still faxing.

So now we take it all for granted and The Internet has become our source of music, books, movies, television, games, news, correspondence and of course, shopping. It is this last feature that was the game changer. From connectivity to corporate. From popular to profit. From mavericks to monopolies.

The Internet is now owned by Google, Facebook, Amazon, Twitter and Apple. All fighting tooth and nail to extract every last cent of profit from users – and content providers. Think of Youtube, Amazon, Apple apps and iTunes. All of them accumulate either cheap or free content to on-sell, affix advertising and attract all of us – the market.

As an Indie author, I understand what an opportunity Amazon in particular have provided for me. However, they are not philanthropists or community volunteers, so I know they will make a healthy profit from my work. As all of the Big Tech companies now do.

There are still a few with the old independent spirit, but Wikipedia struggles for funding to stay alive (even though they use cost free labour) and Wikileaks? Well, we know about that saga. Bright and original ideas don’t last long before they are bought by the mega companies. Think Youtube, Skype et al.

Oh well. It was fun while it lasted. Have fun on the new, improved and multi-nationally monopolized Internet. But just remember to have your credit card ready at all times.

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Gate of Tears

Gritty and realistic action, setting a psychopathic Serbian female terrorist against an ex-Royal Marine. In the up-to-the-minute context of the politically volatile Red Sea region, it reflects political expediency and high level betrayal in Government and the Intelligence Services.

Driven by genetic technology and a monstrous manipulation of world gold markets, it culminates in confrontation between NATO and Israel on one side, and China and the Yemen on the other. Alaska to Australia, Britain to Djibouti, this is an illuminating look at Chinese Superpower ambitions – their worldwide Golden Shield Intelligence Program – humint, elint and cyberwar, together with their rapidl building nuclear-powered blue water naval capability.

‘A lover of the genre couldn’t ask for more or better’ – novelist Lee Holz.

Book Links
Author Website
Author Blog
Gate Of Tears Website

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Now that we are all reading ebooks on our Kindles, iPad and Nooks, why would anyone bother to produce a book cover? After all, there’s no book to put it on. An ebook doesn’t come in the old standard 5″ x 8 1/4″, so why do we still believe a book needs to have a cover based on this dimension and ratio?

In reality, an ebook only needs an image for promotional reasons. Something to give potential readers some comfort before they buy a small electronic file of  rather boring black and white text. On a Kindle, a beautifully designed book cover looks no better than a grubby old photo taken with a Box Brownie. So why bother?

We bother because even though the publishing world had gone all gadget and super ‘techie’, readers haven’t adjusted as yet and still want a book cover. We humans are really dopey creatures sometimes, and old habits die hard.

So let’s ditch the habit and think about what can be used instead of the classic paperback design. I think the image I have chosen for this post would make an ideal promotional image for a romance novel. It’s in the shape of a heart and says everything I would want to say about a book perhaps titled, ‘My Heart Belongs To Reggie’. Why not make it move?! Now there’s an idea. Making an image move is called video. Why not have a video as a book image? Instead of the boring book cover image and ‘Look Inside’ on a book’s Amazon page, why not have a video book trailer. Now that would be more fun on an iPad or Kindle Fire.

Out with the old and in with the new. Well, it will take some time I imagine for the book world to realise that ebooks don’t really come with covers, so we will more than likely be stuck with this silly desire for old fashioned book covers for some time yet.

Related posts:

1. So, Where’s Your Book Then?
2. Turn That Story Into A Book
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4. New Book Release : The Empire by Elizabeth Lang

Allen’s Pledge
By Brent Frysinger

“Gram you’re lazy,” Amber said. “You’re a procrastinator, you have no motivation to do anything,” as she rolled over.

Gram quickly thought to himself, “I have plenty of motivation to to screw you,” gesturing the middle finger with her back turned.
“Yes I know I need to drop off this package.” Replying back.

Amber was lying in bed in their bedroom, as he exited, making his way to the garage. Not before peaking in on his, “little monster” in the other room. He was sleeping in this morning. “Thank God!” Gram thought.

Gram Tyson ran an online business, and worked along side with eBay. It kept food on the table but he was always doing side jobs in photography for extra money.

The garage was packed full of stuff. Gram pressed the button for the door, to open up some space. The sun was “a little perky” this morning, Gram thought. Rummaging through his keep, he found the package, that was wrapped up last night.

Just then, he gazed up to notice his neighbor Cindy, backing up out of her driveway. She looked in a rush, swinging her car in a jerking, fast motion. “Must be late this morning,” Gram uttered out. Also noticing that she was looking down at her phone at the same time.

Just as he turned away and reached for the garage door button, he heard an eerie screech and a slight thud. A sound any automobile driver was very familiar with. Gram hustled his way to the driveway when he met, in the distance, an hysterical screaming lady; with her eyes wide, all white.

Gram ran up faintly surprised. Some cars were blocking his view, as he approached the direction the crazed woman ran to. Cindy and the lady Gram had never met before, were both hovering over a mangled little boy.

It didn’t appear the boy was breathing. Without a flinch of hesitation, Gram knew just what to do, for he had taking medical classes a few years back.
“Step aside mam,” he said in a respectful, heroic tone.

He was already on his back, head slightly turned. He began to give him CPR. He had two ladies behind him crying rivers. The lady began to shout and push Cindy, “How could you do this’? As Gram remained calm.

Just then, the boy began to breathe, making snorting sounds.
“Call 911, hurry”, Gram panicked out. Cindy volunteered.
Gram made sure there were no bleeding outs, and sharp bones. There was no need for a tourniquet, Gram was relieved to know.

Before they knew it all the emergency personnel arrived.
“Oh my God Gram,’ Cindy exclaimed.
“Cindy I saw you.”
“What do you mean?” Cindy replied.
“I saw you on your phone. I have to tell the police that.”
“What if it was Gram, JR. Cindy?”

Gram had realized that he had seen the boy before. He came to play with his son. His name was Allen.

Find out more about Brent Frysinger

Would you like your short story featured on The Vandal? Click here for submission details.

Related posts:

1. Short Story – Get High By David Moon
2. Short Story – Runner’s Gauntlet By Jack Eason
3. Short Story – The White Lady By Michael C. Boxall
4. Short Story – A Personal Tempest in Cape Coral by Dayna Reid

A very long, long time ago when times were different there existed people who called themselves writers. They were a pleasant bunch of daydreamers, incessant travelers and occasionally, scallywags. Being a writer or even better, an author, meant lazing on desert islands sipping cocktails or being a bar philosopher or perhaps traveling to exotic places on the back of a hefty advance. All with the intention of finding inspiration for a story. Or better still, having a jolly good time before your publisher caught up with you and started ranting about deadlines.

These glamorised folk didn’t have to worry to much about accuracy on their typewriters. Grammar, spelling, plot errors and such were problems for an editor to worry about. For an author, the main game was simply coming up with a ripping yarn or epic tale. As this part occupied very little of his or her waking hours, they could happily get on with all the other more enjoyable aspects of being a writer, which didn’t involve the dreaded writing bit.

Then all of a sudden, the world changed.

Some idiot invented the ebook and the glamourous world of writing took an immediate nose-dive. No more tropical paradises, no more drunken weeks occupying a bar stool and delivering philosophical lectures to equally drunken acquaintences. In fact, no more publishers screaming about deadlines, and sadly, all those editors who had received zero recognition for centuries decided it was about damn time that they got some credit and they all became ebook authors.

Plot synopsis, character development, syntax, grammar and lexical dexterity may have been winners way back then, but all of a sudden an author needed to know everything there was to know about HTML, jpeg, png, FTP, Unix, blogging, PDF, auto-posting, social networking, spam, mailing lists, keyword tagging, website maintenance and of course, how to use a thing called a computer; seeing as all the typewriters in the world had suddenly been melted down to make outdoor garden furniture.

Yes, those were the days. When writers were writers and the world was beautiful. Way back then in 2008!

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The White Lady
By Michael C. Boxall

Freighted with tapas and Concha y Toro and trailing ghosts in her glittering wake, the White Lady glides toward the quay, where a sparse crowd — ten? a dozen at most — raises a long yellow banner with black writing. From Peter’s daysailer Luca hears faint shouts across the water, too ragged for a chant, too far off to be intelligible. But she knows they are in Spanish.

“Beautiful!” He works the tiller and ducks as the boom swings over to point at the barquentine, its masts as tall as the cranes of the shipyard. Spray hisses under the daysailer’s bow and sparkles in the September sun. She watches him feast his eyes on whiteness, white hull, white superstructure, sailors in white dress uniform lined up along the side. “She’s come up from the south Atlantic,” he  says. “See that red and blue flag? Chilean.”

He’s handsome, in a Richard Gere-ish sort of way. Older than in the photo she’d tracked down. But she knew immediately it was him. When she lingered on the jetty and struck up a conversation about the beautiful ship and how she’d love a closer look he eyed her bare legs and handed her a lifejacket. He’s a confident sailor and as they chase the White Lady along the inlet he tacks over to one of the waiting container ships so she can reach out and touch the hull, dwarfed by its looming immensity. “Smell it,” he says. Rust. With undertones of salt.

They approach the quay and the shouts become clearer. As he loosens a rope and prepares to take down the sail his phone rings. He fishes it from his pocket and wedges it

between shoulder and ear. From the way he turns aside and murmurs she can tell it’s his wife, and when he turns back she smiles, sowing a seed of complicity. The sail collapses with a rush. He nods toward the White Lady, now mooring. “Like to go aboard?” Her surprise and girlish excitement are not entirely feigned. She’d thought she’d have to  ask.

Justicia! Justicia! A dwarf in a Tyrolean hat capers and beats a bass drum, BOOM BOOM BOOM …  BOOM BOOM BOOM … Faces tell of generations of emigration, immigration, miscegenation and re-migration,  Donegal peat-cutter crossed with Mapuche weaver, Silesian swineherd with Andalusian Picunche.  A woman with braids the color of tarnished pewter grips a poster-sized photo of a bruised and bloodied man who is missing an eye. She waves it higher as Luca and Peter pass. Justicia!

At the top of the gangplank he produces a business card. Two sailors posted to keep unwelcome visitors away stare at it with mute incomprehension. An officer with bushy eyebrows appears, frowning. Peter thrusts out a hand and after a moment’s hesitation the officer takes it. “Peter LaPierre. Novus Communications. We worked with the consul to organize the reception. Make sure the right people come.” He glances down at the quay. Drum bouncing on his chest, the dwarf is dancing hiphop, BOOM BOOM BOOM. The officer looks at Luca. “And this is my companion, Luca …” She doesn’t help him by filling in the blank, just offers her hand, palm down. The officer bends to kiss it.

Emotion overwhelms her when she sets foot on the deck. Incredulity, at first. It all seems so clean. Was this really where it happened, on this same burnished planking that gleams in the autumn sun? Where are the ghosts? Then she feels them, imprinted into the wood the way light imprints itself into silver halides. Anguish trumps disbelief.

Word spreads of the girl in the short yellow dress — tits as firm as melones, estar buena — and she feels the hunger in men’s eyes as they watch her. Do they know what happened here, these grinning youths in their sailor suits? The interrogators used vaseline to attach electrodes to the skin. For months after Aunt Javiera told her this she avoided vaseline in the drugstore the way herpetophobes avoid pictures of snakes.

Peter drapes an arm over her shoulder and gazes upward. “Just under fifty metres. Second tallest sailing ship in the world. Twenty-one sails, total area twenty-eight hundred and seventy square metres. Top speed seventeen and a half knots.”

“You know a lot. Do you know why these people are protesting?”

“Oh, just some old grievance left over from the last regime. All happened a long time ago.” He smiles. “Before you were even born, I’d guess.”

BOOM BOOM BOOM … BA-BOOM BOOM BOOM … BA-BOOM BOOM BA-BOOM …

She takes an iPhone from her pocket and shoots video of the mast, so thick her arms could not encompass it. The officer returns, a step behind an older man with skin the color of mahogany and gold trim edging the peak of his cap. Peter produces another card.

“Captain Guiterez, it is an honor to meet you, sir. May I present my companion …” He turns to Luca, expecting her to introduce herself. But again, she just extends a hand. The mariner-diplomat is unfazed. Like his subordinate, he bows to kiss it.

“Señorita, the honor is mine.” An expansive gesture takes in his kingdom, one hundred and thirteen metres from bowsprit to stern. “Lieutenant Alvarez will be happy to show you around the vessel and answer any questions you might have.”

“Thank you, captain, but my question is for you.”

A stillness comes over his face, one mask dropped, another taking its place.

“My uncle was on this ship.” As she speaks she pirouettes slowly, the camera taking in the sailors setting up tables on the deck and panning back to the mast again. “But he wasn’t a sailor. He was a baker.”

“Luca, I don’t think this is the time …”

She ignores him. “He left school at twelve and spent his life kneading dough. But he was always interested in the world around him. He read books and decided the best thing he could do for his children was to help build a democratic society. That’s why they arrested him.”

“What happened in the past is no concern of mine.” Guiterez fixes Peter with a basilisk glare. “Alvarez will escort you ashore.” He turns on his heel, but Luca grabs his sleeve. Her other hand holds the phone, recording video.

“Captain Guiterez, why has the Chilean navy never acknowledged this ship was used as a torture centre?”

“I have no comment.” Mahogany features rigid.

“But you do know what went on here, don’t you?”

“Luca …” Peter tries to snatch the phone. She kicks him hard and he howls, both hands squeezed between his thighs. Aie! Una fierabrás!

“Do you deny that political prisoners were tied to these masts and given electric shocks?”

Guiterez glances at Alvarez, who seizes her arm. She sinks her teeth into his hand and doesn’t let go. The ghosts won’t let her. Uncle Eduardo won’t let her. Alvarez bellows. The guards come running from the top of the gangplank.

BA-BA-BA-BOOM! The dwarf sheds his drum like a stripper’s bra as he jinks and dodges across the deck, careening into an open-mouthed cadet who drops a case of cabernet, feinting this way and that as he heads for a mast, veers away, makes for another one, doubles back, runs right at it, jumps, and swarms with simian dexterity up the rigging. High above the upturned faces he perches on the crosstree and swings his legs. Hola! Sin manos!

Luca zooms in on a muscle twitching in Guiterez’s cheek, pans up to the dwarf unfurling a banner in the sky. She downloads the video to YouTube, posts it on FaceBook and tweets her followers, CNN, the Global Post, El Mercurio, the United Nations, Aunt Javiera dying in Santiago.

@Guerillajournalista. Come  everybody and join our campaign. Justice for the tortured ones! We will never forget.

The drum rests beside a white-clothed table which holds the prawn ceviche. She picks it up. Against the clouds the dwarf waves his hat.

BA-BOOM BOOM BA-BOOM!

She starts to dance.

©2012 by Michael C. Boxall

Find out more about Michael C. Boxall

Would you like your short story featured on The Vandal? Click here for submission details.

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What happens to your social media presence when you drop dead? With so much interlinking, sharing, auto-posting and re-tweeting I’m really wondering if I might just live on (socially speaking) for a few years without anyone noticing.

Perhaps I can plan for this eventuality by setting up some horribly clever automation that will have me bothering people from the grave and having a damn good chuckle at the joke. It wouldn’t take too much effort to link a few social media accounts and have them re-post each other. Ad infinitum. Loop, loop, laugh, laugh.

With a WordPress blog there’s a plugin that can keep re-posting old blog posts forever and a day. Wow. Forever. Now that’s what I call planning ahead. What about Twitter’s infamous auto re-tweeting? Now there’s a killer opportunity to tweet for hundreds of years. Well, that’s highly unlikely as even the most optimistic people would only give Twitter another four to five years as it has yet to cut a profit and looks highly unlikely to do so in the near future.

Google of course is the best bet for living on the net for years after drawing your terminal breath. Nothing is lost in their indexing so I am 100% certain that my posts will survive. Well, my posts from 1996 are still there so who needs more proof than that.

Then of course there are mailing lists. They never cull anyone, so maybe I’ll set up automatic forwarding of all my junk mail back to all the junk mail senders and drive them crazy for eternity. Oh, the possibilities are endless.

Perhaps even an opportunity for a new online business. To manage your social media presence after you have taken your last bow.

You never know, I might even sell a few more books with an afterlife plan like this.

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Runner’s Gauntlet
By Jack Eason

Albert Johnstone and his pal Dick Madison had both enlisted at the same time, barely twelve weeks after war had been declared in 1914. At the time, Dick was nineteen and Albert was barely eighteen. Since then three long and bitterly hard fought years had passed in the ‘war to end all wars’. It was now 1917 and by sheer good fortune more than anything else in the corner of hell they called home, Albert and Dick were now the only two left alive from the newly formed ‘pals regiment’ that had marched to war in that first year.

To any newcomer to their section, both men seemed much older than they actually were. The last five weeks of constant barrage by the Hun artillery plus the filth, trench foot, body lice and chronic levels of disease which daily lived side by side with the Tommy’s in this small section of the rat infested stinking quagmire of a trench, which the remainder of their regiment called home, had prematurely aged both men here in the thick of the worst fighting on the Western Front.

***

“Bert, give us a fag mate?”
“Ain’t got any left Dickie,” Albert replied.
Dick lifted his Lee Enfield’s muzzle to his eye to check the cleanliness of its barrel. The section Corporal, Charlie Hobbs, had just threatened to put him on a fizzer if he didn’t do something ‘bleedin sharpish’ about the state of his filthy weapon.
“Bleedin stripes on his arm have gone to his bleedin head,” Dick mumbled to himself.
“Go on Bert mate, give us a fag,” he pleaded once more, as he yanked on the string of his rifle pull-through yet again, “You can have my extra tin of Bully for a fag, go on give us one.”

Dick knew that his best mate Albert always had some spare cigarettes stashed away somewhere, deep inside the filthy confines of his clothing, competing for space against his skin with the thousands of body lice that constantly plagued him, like of all the Tommy’s in the line, which he reserved for those quiet moments during ‘stand to’ at night when they took turns on watch from the trenches’ firing step.

***

“Privates’ Johnstone and Madison, over here, quickly now – jump to it my lucky lads!”
Albert and Dick waded through the stinking fetid water that sat in the bottom of the trench, hiding the wooden duckboards along its length, dodging the huge rats that were swimming along looking for scraps of food or to feed on the unburied human remains that lay wherever they had been shot.
“Bleedin furry cannibals,” Albert muttered as he smashed the butt of his rifle into one of the rats. Eventually both men stopped in front of Sergeant ‘Bull’ Thomas.
“Got a job for you me lucky lads,” Bull grinned coldly.
“Bleedin hell Sarge – not again, why us, why not someone else?” Dick muttered out loud.

“Now then Madison, now then; Corporal Hobbs tells me you’re a filthy little bleeder my son. So pin your bleedin lugholes back and shut yer trap unless you want that bleedin fizzer he’s already threatened you with to bleedin multiply!”
Despite all of his bluster and effing and blinding, Sergeant Thomas had a soft spot for his two most experienced soldiers. Like Albert and Dick, he had been here in the hell of the Western Front since it first began, and like them, somehow he had survived when so many thousands of their fellow Tommies had not.
“Now then me lads; as I was saying, I’ve got a job for you. The major needs a couple of runners to take a very important message back to HQ see, because the bleedin telephone lines is broke again after the last bleedin barrage. I knows just the very lads for the job, sir, I says to him; privates’ Johnstone and Madison I says. So my lucky lads, there it is.”
Albert and Dick’s faces, despite the thick layer of ingrained grime and dirt that plastered their skin, giving them the appearance of two men in late middle age, betrayed their natural lack of enthusiasm for being volunteered for something that was dangerous to their health. “Like I said Sarge, why us when there’s plenty of new replacements to detail off as bleedin runners?” Dick replied.
“The major says that this particular message is far too important to be trusted to a newcomer, lad. Besides, none of them have your survival instincts. The route you will have to take is perishin close to the Hun’s front line as you know me lads.” Bull sighed, realizing exactly what he was asking of them. Everyone knew that anyone who tried to get through that particular piece of the frontline trench system had less than a ten percent chance of making it to the other end alive.

***

‘Runner’s gauntlet’, as the way back to the HQ dugout was equally known by both sides of the stagnant frontline, was looked upon as the real life version of the popular fair-ground shooting galleries before the war.

When the frontline trenches had first been dug into the muddy soil two years earlier, the zigzag nature of the British frontline trench combined with the depth it had been dug made it relatively safe. But since then, constant barrages by both sides had reshaped it into a series of short intact trench sections and gaps filled with hundreds of shell craters.
Twenty yards beyond where the three men now stood was the end of the trench proper, and the beginning of the heavily damaged sector. The German snipers loved it. Whenever a Tommy runner tried to cross it, the snipers took bets among themselves over which one of them would send the runner to oblivion…

***

Bull thrust the message into Dick’s tunic top pocket and buttoned it up before shaking both their hands; there was no sense in wishing them good luck – doing it might bring them the opposite. The pair moved off silently to the end of the trench.
Albert carefully lifted the trench periscope just above the remains of the sand bags on top of the trench. Dick released his Lee Enfield’s safety catch in readiness.

“Two bleedin snipers mate, one behind the wall of the church and one behind the old iron gate,” Albert reported in a hushed voice.
“Wall first mate,” Dick replied quietly as the muzzle of his rifle slowly poked through the gap between two sandbags.
Albert brought his sniper rifle up in readiness.
“Ok Dickie, get the bleeder’s attention,” he said, as he shifted his telescopic sight in readiness.
Dick placed his tin hat over the back sight of his rifle and ducked down, seconds before a round from the German sniper’s rifle drove a neat hole slap bang in the centre of it, sending it flying behind him. At the same moment Albert squeezed his trigger and stayed only long enough to see the German sniper’s head explode before ducking down alongside Dick. “Gotcha you bleeder,” he muttered grinning with satisfaction.
Now there was only one more sniper to contend with. “Ready?” Dick asked.
“After you mate,” Albert winked as he stood up with his trusty rifle ready for action. “Go!”
Dick jumped and rolled over the edge of the first shell hole, flattening himself at its soggy base. Albert corrected his telescopic sight’s aim as he briefly saw movement behind the church’s old iron gate. “Go!” he shouted.
Dick sprang to his feet once more and jumped and rolled into the next shell hole a split second before a bullet from the German sniper’s rifle kicked up mud behind the sole of his rapidly disappearing boot, when he dived for cover again.
“Gotcha,” Albert said with satisfaction as he watched the second sniper crumple lifelessly to the ground behind the iron gate.

***

With no more snipers to contend with for the moment, they crossed the rest of the pock-marked muddy landscape, shell hole by shell hole, until they were back in the relative safety of the next section of trench. The two friends sat for a few minutes savouring the exquisite delight of one of Albert’s precious stock of cigarettes, both laughing when the body of one of Alfred’s body lice, which had hidden itself in the cigarette’s tobacco, exploded as the cigarette burned down, before they navigated the trench system to the HQ.
The colonel in charge studied the major’s message before dismissing Albert and Dick, telling them to go to the cook house for a meal before reporting back to him in an hour’s time.

***

On their return the colonel handed them his reply to take back with them along with a new roll of field telephone wire to pay out as they went.
“Bleedin’ hell mate,” Dick grumbled, “now all we have to do is get back home with this lot.”
“Like they say Dickie – be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home,” Albert laughed.
“Ready?”
“Ready mate, let’s go home,” Albert replied as he patted his sniper rifle, prepared for what lay ahead of them on their return journey through ‘runners gauntlet’.

Find out more about Jack Eason

Would you like your short story featured on The Vandal? Click here for submission details.

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Amazon’s KDP Select program is changing the rules for self publishers. It wants exclusivity, which means you cannot offer your book for sale anywhere else. Judging by the number of comments and on my recent post about Smashwords vs Exclusivity, it is clearly an issue that has a long way to run before the dust settles.

I am sure that most self publishers, have up until now, made their ebooks available on both Kindle and Smashwords and in doing so have been able to have their books made available via Smashwords distribution to Apple, B&N, Sony and a number of other online retailers. A sensible and logical approach.

But now the game has changed. If you want to join Amazon’s KDP Select program you have to remove your books from not only Smashwords (and there goes your distribution to Apple, B&N and Sony) but also from selling directly from your own website or blog.  Here is an excerpt from KDP Select’s FAQs:

What does it mean to publish exclusively on Kindle?

When you choose KDP Select for a book, you’re committing to make the digital format of that book available exclusively through KDP. During the 90-day period of exclusivity, you cannot distribute your book digitally anywhere else, including on your website, blogs, etc. However, you can continue to distribute your book in physical format, or in any format other than digital.

So we know the rules, but will it be worth deserting Smashwords and selling ebooks yourself and signing up with KDP Select? There is only one way to find out.

Being in the fortunate position of having ten books already published and not relying on my book sales as my primary source of income, I decided to enroll three books in the KDP Select program to test the water so to speak. I chose the following three books because of their diversity of genres and potential readership:

Louis. A book I published 2 years ago and has a steady sales record that I can compare to KDP Select performance.

The Vandal. A new title that has not been published on any other platform but replaces an existing popular title, ‘Vandalism of Words’.

My Take Away Vampire. A novella published a few months ago that has been doing well with young paranormal readers with very little promotion.

Over the period of the 90 day enrollment I will use the following criteria to measure success or failure.

1. Do the ‘free days’ of promotion increase a book’s exposure and gain reviews as well as a marked increase in sales following the promotional days? Or is it just a wasted exercise in giving away books that only serves to enhance the Kindle platform’s popularity?
2. Do sales via Kindle  increase and adequately replace the percentage of sales that will be lost via Smashwords and its distribution?
3. Will there be a measurable increase in overall revenue from sales and ‘ Prime borrows’ for these three titles that would justify the granting of exclusivity?
4. Will the offering of free books during promotions damage or enhance book sales?
5. Which of the 3 books performs the best, and worst in the program?
6. What percentage of income will be derived from ‘borrows‘ by Amazon Prime members?

————–

As I write this footnote to this post, the first book, Louis, has just completed a 3 day promotion and was downloaded for free nearly 1,000 times on Amazon US, UK, FR and DE. The second free period was for My Take Away vampire but for one day only. Over 400 free downloads. The third book will commence its free period at the end of the month.

One observation I did make that was a little concerning was that these first two free promotions showed up instantly on a large number of ‘Free Kindle Ebook’ listing sites and leads me to think that many of the downloads came from exposure on these sites rather than directly from Amazon. Hard to prove, but it does put doubt in my mind already as to the worthiness of the free promotion days.

As my experiment continues over the enrollment period, I will post updates to keep you informed about the results.

Related posts:

1. Amazon KDP Select – Yes Or No?
2. Smashwords vs Exclusivity
3. Free Publishing – Do You Know The Rules?
4. Kindle Ebooks And Advertising

Alex Russell’s iTest
By Alex Russell

The day for my eye test with Doctor Gerbil has arrived – I’ve only had to wait five weeks. It’s early May but Vichy, the spa town, feels like a sauna. We find the ophthalmologist’s surgery not at number four, as we had been told, but at number eleven.
Jane shrugs. “Well, whatever the number, it says Dr Gerbil on this door – surely there won’t be two medical Gerbils in Vichy.”
At the desk I give my name, then spell it – the receptionist writes it down ending with one ‘l’.
“Two ‘l’s,” I say, helpfully.
She writes another ‘l’, then adds an ‘e’.
“There’s no ‘e’ at the end,” I say.
“Yes there is – see,” she replies, turning the form so I can see what she’s written.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I haven’t explained properly. My surname has two ‘l’s but no ‘e’ afterwards.”
“There’s got to be an ‘e’ if there are two ‘l’s.”
“I’m English. My name’s English. It’s spelt with no ‘e’ at the end.”
She pulls a face and strikes out the ‘e’; then she brightens and strikes a line through the last ‘l’ as well. I admit to myself I’ve lost this round.
When I ask about their address she shrugs and replies, “It’s always been number eleven – there’s no number four in the street.”
“How can there be a number eleven if there’s no number four – surely four comes first?” I say to Jane as we walk toward the waiting room. That, at least, is correctly named.
The room gradually fills up with clients and in silence we share the same stifling atmosphere. The only sound is the buzzing of a bluebottle in the window and of magazines being indifferently flipped through. Finally (an hour after my scheduled appointment) Dr Gerbil collects us. We follow him into his surgery which is dominated by a large capstan with telescopic arms – it looks like a pale green dalek. I am directed to the adjustable chair – it seems to have been adjusted to fit no-one. The Gerbil sits on his swivel chair, then whizzes across the floor to a computer and taps furiously at the keyboard.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“I’ve come to get my boots mended,” I’m tempted to say. Instead I tell him I need a prescription for some new glasses and say that it’s been a long time since I last had my eyes checked. I take off my glasses and hand them to him.
“They’re rather old,” I say.
The lenses are nearly opaque and the arms are twisted and have lost much of their plastic coating. He winces slightly as he places them on a side desk – as if handling a dead cockroach.

The Dalek sticks out an arm. I put my chin in position and look through an aperture. There are large letters on the wall. I can read them. To the side of my head there are some clicks – the letters are now much smaller.
“Can you read them?” he asks.
I am not sure – I can remember what the letters are. More clicks.
“Clearer?”
“Not really,” I reply.
The Gerbil whizzes on his chair to the keyboard, taps furiously, then whizzes back. Suddenly my chin is struck as the telescopic armature is pushed back into the housing. The turret rotates and the next arm strikes the back of my head.
“Well?” he asks.
“Well?” I wonder in reply.
I look through the porthole – I can see blurred smudges.
“Um,” I say.
More clicks.
“Better?”
“About the same,” I reply.
More clicks; the same questions; the same responses. He looks at his watch.
“Which was clearest?” he says, with a touch of exasperation in his voice.
“Um, the fourth one?” I suggest.
He nods and smiles to himself – then he is back to his keyboard.
“I must have chosen the right one,” I think to myself.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch a movement – the Dalek is turning its head and extending a new arm. I duck. It misses. I look up – The Gerbil is gone – off to collect another patient. At the reception desk we pay the bill – it works out at three Euros a minute.
“Just as well he didn’t take longer,” I say to Jane.
As we leave I glance at the prescription. At the top is my name – one ‘l’, but someone has inserted an ‘o’ in front of the ‘u’.

———————

The afternoon is building up to a storm, which breaks just as we arrive at the Opticians’ Training College. Someone has let me into ‘a little-known secret’ that you can get glasses much cheaper here than on the high street.
We go in and are greeted by a young man – a student optician. I hand over my prescription and tell him I’d like a pair of glasses. The Lad smiles and asks me if I am a foreigner.
“Not in England,” I reply. This puzzles him but he’s still smiling. “Oh, by the way, my name’s not Roussel – it’s Russell. It should have two ‘l’s and that ‘o’ shouldn’t be there.”
“O?” he asks.
” That ‘o’ there,” I say, pointing at my prescription.
“Oh,” he says.
We seem to be communicating quite well.
The Lad looks at the prescription and says, “How many pairs of glasses do you want?”
“Just the one pair, with varifocals.”
He looks down at the prescription again and slowly shakes his head.
“Noooon… I’m sorry, this prescription is for two pairs of glasses – one for general and one for reading.”
“But the ophthalmologist himself suggested that I should have one pair with progressive lenses,” I say.
We stand there, looking at each other, wondering what to do next.
“I’ll give him a ring,” he says brightly. He phones The Gerbil’s office. There’s no reply. The Lad leaves the room for a moment, then returns holding a pair of heavy optician’s test-glasses.
“Put these on – this is what he’s prescribed for reading. How are they?”
I put them on and pick up a magazine from the desk – at arm’s-length the letters are blurred. I move the magazine closer to my face – and closer. At about a foot the words are in focus. Another inch closer and they are out of focus again. The Lad frowns and goes to find his tutor.

The Tutor comes in and asks me, “Whose eyes did he test?” Then he takes a strip of dark plastic from a drawer and holds it in front of my eyes.
“How many eyes can you see in the mirror?” he asks.
“I can see one of mine and two of yours,” I reply. That seems to satisfy him.
“Why don’t you come back for an eye test – Thursday morning?”
“It’s a pity I didn’t come here for an eye test in the first place,” I say.
“No, we’re not allowed to see you if you don’t have a prescription – we’re not registered to do eye tests,” says The Tutor.
“But you’re giving me an eye test on Thursday.”
“We can do that because you’ve already got a prescription,” he replies.
“But that prescription’s wrong,” I protest.
“That’s why we’re giving you an eye test.”
The storm returns to greet us as we make our way back to the car. On the way home Jane tries to cheer me up.
“Look on the bright side,” she says, “it’s all interesting experience. You can write about it in your diary.”
“I’m trying to look on the bright side – I know it’s there, but it’s out of focus. Bloody Gerbil.”

—————

Thursday morning we drive back through another thunderstorm and arrive at the teaching centre exactly on time. It is shut and the lights are off.
The minutes tick by. Suddenly The Lad appears. He beckons us and we follow him round the back of the building to a room full of vacant booths which contain no daleks but recognisable eye testing equipment. I sit down and the tests start. The Lad is slow, but thorough.

I test the lenses for ‘near’ – I can read a magazine clearly close up but not at arm’s-length, so I won’t be able to focus on my computer screen or saw accurate wood-joints. Then I try ‘less near’ lenses.
“They seem better,” I say.
But The Lad says I’ll get headaches if I try to read with them. “Do you want headaches?” he asks. When I reply “no” it seems to resolve the question of which lenses I should have.
The ‘far’ lenses take even less discussion.
“Can you see the bus outside the window?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Sorted,” says The Lad.
After an hour and a half he has worn out nearly all my vision and my head aches. I just want it to be over. He unlocks the shop and switches on the lights so that I can pick the frames. There’s only one design.
“They’re the fashion,” says The Lad.
There are, however, variations in terms of colour and how much metal surrounds the lenses.
“They look nice,” says Jane, pointing to the minimalist ‘frame-less’ design.
They are the ones I choose. On the arm is a tag that says, ‘Less is more’. When I am told the price I understand why. With added extras – like lenses – the bill is enormous.
“It’ll be a couple of weeks, I’m afraid,” says The Lad. “I’ll give you a call.”
“Well at least this stage is faster – I had to wait five weeks for my eye test with Dr Gerbil,” I say.
“Five weeks? You were lucky. Most people have to wait five months in France,” says The Lad.
“But his eye test was no good,” I say.
“Yes, but five weeks… that was lucky.”
We drive back though another thunderstorm.
“Well, at least your new glasses shouldn’t go out of fashion quickly – there’s hardly anything to them to become unfashionable,” says Jane, encouragingly. “They’re the optical equivalent of a thong.”

—————–

A month goes by before I get an email from The Lad – the glasses are ready to collect – but of course, I have to phone him to make an appointment to collect them. Jane is in the UK so I have to navigate my own way to the centre – I only get lost once.
The Lad is there; the glasses are there. The only snag is that there is only one case for the two pairs.
“Because the cost of the glasses is discounted we can’t afford to give you two cases – anyway, at any one time you’ll be wearing one of the pairs so you won’t need two cases,” he says brightly.
I write the cheque and walk back to the car. My new long-distance photochromic lenses are a very pale beige in the glaring sunlight and, driving home, the circular stop-signs have all become egg-shaped. Half-way there I take off my new glasses and drive without.
Later, I try my new reading glasses. After half an hour my left eye is aching. I take them off and continue reading.
“That’s better,” I say to Billy Bean who is curled on my lap.
In the evening I send an email to Jane, bringing her up-to-date with my news. Her reply follows soon after: “Alex, that sounds great – it looks as if they’ve cured your eyesight so you don’t need to wear glasses any more. You wouldn’t have known that if you hadn’t bought the new ones. All you need now is a cheap pair of sunglasses to wear when it’s bright – I’ll bring you some back from Boots.”

Find out more about Alex Russell

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