Assam & Darjeeling

Softcover“A masterful and nuanced book… This is hands-down one of my favorite books of the year. I absolutely loved it.”
— Julie Davis, SFF Audio/Forgotten Classics

When their mother is lost in a terrible car crash, two children set out to bring her back from the Underworld — a nightmare place populated by remnants from old mythologies, defunct pantheons, and forgotten folklore. Along the way, the children discover that they cannot rescue their mother without rescuing themselves first.

Sometimes frightening, sometimes funny, and often heartbreaking, Assam & Darjeeling is the story of a brother and sister who have to go through hell together in order to learn the true meaning of family.

From the reviews…

“The depth and literary flesh of the two lead characters is one main draw of the work, but the real star here is Camp’s near-perfect prose. This is a beautifully written book, plain and simple. Few contemporary authors write with such elegance.”
Read more from Wes Covey’s review on The Contrarian

“One of the truest pleasures of Assam & Darjeeling is the relationship between the forceful younger sister, Darjeeling, and the thoughtful, sensitive older brother, Assam. The way that they work together to save their mother, yet often clash in the details of how they must proceed is what carries the story and makes us believe in their relationship. It rings true to anyone who has siblings whom they love but who also have the capacity to irritate beyond belief in daily life.”
Read more on Amazon

“Think about Scout and Jem in To Kill a Mockingbird. Perhaps another consideration would be Pan’s Labyrinth. These comparison’s easily come to mind when I listen to Assam and Darjeeling. However, another reason for the comparison comes to mind as well. Both are great stories, but I really wouldn’t allow my children to see either of them for years yet. Assam and Darjeeling touched me in a way NO OTHER work of podfiction to date has. I admit, I’m a softy when it comes to family. This story reached inside me and played my “daddy” strings the way a master luthier might be able too play a mandolin. I am so glad I finally remembered to listen to this story, and I highly recommend you take the time to give it a try too.”
Read the full review on View From Valhalla

“I’m highly impressed with the writing… You can see that he has a confidence in his own writing… I would read another book by this author without question. The level is very high.”
Listen to the full Review/Discussion on SFF Audio

“The first podiobook I ever listened to, this story holds a special place in my heart. It’s amazingly well written, and held my attention through all four books. I recommend this one to everyone I meet.”
Read more on Goodreads

“This is a hauntingly captivating story and the production is very professional.”
Read more on iTunes

“I really enjoy T.M.’s writing. I’ve been talking a lot about him to my friends lately. I’m rarely intrigued so by an author’s style. This is one such author… This is a Must Read.”
Read more on Barnes & Noble


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time and tide

My youngest started school today.

She was excited. She was ready.

It was a good morning, lots of memories.

A bit fraught, a little bittersweet.

We did okay.

We watched her walk to the door.

So confident.

She’s my hero.

But there were tears in the car and, later, more at home — ours, of course.

She was ready. We weren’t.

A flood of feelings while we watched the teacher walk our daughter up to the door.

Later, I thought about the times I’ve watched my children turn their backs and walk towards the future, watched them walk away from me.

It’s hard.

With the older ones — one is twenty and the other is almost sixteen, now — I remember them little.

I remember the feel of their small hands in mine.

I remember their voices.

It’s hard.

I’ve stood there in the night, countless times, and watched over them — watched the gentle rise and fall of their chest, watched the tide move in and out as they slept.

I stand there now, tonight, watching while my youngest rests after her very exciting first day.

And, well, it’s hard.

As hard as anything.

Maybe even harder than with her older brother and sister.

Because I know what’s coming. I know what she’s walking towards.

What she’s walking away from.

And, honestly, it’s a little bit like mourning.

There’s a death in there, somewhere . . . somewhere in me.

I remember the life that’s passed. I hold onto the hope of the life that’s to come.

They turn their backs, they take their steps.

I let them go.

I pray they’ll come back.

— — —

That’s what I want to be for them, as their father — a safe harbor to return to when they need it, a touchstone they can carry along the way.

I don’t feel any compulsion to guide their steps, to point them in the direction I think they should go. I don’t feel a need to shape them, to mold them in my image.

Their own images are so much more interesting and wonderful.

It’s more rewarding for me and, really, more useful for them to just watch and marvel over who they are and what they become.

I know lots of parents who talk about how proud they are of their children. Most of the time, what I hear is how proud the parent is of themselves.

“Look at what I made.”

So I don’t say that I am proud of my children — I am proud of them, of course, but not because I think I had anything to do with how wonderful they are.

No . . . what I am, is grateful.

I’m grateful that they were given to me, grateful to have so much that I really don’t deserve.

I’m grateful to have such wonderful people in my life, grateful to watch them grow and become even more wonderful.

I’m grateful that I didn’t do too bad a job with what the gods gave me.

I’m grateful that I have had each of them there to walk with me for a while through the highs and lows of my own life.

And I’m especially grateful that they’ve let me tag along as they’ve made their way through the world.

I pray that it will always be so.

— — —

The same day that my youngest started school, my oldest invited me to come by and see his new apartment.

This is his first place, a place of his own.

He’s working very hard. It’s a struggle, sketching out your own little piece of the world.

I remember his first room, the little apartment we lived in when he was born. I remember putting his crib together.

And now…

I was impressed to see how he’d made a place of his own — something I was far too immature and weak to have done at his age.

He’s always been stronger than me. He’s always been my hero.

I’m glad he’s doing it. I think it’s outstanding.

And, yeah, I still mourn . . . probably more than a little.

But I’m grateful that he invited me.

— — —

And that same day…

The same day my youngest started school…

The same day my oldest invited me over for a visit…

That same day, my middle child — and the middle is sometimes such an awkward place to be, but she’s exactly the younger sister that her brother needs and the big sister that her little sister loves . . . and I love her for it — she reminded me yet again of how glad I am that she’s my daughter.

She’s funny. She’s kind and sensitive.

She’s boldly talented, writing songs and recording them and setting them free into the world. She has far more bravery and creativity than I had at her age — maybe even more than I do now.

She’s my hero.

And I’m grateful for her, grateful that I have a teenage daughter who actually talks to me.

I’m grateful that she shares her ideas and songs with me, grateful that she trusts me and shares her life with me.

I can’t wait to see where her path takes her.

— — —

I can’t wait to see where all three of those paths lead.

I pray they don’t go too far.

— — —

I am rich with children.

And I am grateful.



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