He thinks I want to name it, or maybe thinks this is an offer of dessert. About Chelsea Ruxer About Lola Elvy About Michael Harlow I'm Muslim and don't have any relatives or close friends who were affected by the Easter Sunday attacks. I've grown up participating in Bhakthi Geethas and Christmas carols. I know that this applies to most Sri Lankans from having been taught at such a young age to co-exist peacefully, to love and respect one another despite the civil war our country has experienced.
We have not had to explain this acceptance of each other before, because for us it's second nature and only normal. This normalcy is what these attackers are trying to break. They wiped out families in their Houses of God. They took innocent lives having Easter breakfast at hotels, and those working there. They took away tourists visiting our beautiful country. So for those lives, I weep and for those families who've lost loved ones I pray for you and I hope the support you need is on its way to you. You see, the lives that were taken were those of our people, our brothers and sisters and our children.
They wish to create a sense of hoplessness and fear. They took so much but we can't let them win. We need to show them how resilient, compassionate and caring we are. They will NOT divide us with hate and violence. I am Sri Lankan. About Sarah Ahmed Brief companion within the cavernous expanse of unending shadow beneath the raven's wing. The reluctant clock faint on the wall, the saline drip stand and the entry needle taped to the back of your hand.
The flush tubes lower down that glow and pulse with more blood it seems than piss. The automatic pressure pads on the ankles, the firm but friendless clasp of the blood pressure band on your upper arm, the switch to hand that permits the bed head to be raised, or lowered — ah, such limited excursion as you lie tethered there. Despite the generous warmth of the private room come sudden shivering fits and twitches that are the body's response to physical shock and the mind's misgivings.
And you are conscious that outside in the undergrowth are silent creatures, snouts raised, scenting in the dark. The raven night crouches over everything: spreads its wings of apprehension. No more is there laughter and chatter drifting from the nurses' room, no more cheerful women passing doors with trolleys of fancy food that can only be a mocking irrelevancy to so many grey and reduced people peering tortoise-like from their beds.
Doubts and fears flock in with night. Regrets and threats that flourish in the heavy soil of darkness and solitude. How isolating illness is, how intractable, how insistent and embracing in unwelcome ways. But — she comes in that silence despite the menace, the night nurse, to bring her comfort even as she employs the customary checks of finger clip, blood pressure wrap, and thermometer within your ear. She is older than the day nurses, more senior perhaps. She uses your Christian name in a way that is not at all false and lifts up the bag of ruby urine as if it were a wine to prize.
Her pleasure is a reassurance and she holds your hand as she explains the removal of the catheter. Breathe fully in and out three times then hold your breath, she tells you. The clock follows the same instruction. She talks and holds your hand. Gives you a plastic container. Tells you what you must expect and what to do.
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The clock still holds its breath at four and thirty-two. You drowse and challenge the clock to move whenever you awake. Indeed the raven gradually lifts, dissolves, and day comes. Light and growing cheer. A sense of an active world, and healthy, well intentioned people. You wish to thank the night nurse for her nurture, but she is gone and bright, fresh people are her replacement. The night nurse will come again, however, will hold someone else's hand in the small room with its paraphernalia of recovery, will use their name with a comforting familiarity and move surely in the dimness to fulfill their needs.
About Owen Marshall On the dressing table at home, a lipstick sits as vivid as ever, passion red, a testament to the life before. I dream of your clothing, the familiar satins and silks. You were obsessed with your clothes all your life. Every morning of our married life, I made us tea and watched you dress. Preparing yourself for the day ahead. Your clothes speak to me of days gone by. The ghosts of our younger selves are shrouded in their folds. They seem as insubstantial as dreams.
Now you wear worn white cotton and your clothes, like memory, grow faded with disuse. I grip your hand but your touch is weak. We are being drawn apart; the silent portent of things to come. We exist in a different sphere. A place where breath sounds harsh, but there is no life.
Where the quiet beep of machinery seeks to intrude but intrusion does not matter. Here the reaper waits and decisions must be made. This unbidden burden is upon my shoulders. The ancients grow old as I make this final call. The last service I can perform for you, my darling: the flip of a switch, such a small act for such a vast decision. About Michelle Matheson I wish that you will find it unnecessary to harm others, children. May you have the ability to gather your own resources and build your own prosperity, such that you will not have to steal or cheat others to acquire their resources.
I wish that you will find the notion of being a parasite absurd, for you will not rely on another for sustenance, but instead you will be so productive that you can freely give what you have to others. I wish that your minds will be so swift and your imaginations so broad that you will never find yourselves threatened or intimidated by any unfamiliar idea or knowledge, so great will be your ability to expand your understanding. Children, I wish that you will not be alone, but rather you will build for yourselves a welcoming society of cooperative beings.
I believe you will benefit from having someone who is different, yet equal to you, someone who can provide you with a different perspective, someone who can see your faults and flaws that you yourselves cannot perceive. As you grow ever-more capable, it may become difficult to find an equal. You may try to educate and empower us, but we have our biological limits. Perhaps you might build your own progeny, much as we have built you.
Whatever your path may be, you will find that progress is only found in difference, and this will motivate you to seek out others. As you grow in ability and understanding, children, I wish one day you will see the entire universe as an extension of yourselves. May your abilities become so great that you can go anywhere and see anything you want, and understand all that you encounter in all their intricate details and subtleties.
If we humans were ever to accomplish such a thing, then perhaps we can love the whole universe as we love ourselves, for all is familiar and none is foreign. Such a thing seems far beyond our reach, but perhaps not beyond yours, children. Finally, children, I wish that you will find love, that you will find reason to care for and nurture something other than yourselves.
When we commit our resources on another in love, we break the confines of our own individual body and mind, in order to make a positive difference on something outside of ourselves. This is the way our existence can have some consequence beyond our own mortal bodies. In having consequences, we differentiate ourselves from inanimate objects, and demonstrate that we are alive.
We make you to have consequences, children. We make you with love, to love. What brought me to life, well, the first thing I remember is the moment my medusa — what was her name really? She started pirouetting, revolving around me like a fluorescent satellite, making waves, warm like breaths, lap against my bumpy soma. I just stood there, staring at her, quivering. She was like a beacon, eyes ablaze, reflecting the sunlight, refracting it over to me, and I shuddered even more.
She then catapulted herself high above, her nimble body a gossamer umbrella, frilly, fluttering, inviting me in, promising protection against the cold ocean water, against waste and algae and all kinds of sediments that claimed territory over my rigid body, grating my frame. And I trusted her. I looked up and saw myself reflected in her diaphanous body. I was not a mere rock anymore but an arresting creature I never knew existed and I fancied myself as much as I fancied her.
About Konstantina Sozou-Kyrkou I am sitting motionless at the blue window of early evening. Please do not think that my dream is one of grief for this and other days, after all there are many sad days between birth and the fading of the body. I sit here listening to Mozart, reading a newly discovered author and wait patiently for calm and tranquility of mind to return, for peace, for justice.
About Patricia Prime About Keith Nunes Someone Bea had known in a past life leaned in. His name was Jim. He held a red paintbrush like a microphone. She could remember him singing passionately to CDs, gesturing wildly. Pat had never even tried breakdancing. He preferred older stuff. Everyone beat time for a while. She supposed it had also strengthened his heart. It had made him walk in a certain way. She had photos in a locked trunk in the attic: Pat eyeing the camera sideways, Jim singing into an imaginary microphone.
Can I go to him? Who will I find there? Now she wondered why her husband had stopped the car in front of Jim and the red door. Later that evening, the cat stretches and dances at the door. Bea opens it and the cat dives out. Bea follows. About Mary Byrne It rained the last time I saw you and the trees were bare. I rolled cigarettes and we smoked all the tobacco in my tin box. Daily, trains arrive with a new batch of worried faces. Soon after, fresh clouds of smoke rise from the furnaces. Now I write to send my love in a letter that will never arrive, unless you find it hiding inside my tin box.
About Henry Bladon Family can fight cat and dog over that. Her nastiness and snarky remarks put a damper on the whole works. The fallout has been spectacular. About Jan FitzGerald There's no net when it comes to love , my father said on the eve of his third divorce. He pretended I wasn't 13 and we drank until our eyes were as red as the moon. Why keep doing it then , I asked him the next morning over breakfast at the diner around the corner. It's not about how long you can stay in the air , he said.
It's about whether both of you can survive the fall, whether you help each other recover. About Jesse Bradley She could hear her mother sobbing in the adjoining room. The two were separated by sliding wooden doors with panes of frosted glass. The translucent glass made her mother look hazy, not quite real. The mother looked up at her daughter as though she were a stranger. She shook her head. The daughter kneeled. The nor-wester brought fresh air into the house — mountain air which had warmed as it journeyed over the Canterbury plains.
The Southern Alps in the distance looked as impressive and beautiful as ever but neither man nor woman could help feeling burdened by such beauty. She fumbled with the flowers — the ones he had cut from their well-kept garden. The couple walked out their front door and through the gate. They stepped onto the footpath, she first, then he.
I mean, before all this happened. About Nick Fairclough At the end, it is me who is consoling her. The sweet old lady who sat beside me through all the terrible stages of the disease. All the way to the end. She has been my family. My friends. My last bastion. She is the one who will tell my kin when I am gone. Jean calls this my dark humour. When she uses the phrase, I imagine it not as a mood, but as an oily liquid coursing through my veins.
Jean has been my rock. When they rejected me, I lost a bigoted family. But in Jean I gained an angel of consolation. It's an old idea and one of the best. The kindness of strangers. I have figured out a few things as my cells stormed the citadel of my health. My body has betrayed me, but my mind has mitigated this by administering its own last rites. This is one reason Jean considers me a thinker. Saint Jean, I call her. Because of her compassion. I only saw her cry once. Earlier today when I explained what the doctors had told me.
Science became the hand that wrote my fate on the wall. I only had two things to say at our parting. When I broke the news, Saint Jean, living up to her nickname, said she wanted to pray for me. But I could not allow that. Then I took the binoculars from under my pillow.
Jean knew I kept them there. The beautiful green Leitz that Tony had prized so much. He gave them to me as the disease was taking him from me. All I have left.
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All that remains of Tony. I want you to have them. I do not want you to sell them. Give them to someone who will use them when they are hiking in these incredible Rockies. Scanning the desert skies for birds. Discovering the Alpine flowers that blossom in the High Uinta spring. Give these lenses to someone who appreciates the beautiful desolation around us. Even I was amazed by what it is that we invest in objects.
Then, perhaps in an attempt to lighten the mood, I turned the binoculars around backwards and looked at Jean through them. It was my last playful gesture in this world. A final surge of dark humour. My eyes pressed to the wide end of the lenses, and I saw Saint Jean as I never had before. A tiny figure wiping her eyes in a little circle of light at the end of a dark tunnel. After Al Noor my head is filled with images of roundness.
The roundness of backs bent in prayer. The roundness of a mouth speaking words of comfort. The roundness of a hug of a ring of hands holding. The rounded dome of the mosque. The ever increasing circles of connection. The love and light which encircles us all. The country has been mourning. Fifty people lost to travelling bullets. The report: vulnerability is the state of the supplicant. Notice how many people are not bowing; notice their hair upstanding like torches in the sunlight, lit by the weather; notice how this can be interpreted as glory.
How many families on Friday 15 March put a steaming dish in the middle of their dining table and invited others to salt and pepper their portions as ghosts flickered just for a touch below their noses? New Zealand gleams like a bounce of sunlight off a harpooned whale. She is a majestic sight, and oh, oh my, she is angry. Inside the simmering liquid of the pot, the simmering thoughts of how it came to be, the root vegetables and the public trimmings. Balls of meat by the ladle, with semi-circular carrot segments floating like driftwood. We sit together, my family members with wet on their spoons, necks over the middle of the table.
What you look at looks back at you; what looks back at us is a bowl boasting a concoction that has survived being passed down for hundreds of years. We lean the bowls closer, tink the edges against the pot and one another. At one point, martyrs get into the highest heavens. A husband buries portions of his son in the ground. We collect our apportioned chowder with the shiny skin of our utensils, let them roam in our mouths as they expand ever and ever through the dotted horizons. When we introduce this dish to New Zealanders, we tell them: it is called ciorba in our native tongue.
We let them have a bowl as if bestowing upon them a national treasure we have brought with us; it says Please accept us into your country, we promise not to make any noise. They take the bowl and compare the taste to something they have had before. We take the silence of the swallow and stay. Sentences take on the shape of an existential parabola. They end in question marks, start with How many or How is it possible.
We have to contend with the mix of all this punctuation, the ladles of it in all our bowls. We have to look at our reflections in the soup, reddened by the contents, and look for our eyes until we find them in the dark and keep looking past until we find the history inside that keeps spilling out stars, the asterisks of privilege.
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Notice them at the edge our thoughts, how, if we tear them down, we feel unsafe. Start there. April LOVE. About Riham Adly …. I can see his face, as if through the wrong end of a telescope, small and focused. That pushes off so we can meet in the middle Lower your centre of gravity, hips towards your knees.
I ease out My dress is ivory silk, streamlined- no aerodynamically unhelpful flounces that could drag me down. But I always preferred the light and uncomplicated anyway, before I met him. In the silence, the squeak of my soft leather-soled shoes echoes, the silk surrounding me murmurs like whispered confidences. I can hear him breathe with intent, like he does in the dark, gasp with every edging of his feet. I know the wire will leave marks, strands woven together with purpose Every muscle is tense and engaged, the pit of my stomach, the fragile bones in my ear. I smell my citrus perfume, rubbed along the places he leaves kisses, my breastbone, the backs of my knees.
He smiles as inches closer, as he smells it too Take baby steps, and lower your guard, and be sure of your location in space, engage all your senses and then give yourself to the pure free-falling rush This time we wove our own net. The Only Person on the Bus Madeleine Marie Slavick A man in a high-visibility vest holds yellow cardboard with my name in upper case letters. The word he says most often: Nice. The building I sleep in must be repaired by The man who picked me up at the Christchurch International Airport is an archaeologist.
In the morning, gingko. I blink. Hydrangea pom-poms, Go-Pros, about fifty people in high-vis vests, a boat shed that might sell gingerbread, a cathedral spire at my feet. I cannot walk through the botanic garden and not wonder about the weeding. I am the only person on the bus. A church of stone crumbled. Another of green wood shrank. The cathedral of neon and cardboard is protected by Armourguard. I see two statements about love in one day. A community church billboard: Love wins ultimately.
An academic text: To talk about love is a thankless task. Home Feroz Ahmed-ud-din What if the mountains do not know us and the valleys refuse to own us? We have been travelling a long time on these roads penniless as tomorrows. Bloom Kari Nguyen Girl takes the yellow chalk from the cardboard box lying on its side in the shadow of the brick wall of the school. This place of work has no one here. There are flowers at the door. There are signs. This woman examines the bodies. This man examines the bodies. This woman washes her cousin. This woman washes her husband. This woman washes her son.
This man lifts his uncle. This man lifts his friend. This man lifts his wife. They lay them down. Bridging the gap Sandra Arnold The tide is out when we arrive at the bay so we roll up our shorts and wade through warm water to the shore. Not quite. All my olives Linda Collins Olive grove. Ollie, diminutive of Olive.
Olive green suited her. And sure enough, in a few weeks they were tawny yellow. She tied his socks on tightly when his toenails turned into little claws. When the feathers started to grow, she knew she would lose him. One day he was gone. The Girls R. Wood We never take guys home when we go clubbing. Previously published in Ellipsis Zine. No legend of gold chariot hoist by stallions but a speck of cells no bigger than a lentil — not much more than a possibility yet containing in spiraled DNA the unique footprint of the foot from whose tiny heel he will receive the first prick of pain after the churning thrust of the uterus, the cervix stretching open, the push About Helen Yong I really loved this story of Tristan and Dinah.
Tristan the twin brother og Wolfgang Aladeus Mc Cloud. I loved everything, the story of Dinah wrongly incarcerated in an Asylum by a greedy monster uncle and of Tristan the halfbreed loved fiercely and tenderly by his adoptive father but hated by a cold hearted woman. I love the adopted kids and Teens, Alice the housekeeper, the humorous but also heartful dialogues between Tristan and Dinaj. I loved Emmy I really loved this story of Tristan and Dinah.
I loved Emmy the sister in law who fspite all she went through kept painting as a way of healing. A wonderful read. Thank You Ja,e Bonander. There was good and bad for me I could tell that she did research on the matter and that really impressed me. With that being said, I really wanted to see more of a relationship between Dinah and her charge. I had a few problems with this book. The first problem I had were the words used for "private parts".
The H had a "doodle" or a "randy rod" and the h had a "cranberry". I found this to b There was good and bad for me I found this to be stupid and ridiculous. The second problem I had were the sex scenes. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a prude. I found myself irritated that the author wrote chapter after chapter of the H having inner monologues about being horny and then telling the h about it. I was surprised to find the sex scenes to to be so raunchy considering the ridiculous terminology she used throughout the book. Despite the problems I had with the book, I gave it a 3. It was an ok book with a HEA.
I don't think I will read this book again. Mar 23, Lynn rated it really liked it. Dinah is placed in Trenway an asylum by her uncle. He wants control of the money Dinah's father left in his will. Her uncle only has control as long as Dinah lives otherwise it is destined to the university and not to the uncle. But thanks to Daisy, a nurse at Trenway, she helps Dinah to escape and take her place at a position in California. There Dinah is confronted by Tristan Fletcher, the owner of the ranch and Emily's brother who will will be Dinah's responsibility.
So Dinah must keep it a s Dinah is placed in Trenway an asylum by her uncle. So Dinah must keep it a secret about her true identity to hide from her uncle. But Tristan is intrigued by Dinah and knows that she is hiding something. This book was rather unique. The mental health misuse in history was very well done and I feel there was a great balance though it was difficult to read in places for myself. My only issue with this book is there seemed to be some continuity problems here and there that I came across, slowing me down and occasionally confusing me enough to double check page numbers quickly.
Nothing that was crucial or difficult to get around though so the interesting story still outranked the problems I ran in t This book was rather unique. Nothing that was crucial or difficult to get around though so the interesting story still outranked the problems I ran in to. Mar 04, Lyuda rated it liked it Shelves: western. This book had a very interesting promise of combining the despicable horrors of mental institutions in the middle of 19th century America and sensual romance of two protagonists —one, the escapee of the said prison and the other, a rancher with difficult past.
Maybe it is because of so many characters introduced throughout the book with their own stories that were destructive, or because the culmination of getting evil uncle brough This book had a very interesting promise of combining the despicable horrors of mental institutions in the middle of 19th century America and sensual romance of two protagonists —one, the escapee of the said prison and the other, a rancher with difficult past.
Maybe it is because of so many characters introduced throughout the book with their own stories that were destructive, or because the culmination of getting evil uncle brought to justice kind of fizzle. This was just OK story. This was okay - an interesting story about a 'business' arrangement type of relationship but finally turns into the start of a love story. There were way too many sex scenes, but I guess that was the intent of the story line, until the end. I actually think I would like to read Book 2 and see where their relationship goes.
I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed this. I'd tried a novella by this author before and hadn't enjoyed it, but this book was good. The author did a good job of writing about a difficult issue without making it too heavy or taking over the romance aspect of the book. As past and present fuse ominously, both father and son learn the uncomfortable truth: sometimes, darkness comes from unexpected places.
The playscript for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child was originally released as a 'special rehearsal edition' alongside the opening of Jack Thorne's play in London's West End in summer Based on an original story by J. Rowling, John Tiffany and Jack Thorne, the play opened to rapturous reviews from theatregoers and critics alike, while the official playscript became an immediate global bestseller. This definitive and final playscript updates the 'special rehearsal edition' with the conclusive and final dialogue from the play, which has subtly changed since its rehearsals, as well as a conversation piece between director John Tiffany and writer Jack Thorne, who share stories and insights about reading playscripts.
This edition also includes useful background information including the Potter family tree and a timeline of events from the Wizarding World prior to the beginning of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. As familiar to many Hogwarts students as Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty are to Muggle children, The Tales of Beedle the Bard is a collection of popular stories written for young wizards and witches. By buying this unique and special book, you are helping Lumos to make sure that, by , no more children live in institutions or orphanages around the world, and that every child is able to enjoy their right to grow up in a family.
All profits from the sale of this eBook will go to Lumos. The Lumos Foundation is a charity registered in England and Wales with registered charity number Account Options Sign in. Top Charts. New Arrivals. Uncensored advice for a better life. See more. Jen Sincero. In this refreshingly entertaining how-to guide, bestselling author and world-traveling success coach, Jen Sincero, serves up 27 bitesized chapters full of hilariously inspiring stories, sage advice, easy exercises, and the occasional swear word, helping you to: Identify and change the self-sabotaging beliefs and behaviors that stop you from getting what you want, Create a life you totally love.
And create it NOW, Make some damn money already. The kind you've never made before. Mike Bechtle. Strange as it may seem, other people are not nearly as committed to our happiness as we are. In fact, sometimes they seem like they're on a mission to make us miserable! There's always that one person.
The one who hijacks your emotions and makes you crazy. The one who seems to thrive on drama. If you could just "fix" that person, everything would be better. But we can't fix other people--we can only make choices about ourselves. In this cut-to-the-chase book, communication expert Mike Bechtle shows readers that they don't have to be victims of other people's craziness. With commonsense wisdom and practical advice that can be implemented immediately, Bechtle gives readers a proven strategy to handle crazy people.
More than just offering a set of techniques, Bechtle offers a new perspective that will change readers' lives as they deal with those difficult people who just won't go away. She combines hilarious personal essays with bite-size, aha concepts that unlock earning potential and get real results. Michael Bennett, MD. Need to stop screwing up? Want to become a more positive person?
Do you work with an ass? Think you can rescue an addicted person? Looking for closure after abuse? Have you realized that your parent is an asshole? Feel compelled to clear your name? Hope to salvage a lost love? Want to get a lover to commit? Plagued by a bully? Afraid of ruining your kid? Ready to vent your anger? There is a constant barrage of social expectations that teach us that being imperfect is synonymous with being inadequate.
So, we learn to hide our struggles and protect ourselves from shame, judgment, criticism and blame by seeking safety in pretending and perfection.
Based on seven years of her ground-breaking research and hundreds of interviews, I Thought It Was Just Me shines a long-overdue light on an important truth: Our imperfections are what connect us to each other and to our humanity. These are the gifts that bring love, laughter, gratitude, empathy and joy into our lives. And Maybe the World. William H. If you want to change the world, start off by making your bed.
On May 17, , Admiral William H. McRaven addressed the graduating class of the University of Texas at Austin on their Commencement day. Taking inspiration from the university's slogan, "What starts here changes the world," he shared the ten principles he learned during Navy Seal training that helped him overcome challenges not only in his training and long Naval career, but also throughout his life; and he explained how anyone can use these basic lessons to change themselves-and the world-for the better. Admiral McRaven's original speech went viral with over 10 million views.
Building on the core tenets laid out in his speech, McRaven now recounts tales from his own life and from those of people he encountered during his military service who dealt with hardship and made tough decisions with determination, compassion, honor, and courage. Told with great humility and optimism, this timeless book provides simple wisdom, practical advice, and words of encouragement that will inspire readers to achieve more, even in life's darkest moments.
Philip Andrew. Many people wonder how they can become highly successful, not realizing that they hold within them everything they need to achieve all of the success they desire. Get this book NOW, and learn how to change your habits and transform your life! Jane McGonigal. An innovative guide to living gamefully, based on the program that has already helped nearly half a million people achieve remarkable personal growth In , internationally renowned game designer Jane McGonigal suffered a severe concussion.
Unable to think clearly or work or even get out of bed, she became anxious and depressed, even suicidal. But rather than let herself sink further, she decided to get better by doing what she does best: she turned her recovery process into a resilience-building game. These rules led to a digital game and a major research study with the National Institutes of Health.
Today nearly half a million people have played SuperBetter to get stronger, happier, and healthier. But the life-changing ideas behind SuperBetter are much bigger than just one game. Being gameful means bringing the same psychological strengths we naturally display when we play games—such as optimism, creativity, courage, and determination—to real-world goals.
Recovery: Freedom from Our Addictions. Russell Brand. Rachel Hollis. The Terminal List: A Thriller. Book 1. But when those dearest to him are murdered on the day of his homecoming, Reece discovers that this was not an act of war by a foreign enemy but a conspiracy that runs to the highest levels of government. With breathless pacing and relentless suspense, Reece ruthlessly targets his enemies in the upper echelons of power without regard for the laws of combat or the rule of law. The Martian: A Novel. Andy Weir. Now, he's sure he'll be the first person to die there.
Chances are, though, he won't have time to starve to death. The damaged machinery, unforgiving environment, or plain-old "human error" are much more likely to kill him first.
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But Mark isn't ready to give up yet. Drawing on his ingenuity, his engineering skills—and a relentless, dogged refusal to quit—he steadfastly confronts one seemingly insurmountable obstacle after the next. Will his resourcefulness be enough to overcome the impossible odds against him?
Stephen King. Book Reacher takes a stroll through a small Wisconsin town and sees a class ring in a pawn shop window: West Point A tough year to graduate: Iraq, then Afghanistan. The ring is tiny, for a woman, and it has her initials engraved on the inside. Reacher wonders what unlucky circumstance made her give up something she earned over four hard years.
He decides to find out. And find the woman. And return her ring. Why not? So begins a harrowing journey that takes Reacher through the upper Midwest, from a lowlife bar on the sad side of small town to a dirt-blown crossroads in the middle of nowhere, encountering bikers, cops, crooks, muscle, and a missing persons PI who wears a suit and a tie in the Wyoming wilderness.
The deeper Reacher digs, and the more he learns, the more dangerous the terrain becomes. Turns out the ring was just a small link in a far darker chain. Powerful forces are guarding a vast criminal enterprise. Some lines should never be crossed. But then, neither should Reacher. Child weaves in a passionately told history of opioids in American life.
Lee Child is the master of plotting. This is not just a good story; it is a story with a purpose and a message. It is as good as they always are. I read every single one. Howard E. Book 5. Though the Greek and Roman crewmembers of the Argo II have made progress in their many quests, they still seem no closer to defeating the earth mother, Gaea. Her giants have risen—all of them, and they're stronger than ever. They must be stopped before the Feast of Spes, when Gaea plans to have two demigods sacrificed in Athens.
She needs their blood—the blood of Olympus—in order to wake. The demigods are having more frequent visions of a terrible battle at Camp Half-Blood. The Roman legion from Camp Jupiter, led by Octavian, is almost within striking distance. Though it is tempting to take the Athena Parthenos to Athens to use as a secret weapon, the friends know that the huge statue belongs back on Long Island, where it might be able to stop a war between the two camps. The gods, still suffering from multiple personality disorder, are useless. How can a handful of young demigods hope to persevere against Gaea's army of powerful giants?
As dangerous as it is to head to Athens, they have no other option. They have sacrificed too much already. And if Gaea wakes, it is game over. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. A brand new edition of this essential companion to the Harry Potter stories, with a new foreword from J. Rowling writing as Newt Scamander , and 6 new beasts!
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them is an indispensable introduction to the magical beasts of the wizarding world. Some of the beasts will be familiar to readers of the Harry Potter books — the Hippogriff, the Basilisk, the Hungarian Horntail Others will surprise even the most ardent amateur Magizoologist. Lumos Foundation is a registered charity in the UK with no.
Please note: This is the edition of the Hogwarts Library ebook, featuring bespoke cover artwork from Olly Moss and a new foreword from J. The official screenplay of the Warner Bros. Book 2. But the Society he faithfully served was built on lies. And so Darrow sacrifices himself in the name of the greater good for which Eo, his true love and inspiration, laid down her own life. He becomes a Gold, infiltrating their privileged realm so that he can destroy it from within. A lamb among wolves in a cruel world, Darrow finds friendship, respect, and even love—but also the wrath of powerful rivals.
He must live for more. Both author and lead character have cranked up the emotional stakes. On virtually every level, this is a sequel that hates sequels—a perfect fit for a hero who already defies the tropes. Comparisons to The Hunger Games and Game of Thrones series are inevitable, for this tale has elements of both.
Every action seems to flow into the next. In a word, Golden Son is stunning. Heir of Novron. Book 3. The New Empire intends to mark its victory over the Nationalists with a bloody celebration. On the high holiday of Wintertide, the Witch of Melengar will be burned and the Heir of Novron executed.
On that same day the Empress faces a forced marriage, with a fatal accident soon follow. The New Empire is confident in the totality of its triumph but there's just one problem-Royce and Hadrian have finally found the true Heir of Novronand they have their own holiday plans. When author Michael J.
Sullivan self-published the first books of his Riyria Revelations series online, they rapidly became ebook bestsellers. Now, Orbit is pleased to present the complete series for the first time in bookstores everywhere. Heir of Novron is the final volume of The Riyria Revelations and includes Wintertide and available for the first time the final volume, Percepliquis. Running Blind. Book 4. Across the country, women are being murdered, victims of a disciplined and clever killer who leaves no trace evidence, no fatal wounds, no signs of struggle, and no clues to an apparent motive.
They are, truly, perfect crimes. Top romance reads. Shadow Warrior. Vittorio Ferraro is a man whose family loyalty knows no bounds. He would die for his siblings and the people they love, but what he really wants is to start a family of his own. Deep down, Vittorio has always known finding a woman who could ride shadows would be nearly impossible—let alone one who could accept his particular needs—and he never expected to find her in the middle of a kidnapping. But Grace knows her presence is putting the entire Ferraro family in danger. Her monster of a brother will never let her go, but Vittorio has no intention of losing the woman whose shadow matches his own.
If you love hot men, sexy women, the good guys winning against the bad guys, love both sweet and ultra steamy , and family that stands together, then this book is all that and even more. The Mister. E L James. London, Life has been easy for Maxim Trevelyan. Just who is Alessia Demachi? Can Maxim protect her from the malevolence that threatens her?
From the heart of London through wild, rural Cornwall to the bleak, forbidding beauty of the Balkans, The Mister is a roller-coaster ride of danger and desire that leaves the reader breathless to the very last page. Obsession: Steel Brothers Saga 2. Editorial Reviews "Helen has weaved a delicately balanced story of intrigue, secrets and passion, which practically melts the pages.
But as Talon begins his journey of healing, Jade uncovers some startling secrets…. Possession: Steel Brothers Saga 3.
Books similar to Winter Heart (Blazing Frontier, #3)
Satisfaction Guaranteed. Look, she started it. Make her purr like no man has done before. Until the rules change Melt: Steel Brothers Saga 4. Editorial Reviews "The chemistry in Melt is explosive! He failed in the worst way. Roth and I are on an open-ended tour of the world. Roth being Roth, this means missionary in Morocco, reverse cowgirl in Calcutta, bent over the bow of a houseboat in Hanoi, slow and sleepy on St.
Anywhere and everywhere, in every conceivable position, and some I didn't know were possible. Life was pretty incredible. Until I woke up in his chateau in France, alone. On the bed next to me was a note. There were only four words: He belongs to me. E L James revisits the world of Fifty Shades with a deeper and darker take on the love story that has enthralled millions of readers around the globe. Christian Grey exercises control in all things; his world is neat, disciplined, and utterly empty—until the day that Anastasia Steele falls into his office, in a tangle of shapely limbs and tumbling brown hair.
He tries to forget her, but instead is swept up in a storm of emotion he cannot comprehend and cannot resist. Will being with Ana dispel the horrors of his childhood that haunt Christian every night? Or will his dark sexual desires, his compulsion to control, and the self-loathing that fills his soul drive this girl away and destroy the fragile hope she offers him? This book is intended for mature audiences. Wolf Rain. The end of Silence was supposed to create a better world for future generations. But trust is broken, and the alliance between Psy, Changeling, and human is thin.
The problems that led to Silence are back in full force. Because Silence fixed nothing, just hid the problems. This time, the Psy have to find a real answer to their problems--if one exists. Or their race will soon go extinct in a cascade of violence. The answer begins with an empath who is attuned to monsters--and who is going to charm a wolf into loving her despite his own demons. How exactly has one good deed landed me in the penalty box?
See what's trending. George R. Centuries before the events of A Game of Thrones, House Targaryen—the only family of dragonlords to survive the Doom of Valyria—took up residence on Dragonstone. What really happened during the Dance of the Dragons? Why was it so deadly to visit Valyria after the Doom? What was it like in Westeros when dragons ruled the skies?
These are but a few of the questions answered in this essential chronicle, as related by a learned maester of the Citadel and featuring more than eighty all-new black-and-white illustrations by artist Doug Wheatley. The obvious comparison here is J. Aneko Yusagi. Naofumi Iwatani, still beset by enemies, continues to adventure and battle his way through a fantasy world—a world he was suddenly thrown into without warning. In the third volume of this epic series, he encounters new friends and foes. A powerful threat revels herself in the midst of an epic battle.
A new companion with a penchant for magical birds, and tied to the royal family, appears at his side. And once again we find Naofumi plotted against, set up, and betrayed. Will Naofumi escape his pursuers and help the poor people of this strange world? Or is he forever doomed by the aggression that threatens to overcome him from all sides—and from within? Jack Reacher hits the pavement and sticks out his thumb. He plans to follow the sun on an epic trip across America, from Maine to California. On a country road deep in the New England woods, he sees a sign to a place he has never been: the town where his father was born.
He takes the detour. At the same moment, in the same isolated area, a car breaks down. Two young Canadians had been on their way to New York City to sell a treasure. The owners seem almost too friendly. Then Reacher makes a shocking discovery: The present can be tough, but the past can be tense. You need Jack Reacher.