En: A Girl Energy-Bending between Worlds (Girl, the Pendant & the Portal)

Review "A solid series opener that hits its genre marks while also providing colorful imagery." -Kirkus Review"En is a delightful, imaginative tale...I found myself flying through the chapters wanting to find out what happens next." -Luna Lovebooks, One Book Two"5 star rating - Loved this YA book! Starts out good and then gets great. The heroine is awesome! Definitely recommend this book!" - Breane R., bookseller"...I did not want to put [it] down, and when I did have to put it down it was all I could think about. I HIGHLY recommend this book..." - Susan L., reader"EN is a brilliant YA adventure exploring themes ofchanges, friendship, family, loss, and the power it takes to become a hero." - Reviewed By Liz Konkel for Readers' Favorite About the Author Michelle Reynoso has over twenty years of professional writing experience in both corporate & creative arenas, and has been a finalist in several writing award programs. Michelle's debut book Do You? was a finalist in the Writers' Digest International Self-Published Book Awards and the New York Book Festival. Michelle is a member of several writing organizations including the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators & Wordsmith Studio, and she is also a member of the Independent Book Publishers Association. Michelle grew-up in New Hampshire, attended New York University in New York City, and currently lives in New Jersey with her husband, son, cat and several fish. To learn more about Michelle, you can visit her website at www.MichelleReynoso.com.

The Flight Attendant: A Novel

Review "Filled with turbulence and sudden plunges in altitude, The Flight Attendant is a very rare thriller whose penultimate chapter made me think to myself, 'I didn’t see that coming.' The novel—Bohjalian’s 20th— is also enhanced by his deftness in sketching out vivid characters and locales and by his obvious research into the realities of airline work." — Maureen Corrigan, The Washington Post "An expertly turned thriller… An assured novel about reckoning not just with some ruthless bad guys, but private sadness as well… [Bohjalian]’s developed a graceful hand at thriller mechanics, smoothly shifting from Cassie’s private paranoia to the intricacies of spycraft and mercenaries to the public tabloid sensation she’s become. He’s back-loaded the story with twists, from ones that were hinted at early to left-field surprises. And the brisk and busy ending is a fireworks show of redemption, revelation and old-fashioned gunplay." —Mark Athitakis, USA Today "Flight attendant Cassie Bowden: a self-destructive alcoholic who favors one-night stands, a gifted liar, a petty thief. But she's also someone we can relate to: a soul damaged during childhood, terribly alone, and desperate for love… Readers who enjoyed the imperfect heroine in Paula Hawkins's The Girl on the Train and the anxiety-ridden paranoia of Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment will be hooked by this murder mystery." — Library Journal (Starred Review) "Bohjalian is an unfaltering storyteller who crosses genres with fluidity, from historical fiction to literary thrillers…a read-in-one-sitting escapade that is as intellectually satisfying as it is emotionally entertaining." — Booklist (Starred Review) "The stakes couldn't be higher (literally)as Cassandra pieces together a mystery while working 40,000 feet above ground in Chris Bohjalian's gripping The Flight Attendant. Read it before Kaley Cuoco stars in the upcoming series!" — Cosmopolitan "Bohjalian twists the tension tight and keeps the surprises startling." —Tom Nolan, The Wall Street Journal "[Bohjalian's] 20th novel...combines popular tropes with a serious examination of social issues. Binge-drinking flight attendant Cassandra Bowden wakes up with another bad hangover in a Dubai hotel room and finds the man she spent the night with lying dead beside her... What really happened? And what are the consequences of addiction, deception, and denial? Fans are lining up." —Barbara Hoffert, Library Journal "A magnificent book…sleek and gorgeous…This is a Master Class in fiction." —Augusten Burroughs "The author provides enough twists for a roller coaster fan... The beauty of the book is that, along with the politics of the plot, Cassie’s humanity comes through...the last 100 pages turn tense as you try to follow the unexpected but believable surprises Bohjalian has in store and answers whether Cassie can find salvation." —Amanda St. Amand, St. Louis Post-Dispatch "A high-octane thriller that will have you holding your breath with every page…As if ripped from today’s headlines, Bohjalian paints a vivid portrait of death and despair on a canvas of Russian espionage." —Nicholas Addison Thomas, Fredericksburg Free Lane-Star About the Author CHRIS BOHJALIAN is the author of twenty books, including The Guest Room; Close Your Eyes, Hold Hands; The Sandcastle Girls; Skeletons at the Feast; The Double Bind; and Midwives which was a number one New York Times bestseller and a selection of Oprah's Book Club. Chris's work has been translated into more than thirty languages, and three novels have become movies ( Secrets of Eden, Midwives, and Past the Bleachers ). Chris lives in Vermont and can be found at www.chrisbohjalian.com or on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Litsy, and Goodreads. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1     She was aware first of the scent of the hotel shampoo, a Middle Eastern aroma reminiscent of anise, and then—when she opened her eyes—the way the light from the window was different from the light in the rooms in the hotel where the crew usually stayed. The morning sun was oozing through one slender line from the ceiling to the floor where the drapes, plush as they were, didn’t quite meet and blanching a strip of carpet. She blinked, not against the light but against the thumping spikes of pain behind her eyes. She needed water, but it would take a tsunami to avert the hangover that awaited. She needed Advil, but she feared the red pills that she popped like M&M’s at moments like this were distant. They were in the medicine bag in her own hotel room. In her own hotel.   And this definitely wasn’t her hotel. It was his. Had she come back here? Apparently she had. She was sure she had left. She thought she had returned to the airline’s considerably more modest accommodations. At least that had been her plan. After all, she had a plane to catch this morning.   Her mind slowly began to tackle the questions she would need to answer when she rolled over, the principal one being the most prosaic: what time was it? It seemed that the clock was on his side of the bed, because it wasn’t on hers. On her nightstand was the phone and a china tray with date and sugar cookies and three perfectly cubed Turkish delight candies, each skewered with a toothpick-sized silver spear. Time mattered, because she had to be in the lobby of the correct hotel—her hotel—with the rest of the crew by eleven fifteen, to climb with them all into the shuttle to the airport and then the flight to Paris. Everything else, including how she was going to find the courage inside her to swing her legs over the side of the bed and sit up—a task that, given how she felt, would demand the fearlessness of an Olympic gymnast—was secondary. She breathed in slowly and deeply through her nose, the noise a soft whistle, this time inhaling a smell more pronounced than the anise: sex. Yes, the room was rich with the unmistakable scent of a luxury hotel shampoo, but she could also smell herself and she could smell him, the evidential secretions from the night before. He was still there, an absolutely silent sleeper, and she would see him once she rolled over. Once she sat up.   God, if only she’d brought him back to her room. But at dinner he had slipped her a room key, telling her he would be back by nine and to please be waiting for him there. She had. His room was a suite. It was massive, impeccably decorated and bigger than her apartment in Manhattan. The coffee table in the living room was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the wood polished to the point that it reflected the light like a full moon. There was a bottle of Scotch in the bar—this was a real bar, not a minibar or campus fridge with a couple cans of Coke Zero on the lone shelf—that might cost more than the monthly maintenance on her apartment back in New York.   She closed her eyes against the shame, the disgust. She tried to remind herself that this was just who she was—how she was—and to ratchet down at least a little bit the self-loathing. Hadn’t they had fun last night? Of course they had. At least she presumed they had. When she had first opened her eyes, she had hoped for a moment that she had only been passed-out drunk, but no, it was clear that she had been blackout drunk. Again. The difference was not semantics. She experienced both. Passed-out drunk was more humiliating when it happened: she was the woman with her face half buried in the throw pillows on the couch, oblivious to the party moving on without her. Blackout drunk was more embarrassing the next morning, when she woke up in strange beds with strange men, and not a clue how she’d gotten there. She could recall this hotel room and this man, and that was a good sign, but clearly there were chasm-like gaps in her memory. The last thing she could recall was leaving. In her memory, she was dressed and she was exiting this suite, and he was in one of those marvelous hotel room robes, black and white zebra stripes on the exterior, terrycloth on the inside, and joking about the broken bottle of Stoli they had yet to clean up. He’d mumbled that he would deal with it—the spilled vodka, the dagger-like shards—in the morning.   And yet here she was. Back in his bed.   She sighed slowly, carefully, so as not to exacerbate her looming headache. Finally she lifted her head and felt a wave of nausea as the room spun. Instantly she sank back into the pillow’s voluptuous, downy welcome.   On the plane, he had been wearing cologne, something woody she liked and he had told her was Russian. He loved the Russians, he said. Yes, he was an American, a southern boy, he joked, but he was descended from Russians and felt he still had a Russian soul. Pushkin. Eugene Onegin. Something about the gleamings of an empty heart. The Russians poured money into his hedge fund, he beamed—and it was a beam, not a boast, it was so childlike—and the crazy oligarchs were like uncles to him. They were like teddy bears, not Russian bears, in his hands.   She couldn’t smell the cologne now, and then she remembered showering with him. It was a large, elegant shower of black-and-white-striped marble, including a marble bench, where he had sat down and pulled her onto his lap as he washed her hair with that anise shampoo.   His name was Alexander Sokolov, and he was probably seven or eight years her junior: early thirties, she guessed. He liked to be called Alex because he said Al sounded too American. In a perfect world, he confessed, he would be called Alexander because that sounded Russian. But when he started work, his bosses had suggested he stick with Alex: it was internationally neutral, which was important given the amount of time he spent overseas. He had grown up in Virginia, though he had no trace of a southern accent at all, and lived now on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, running a fund at Unisphere Asset Management. He was a math geek, which he said was the secret to his success and why his fund delivered the sorts of returns that kept everyone on both sides of the Atlantic so happy. It was evident that he enjoyed the work, though he insisted that in reality there were few things duller than managing other people’s money, and so mostly he wanted to talk about what she did. Her war stories. He was utterly fascinated.   He had been in 2C on the flight to Dubai and he hadn’t slept much on the plane—if at all. He had worked on his laptop, he had watched movies, and he had flirted with her. He had gotten to know her much better than she had gotten to know him. Before landing, they’d agreed they’d each take a catnap and then rendezvous for dinner. They were going to meet in his hotel lobby. They’d both known that dinner would be mere foreplay. She rolled his name over again in her mind one more time before bracing herself to turn over and face the whitecap breakers of pain. To face him. One more time she thought of how much arak she had drunk last night. One hundred and twenty proof. The clear liquid becoming the color of watery milk once they added the ice. And then there was the vodka, the Stolichnaya his friend had brought later that night. She’d drunk arak before; she drank it whenever she flew into Beirut, Istanbul, or Dubai. But had she ever drunk this much? She told herself no, but she was kidding herself. She had. Of course she had. One of these days she was going to get busted by the airline; one of these days she was going to fly too close to the sun and fail a drug test, and that would be the beginning of the end. It would be the beginning of the end of everything. She would be following the trail her father had hewn, and she knew where that ended.   No, it wasn’t her father’s trail, precisely, because he was male and she was female. She knew the truth of men and women and booze: it rarely ended well for either gender, but it was the women who wound up raped.   She sighed. It was too bad the airline didn’t fly into Riyadh. The hotel minibars in Saudi didn’t even have alcohol. She’d have to wear an ankle-length abaya. She wouldn’t be out alone, ever, so she wouldn’t be out picking up men, ever. Meeting them in their hotel lobbies. Ever.   She thought she might have been fine right now if Alex hadn’t taken that call from his friend and had them get dressed. The woman—and Cassie believed that her name was Miranda, but even if this hadn’t been one of her blackout benders, her memory this morning was still pretty damn foggy—had phoned just after they’d emerged from the shower, clean and postcoital and still a little drunk, and said she was going to stop by the hotel room for a nightcap. Cassie thought she was somehow involved in the hedge fund, too, and was going to be in the same meetings with Alex tomorrow. She may also have had something to do with Dubai real estate, but Cassie wasn’t sure where she had gotten this idea.   When Miranda arrived at the suite, it was clear that she and Alex really had very little history together, and were actually meeting for the first time. And yet they had a past that transcended work: it seemed they had mutual friends and business connections in the construction that was everywhere in this science fiction–like city by the sea. She was his age, with dark almond eyes and deep auburn hair that she had pulled back into an impeccable French twist. She was wearing baggy black slacks and an elegant but modest red and black tunic. And she sure as hell could hold her booze. The three of them had sat in the suite’s sumptuous living room for perhaps an hour, maybe a little longer, as they drained the vodka Miranda had brought. It crossed Cassie’s mind that this was some sort of planned threesome, and while she wasn’t about to initiate it herself, she knew she’d be game if either Alex or Miranda did. Something about the moment—the booze, the banter, the suite—had her aroused once again. Alex and Miranda were in chairs on opposite sides of that exquisite coffee table and she was alone on the couch, and somehow the fact that the three of them were a few feet apart made the moment feel even more heated. But, in the end, this wasn’t about a threesome. Miranda left, giving both her and Alex only air kisses beside their cheeks before Alex shut the door behind her. Still, Miranda couldn’t even have reached the elevator down some distant corridor before Alex was stripping off her clothes, then his, and they were making love again, this time in the bedroom on that magnificent king with the massive headboard that was shaped like an Arabian arch.   But then she had gotten dressed. She had. She knew she had. She was going to return to the airline’s hotel. Hadn’t she said good-bye to him at the entrance to his suite? Hadn’t she even gotten as far as the elevator, wherever it was, on his floor?   Maybe. Maybe not.   It really didn’t matter, because clearly she had come back to his room and climbed back into his bed.   Assuming, of course, that she had even really left. Maybe she was remembering the walk alone from the restaurant to his hotel room after dinner, when Alex had said he had a brief meeting with an investor. He’d told her he wanted her waiting for him naked in his room. She’d obliged.   And now here she was, naked again.   Finally she took a breath, cringing against the spikes behind her eyes, and turned 180 degrees in the bed to face Alex.   And there he was. For a split second, her mind registered only the idea that something was wrong. It may have been the body’s utter stillness, but it may also have been the way she could sense the amphibian cold. But then she saw the blood. She saw the great crimson stain on the pillow, and a slick, still wet pool on the crisp white sheets. He was flat on his back. She saw his neck, the yawning red trench from one side of his jaw to the other, and how the blood had geysered onto his chest and up against the bottom of his chin, smothering the black stubble like honey.   Reflexively, despite the pain, she threw off the sheet and leapt from the bed, retreating into those drapes against the window. It was while standing there, her arms wrapped around her chest like a straitjacket, that she noticed there was blood on her, too. It was in her hair and on her shoulder. It was on her hands. (Later, when she was in the elevator, she would surmise that the only reason she hadn’t screamed was self-preservation. Given the way her head was pulsating, the sound of her own desperate, panicked shriek might have killed her.)   Had she ever seen so much blood? Not from a human. A deer, maybe, back when she was a kid in Kentucky. But not a person. Never.   On the other side of the body, on the far side of the bed, was the clock. It was digital. It read 9:51. She had not quite ninety minutes to be in the lobby of another hotel and ready to leave for the airport and the flight back to Paris and then, tomorrow, home to JFK.   Her back against the drapes, she slid first into a baseball catcher’s pose and then onto the floor. She tried to focus, to make decisions. Her mind only slowed when she spotted the swath of broken glass on the floor, a constellation on the carpet between the foot of the bed and the elegant credenza inside which was the TV. Once upon a time, it had been the bottle of Stoli that Miranda had brought; now it was mostly slivers and triangular fragments that were almost pretty, though the neck was still attached to the shoulder and the shoulder was a jagged edge. And then, when she realized what that might mean, she felt the nausea rising up inside her. She raced to the bathroom with her hands on her mouth, as if her fingers really had any chance—any chance at all—of damming such a gravity-defying waterfall, and made it the toilet. But just barely. Read more

Four Stars

A Spark of Light: A Novel

Amazon.com Review An Amazon Best Book of October 2018: Jodi Picoult again tackles a controversial topic with remarkable dexterity in her latest novel, A Spark of Light . Working backwards in time from a shooting in an abortion clinic, Picoult uses multiple narratives to peel back the layers of events, circumstances, and emotions that led up to the tragic incident that kicked off the book. Both sides of the abortion debate are represented and perspectives shift — in both directions—once abortion is no longer a theoretical question. There are tough moments in the book; the characters face heartbreaking choices, self-doubt, and fear, but Picoult treats her subject and story with great care and respect. A Spark of Light is incredibly timely. Picoult’s latest is a thought provoking read that will inspire conversation and appeal to both the author’s existing fans and newcomers to her work. —Seira Wilson, Amazon Book Review Review “Picoult at her fearless best . . . Timely, balanced and certain to inspire debate.” — The Washington Post “This is Jodi Picoult at her best: tackling an emotional hot-button issue and putting a human face on it.” — People “Told backward and hour by hour, Jodi Picoult’s compelling narrative deftly explores controversial social issues.” — Us Weekly “Thoroughly realistic storytelling . . . Picoult has achieved what politicians across the spectrum have not been able to: humanized a hot-button issue. Excellent for book clubs, this should also be considered for discussions in critical thinking and political debate.” — Library Journal (starred review) “The author presents the white-knuckled narrative in a reverse-chronological order. The effect is mesmerizing, as Picoult establishes moments in the overarching event, before revealing how they came to be.” — Houston Chronicle “Picoult delivers another riveting yarn . . . in this carefully crafted, utterly gripping tale.” — Booklist (starred review) “An important and thoughtful read that is perfect for book clubs looking for deep conversations.” — PopSugar “Novels such as this . . . are necessary” — Kirkus Reviews About the Author Jodi Picoult is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of twenty-three novels, including Small Great Things, Leaving Time, The Storyteller, Lone Wolf, Sing You Home, House Rules, Handle with Care, Change of Heart, Nineteen Minutes, and My Sister’s Keeper . She is also the author, with daughter Samantha van Leer, of two young adult novels, Between the Lines and Off the Page . Picoult lives in New Hampshire. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Center squatted on the corner of Juniper and Montfort behind a wrought-iron gate, like an old bulldog used to guarding its territory. At one point, there had been many like it in Mississippi— nondescript, unassuming buildings where services were provided and needs were met. Then came the restrictions that were designed to make these places go away: The halls had to be wide enough to accommodate two passing gurneys; any clinic where that wasn’t the case had to shut down or spend thousands on reconstruction. The doctors had to have admitting privileges at local hospitals—even though most were from out of state and couldn’t secure them—or the clinics where they practiced risked closing, too. One by one the clinics shuttered their windows and boarded up their doors. Now, the Center was a unicorn—a small rectangle of a structure painted a fluorescent, flagrant orange, like a flag to those who had traveled hundreds of miles to find it. It was the color of safety; the color of warning. It said: I’m here if you need me. It said, Do what you want to me; I’m not going .    The Center had suffered scars from the cuts of politicians and the barbs of protesters. It had licked its wounds and healed. At one point it had been called the Center for Women and Reproductive Health. But there were those who believed if you do not name a thing, it ceases to exist, and so its title was amputated, like a war injury. But still, it survived. First it became the Center for Women. And then, just: the Center.    The label fit. The Center was the calm in the middle of a storm of ideology. It was the sun of a universe of women who had run out of time and had run out of choices, who needed a beacon to look up to.    And like other things that shine so hot, it had a magnetic pull. Those in need found it the lodestone for their navigation. Those who despised it could not look away.    Today, Wren McElroy thought, was not a good day to die. She knew that other fifteen-year-old girls romanticized the idea of dying for love, but Wren had read Romeo and Juliet last year in eighth-grade English and didn’t see the magic in waking up in a crypt beside your boyfriend, and then plunging his dagger into your own ribs. And Twilight —forget it. She had listened to teachers paint the stories of heroes whose tragic deaths somehow enlarged their lives rather than shrinking them. When Wren was six, her grandmother had died in her sleep. Strangers had said over and over that dying in your sleep was a blessing, but as she stared at her nana, waxen white in the open coffin, she didn’t understand why it was a gift. What if her grandmother had gone to bed the night before thinking, In the morning, I’ll water that orchid . In the morning, I’ll read the rest of that novel. I’ll call my son. So much left unfinished. No, there was just no way dying could be spun into a good thing.    Her grandmother was the only dead person Wren had ever seen, until two hours ago. Now, she could tell you what dying looked like, as opposed to just dead. One minute, Olive had been there, staring so fierce at Wren—as if she could hold on to the world if her eyes stayed open—and then, in a beat, those eyes stopped being windows and became mirrors, and Wren saw only a reflection of her own panic.    She didn’t want to look at Olive anymore, but she did. The dead woman was lying down like she was taking a nap, a couch cushion under her head. Olive’s shirt was soaked with blood, but had ridden up on the side, revealing her ribs and waist. Her skin was pale on top and then lavender, with a thin line of deep violet where her back met the floor. Wren realized that was because Olive’s blood was settling inside, just two hours after she’d passed. For a second, Wren thought she was going to throw up.    She didn’t want to die like Olive, either.
Which, given the circumstances, made Wren a horrible person. The odds were highly unlikely, but if Wren had to choose, she would die in a black hole. It would be instant and it would be epic. Like, literally, you’d be ripped apart at the atomic level. You’d become stardust.    Wren’s father had taught her that. He bought her her first telescope, when she was five. He was the reason she’d wanted to be an astronaut when she was little, and an astrophysicist as soon as she learned what one was. He himself had had dreams of commanding a space shuttle that explored every corner of the universe, until he got a girl pregnant. Instead of going to grad school, he had married Wren’s mom and become a cop and then a detective and had explored every corner of Jackson, Mississippi, instead. He told Wren that working for NASA was the best thing that never happened to him.    When they were driving back from her grandmother’s funeral, it had snowed. Wren—a child who’d never seen weather like that in Mississippi before—had been terrified by the way the world swirled, unmoored. Her father had started talking to her: Mission Specialist McElroy, activate the thrusters . When she wouldn’t stop crying, he began punching random buttons: the air-conditioning, the four-way flashers, the cruise control. They lit up red and blue like a command center at Mission Control. Misison Specialist McElroy, her father said , prepare for hyperspace . Then he flicked on his brights, so that the snow became a tunnel of speeding stars, and Wren was so amazed she forgot to be scared.    She wished she could flick a switch now, and travel back in time. She wished she had told her dad she was coming here.
She wished she had let him talk her out of it.
She wished she hadn’t asked her aunt to bring her.    Aunt Bex might even now be lying in a morgue, like Olive, her body becoming a rainbow. And it was all Wren’s fault. You, said the man with a gun, his voice dragging Wren back to the here and now. He had a name, but she didn’t want to even think of it. It made him human and he wasn’t human; he was a monster. While she’d been lost in thought, he’d come to stand in front of her. Now, he jerked the pistol at her. Get up. The others held their breath with her. They had, in the past few hours, become a single organism. Wren’s thoughts moved in and out of the other women’s minds. Her fear stank on their skin.    Blood still bloomed from the bandage the man had wrapped around his hand. It was the tiniest of triumphs. It was the reason Wren could stand up, even though her legs were jelly.    She shouldn’t have come to the Center.
She should have stayed a little girl.
Because now she might not live to become anything else.
Wren heard the hammer click and closed her eyes. All she could picture was her father’s face—the blue-jean eyes, the gentle bend of his smile—as he looked up at the night sky.    When George Goddard was five years old, his mama tried to set his daddy on fire. His father had been passed out on the couch when his mother poured the lighter fluid over his dirty laundry, lit a match, and dumped the flaming bin on top of him. The big man reared up, screaming, batting at the flames with his ham hands. George’s mama stood a distance away with a glass of water. Mabel, his daddy screamed. Mabel! But his mama calmly drank every last drop, sparing none to extinguish the flames. When George’s father ran out of the house to roll in the dirt like a hog, his mama turned to him. Let that be a lesson to you, she said.    He had not wanted to grow up like his daddy, but in the way that an apple seed can’t help but become an apple tree, he had not become the best of husbands. He knew that now. It was why he had resolved to be the best of fathers. It was why, this morning, he had driven all this way to the Center, the last standing abortion clinic in the state of Mississippi.    What they’d taken away from his daughter she would never get back, whether she realized it now or not. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t exact a price.    He looked around the waiting room. Three women were huddled on a line of seats, and at their feet was the nurse, who was checking the bandage of the doctor. George scoffed. Doctor, my ass. What he did wasn’t healing, not by any stretch of the imagination. He should have killed the guy— would have killed the guy—if he hadn’t been interrupted when he first arrived and started firing.    He thought about his daughter sitting in one of those chairs. He wondered how she’d gotten here. If she had taken a bus. If a friend had driven her or (he could not even stand to think of it) the boy who’d gotten her in trouble. He imagined himself in an alternate universe, bursting through the door with his gun, seeing her in the chair next to the pamphlets about how to recognize an STD. He would have grabbed her hand and pulled her out of there.    What would she think of him, now that he was a killer?
How could he go back to her?
How could he go back, period?
Eight hours ago this had seemed like a holy crusade—an eye for an eye, a life for a life.    His wound had a heartbeat. George tried to adjust the binding of the gauze around it with his teeth, but it was unraveling. It should have been tied off better, but who here was going to help him?    The last time he had felt like this, like the walls were closing in on him, he had taken his infant daughter—red and screaming with a fever he didn’t know she had and wouldn’t have known how to treat— and gone looking for help. He had driven until his truck ran out of gas—it was past one a.m., but he started walking—and continued until he found the only building with a light on inside, and an unlocked door. It was flat-roofed and unremarkable—he hadn’t known it was a church until he stepped inside and saw the benches and the wooden relief of Jesus on the cross. The lights he had seen outside were candles, flickering on an altar. Come back, he had said out loud to his wife, who was probably halfway across the country by now. Maybe he was tired, maybe he was delusional, but he very clearly heard a reply: I’m already with you . The voice whispered from the wooden Jesus and at the same time from the darkness all around him.    George’s conversion had been that simple, and that enveloping. Somehow, he and his girl had fallen asleep on the carpeted floor. In the morning, Pastor Mike was shaking him awake. The pastor’s wife was cooing at his baby. There was a groaning table of food, and a miraculously spare room. Back then, George hadn’t been a religious man. It wasn’t Jesus that entered his heart that day. It was hope.    Hugh McElroy, the hostage negotiator George had been talking to for hours, said George’s daughter would know he had been trying to protect her. He’d promised that if George cooperated, this could still end well, even though George knew that outside this building were men with rifles trained on the door just waiting for him to emerge.    George wanted this to be over. Really, he did. He was exhausted mentally and physically and it was hard to figure out an endgame. He was sick of the crying. He wanted to skip ahead to the part where he was sitting by his daughter again, and she was looking up at him with wonder, the way she used to.    But George also knew Hugh would say anything to get him to surrender to the police. It wasn’t even just his job. Hugh McElroy needed him to release the hostages for the same reason that George had taken them in the first place—to save the day.    That’s when George figured out what he was going to do. He pulled back the hammer on the gun. “Get up. You,” he said, pointing to the girl with the name of a bird, the one who had stabbed him. The one he would use to teach Hugh McElroy a lesson. Read more

Burying the Honeysuckle Girls

Review “This novel doesn’t stop running, and neither would you if you were Althea Bell. She’s just learned that for three generations the women in her family have vanished or died on their thirtieth birthday—and hers is fast approaching. To survive, she must race to solve a century-old mystery. Emily Carpenter has written a hell of a thriller with language as lush as its Southern setting.” —Benjamin Percy, author of The Dead Lands , Red Moon , The Wilding , and Refresh, Refresh “Southern Gothic in all its creepy inbred finery. I found myself rooting for recovering addict Althea as she teeters on the brink of relapse while uncovering the horrific secret behind her family’s inherited madness and premature death.” —Amy Plum, international bestselling author “Emily Carpenter weaves a masterful web of Southern gothic family drama and spine-tingling mystery. A must read.” —M.J. Pullen, author of The Marriage Pact and Regrets Only About the Author Emily Carpenter, a former actor, producer, screenwriter, and behind-the-scenes soap opera assistant, graduated with a bachelor of arts degree from Auburn University. Born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, she now lives in Georgia with her family. Burying the Honeysuckle Girls is her first novel. Visit Emily online at www.emilycarpenterauthor.com.

Until the Day I Die: A Novel

Review “In this chilling psychological thriller…Carpenter keeps the suspense high all the way to the shocking conclusion.” ― Publishers Weekly “Fast-paced and teeming with long-held secrets, Emily Carpenter’s Until the Day I Die will have you rooting for the whip-smart, resilient mother-daughter team of Erin and Shorie Gaines as they race against time and unknown evil to salvage the life they have so carefully crafted. The twisty, jaw-dropping conclusion of this electrifying thriller will leave you guessing and gasping for breath right up to the final page. A must-read!” ―Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence and Not a Sound “Seductively sinister, with a fierce, feisty mother-daughter duo you’ll be cheering for. A fast, frightening read.” ―Jessica Strawser, author of Not That I Could Tell “This shocking cat-and-mouse thriller will shatter your expectations―and Carpenter’s skill for brilliant and twisty storytelling will have you gasping in surprise. Buckle up for a terrific ride―this is timely, unpredictable, and irresistible!” ―Hank Phillippi Ryan, nationally bestselling author of Trust Me “In Until the Day I Die , Emily Carpenter proves once again she’s a thriller powerhouse. Packed with heroines you’ll cheer for, villains you’ll love to hate, and plot twists galore, this story will have you on the edge of your seat until you breathlessly turn the last page. What a ride!” ―Hannah Mary McKinnon, author of The Neighbors About the Author Emily Carpenter is the bestselling author of three thrillers, Every Single Secret , Burying the Honeysuckle Girls , and The Weight of Lies . A graduate from Auburn University with a bachelor of arts in speech communication, Emily has worked as an actor, producer, screenwriter, and behind-the-scenes soap opera assistant for CBS TV. Raised in Birmingham, Alabama, she moved to New York City for a little while to pursue her career before moving back to the South. She now lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her family. Visit Emily at www.emilycarpenterauthor.com and on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

Maid: Hard Work, Low Pay, and a Mother's Will to Survive

Review "A single mother's personal, unflinching look at America's class divide, a description of the tightrope many families walk just to get by, and a reminder of the dignity of all work." ― President Barack Obama, "Obama's 2019 Summer Reading List" President Barack Obama, Summer Reading List (2019) Forbes , Most Anticipated Books of the Year Glamour , Best Books of the Year Time , 11 New Books to Read This January Vulture , 8 New Books You Should Read This January Thrillist , All the Books We Can't Wait to Read in 2019 USA Today , 5 New Books Not to Miss Amazon, Best Books of the Month Detroit News , New Books to Look Forward to in 2019 The Missoulian , Best Books of the Month San Diego Entertainer , Books to Kick Off Your New Year People , Perfect for Your Book Club Boston.com, 20 Books to Look Out for in 2019 Hello Giggles , Best New Books to Read This Week Newsweek, Best Books of 2019 So Far CNN Travel , Books You Should Read This Summer Mental Floss , Summer Reading List BookTrib, B ooks That Will Make You Look Smart at the Beach! "More than any book in recent memory, Land nails the sheer terror that comes with being poor, the exhausting vigilance of knowing that any misstep or twist of fate will push you deeper into the hole."― The Boston Globe "Stephanie Lands memoir [ Maid ] is a bracing one."― The Atlantic "An eye-opening journey into the lives of the working poor."― People, Perfect for Your Book Club "The particulars of Land's struggle are sobering, but it's the impression of precariousness that is most memorable."― The New Yorker "[Land's] book has the needed quality of reversing the direction of the gaze. Some people who employ domestic labor will read her account. Will they see themselves in her descriptions of her clients? Will they offer their employees the meager respect Land fantasizes about? Land survived the hardship of her years as a maid, her body exhausted and her brain filled with bleak arithmetic, to offer her testimony. It's worth listening to."― New York Times Book Review "What this book does well is illuminate the struggles of poverty and single-motherhood, the unrelenting frustration of having no safety net, the ways in which our society is systemically designed to keep impoverished people mired in poverty, the indignity of poverty by way of unmovable bureaucracy, and people's lousy attitudes toward poor people... Land's prose is vivid and engaging... [A] tightly-focused, well-written memoir... an incredibly worthwhile read."― Roxane Gay, New York Times bestselling author of Bad Feminist and Hunger: A Memoir "An eye-opening exploration of poverty in America."― Bustle "Marry the evocative first person narrative of Educated with the kind of social criticism seen in Nickel and Dimed and you'll get a sense of the remarkable book you hold in your hands. In Maid , Stephanie Land, a gifted storyteller with an eye for details you'll never forget, exposes what it's like to exist in America as a single mother, working herself sick cleaning our dirty toilets, one missed paycheck away from destitution. It's a perspective we seldom see represented firsthand-and one we so desperately need right now. Timely, urgent, and unforgettable, this is memoir at its very best."― Susannah Cahalan, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness "For readers who believe individuals living below the poverty line are lazy and/or intellectually challenged, this memoir is a stark, necessary corrective.... [T]he narrative also offers a powerful argument for increasing government benefits for the working poor during an era when most benefits are being slashed.... An important memoir that should be required reading for anyone who has never struggled with poverty."― Kirkus Reviews, starred review " Maid provides an important look at the morass of difficulties faced by the working poor."― Elle Magazine "[A] heartfelt and powerful debut memoir.... Land's love for her daughter... shines brightly through the pages of this beautiful, uplifting story of resilience and survival."― Publishers Weekly, starred review "[A] vivid and visceral yet nearly unrelenting memoir... Her journey offers an illuminating read that should inspire outrage, hope, and change."― Library Journal "Raw...Land [is] a gifted storyteller...Offers moments of levity...[ Maid ] shows we need to create an economy in which single motherhood and the risk of poverty do not go hand in hand."― Ms. Magazine "A heartfelt memoir."― Harvard Business Review " Maid delves into her time working for the upper middle class in the service industry, and in it, uncovers the true strength of the human spirit."― San Diego Entertainer, Books to Kick Off Your New Year "In writing about the spaces outside of her work, though, Land gives shape to the depleting anxiety and isolation that accompany motherhood in poverty for millions of Americans."― The Nation "[An] example of the determination and grace [is] on display in her memoir, in which she renders vividly the back-breaking and often surreal work of deep-cleaning strangers' homes while navigating the baffling bureaucracies of government assistance programs."― Salon "The book, with its unfussy prose and clear voice, holds you. It's one woman's story of inching out of the dirt and how the middle class turns a blind eye to the poverty lurking just a few rungs below -- and it's one worth reading."― The Washington Post "It is with beautiful prose that Land chronicles her time working as a housekeeper to make ends meet...Captur[es] the experience of hardworking Americans who make little money and are often invisible to their employers."― Boston.com, 20 Books to Read in 2019 "Fascinating...Communicates clearly the challenges of a marginal existence as a single mother living in poverty as she sought to provide a stable and predictable home for her daughter in a situation that was anything but stable and predictable."― The Columbus Dispatch "Takes readers inside the gritty, unglamorous life of the underpaid, overworked people who serve the upper-middle class for a living."― Parade "Stephanie Land strips class divisions bare in her phenomenal memoir Maid , providing a profoundly important expose on the economy of being a single mother in America. This is the warrior cry from the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, reminding us to change our lives and remember how to see each other. Standing ovation. Not since Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed has the working woman's real life been so honestly illuminated."― Lidia Yuknavitch, author of The Book of Joan "In a country whose frayed safety net gets less policy attention than the marginal tax rate, Land is the anomaly not only in surviving to tell the tale - and in telling it with such compelling economy."― Vulture, 8 New Books You Should Read this January "Land's memoir forces readers to examine their implicit judgments about what we mean by the value of hard work in America and societal expectations of motherhood."― Electric Lit "Honest, unapologetic, and beautifully written."― Hello Giggles "Tells an honest story many are too afraid to examine."― SheKnows.com "A moving, intimate, essential account of life in poverty."― Entertainment Weekly, Must List "The next time you hear someone say they think poor people are lazy, hand them a copy of Maid ."― Minneapolis Star-Tribune "Stephanie Land's heartrending book, Maid , provides a trenchant reminder that something is amiss with the American Dream and gives voice to the millions of 'working poor' toiling in a country that needs them but doesn't want to see them. A sad and hopeful tale of being on the outside looking in, the author makes us wonder how'd we fare scrubbing and vacuuming away the detritus of an affluence that always seems beyond reach."― Steve Dublanica, New York Times bestselling author of Waiter Rant "In a perfect world, Maid would become required reading in schools across the country."― North Bay Bohemian "As a solo mom and former house cleaner, this brave book resonated with me on a very deep level. We live in a world where the solo mother is an incomplete story: adrift in the world without a partner, without support, without a grounding, centering (male) force. But women have been doing this since the dawn of time, and Stephanie Land is one of millions of solo moms forced to get blood from stone. She is at once an old and new kind of American hero. This memoir of resilience and love has never been more necessary."― Domenica Ruta, New York Times bestselling author of With or Without You "A fun read."― South Platte Sentinel " Maid is a testament to a young mother's survival skills - a constantly shifting balance of back-breaking labor, single-parenting responsibilities, complying with rules and regulations, college course-work, attitude adjustments and diplomacy on all fronts... The book is a gift of hope and joy for anyone lucky enough to see beyond blame."― Wicked Local "It's as much a story about resilience as it is a hard look at current systems in place to help impoverished people and how hard they are to navigate. It's eye-opening and inspiring--a definite must-read!"― Style Blueprint "If this memoir doesn't shake you up and give you a stronger understanding of poverty in America, your heart must be made of coal. Stephanie Land, who spent years in poverty, clues you in to what it's really like to live in a shelter. It's hard to think that a white paper or TV documentary could say it as well as she does."― Florida Times-Union " Maid is an important work of journalism that offers an insightful and unique perspective on a segment of the working poor from someone who has lived it."― Amazon Book Review "I loved this story about one woman surviving impossible circumstances."― Reese Witherspoon "An empowering story of a woman determined to pull herself up in life through which we all feel stronger!"― Gretchen Carlson, Politico " Maid is a beautiful book and a sad book and even, at times, a joyful book--a story of a mother's love for her daughter--but most of all it's an important book about the U.S. economy and what it does to people."― Daily Kos "Maid-part Educated , part Hillbilly Elegy -is an eye-opening portrait of how privilege and the female working class can commingle."― Glamour About the Author STEPHANIE LAND's work has been featured in the New York Times , the Washington Post , The Atlantic , the Guardian , and many others. Her writing focuses on social and economic justice. BARBARA EHRENREICH is the author of fourteen books, including the bestselling Nickel and Dimed and Bait and Switch . She lives in Virginia.

Divine Order Attracts Divine Power

The Tomb: A Novel of Martha (The Living Water Series)

Review "A vivid retelling of a Bible story we've all heard but perhaps never completely understood in all its facets until now. With a main character human enough for us all to identify with, The Tomb is a poignant tale of secrets too long guarded, the tenacity of love, and the freeing power of grace." -- Tosca Lee, New York Times bestselling author of Iscariot“ The Tomb by author Stephanie Landsem brings the story of Martha, the over-anxious sister of Mary and Lazarus, into a dramatic and unexpected light. Often when we read the biblical story, we don't stop to think about who these people were, what they thought, how they lived, especially when we are unfamiliar with the culture of the day. The Tomb gives us a rich glimpse into that culture and into the lives of these characters, their hopes, their joys, their fears. You will never see Martha quite the same way again. An intriguing, fascinating read.” -- Jill Eileen Smith, bestselling author of the Wives of King David series“Stephanie Landsem delivers a fascinating perspective on Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. Gripping yet tender, The Tomb weaves these Bethany siblings into the lives of supporting Gospel characters, beckoning readers to that poignant moment when the Son of God wept. Satisfying. Inspiring. Beautiful.” -- Mesu Andrews, award-winning author of Love Amid the Ashes“Stephanie Landsem has a gift for telling stories of eternal significance through the eyes of ordinary people. Powerful and tender, The Tomb carries us from the shadow of the valley of death to the glory of the resurrection, while keeping the hopes and dreams of its characters relevant to today's readers.” -- Regina Jennings, author of A Most Inconvenient Marriage and Caught in the Middle“Once I picked up The Tomb I couldn’t put it down. Landsem’s novel about Martha is not only a riveting page-turner; it’s a profound and uplifting story about people transformed by faith.” -- Rebecca Kanner, author of Sinners and the Sea"Powerful and moving, Landsem grabs hold of the soul and never lets go. As compelling a portrait of mercy as I have ever read. Don't miss this one!" -- Siri Mitchell, author of The Messenger“In Stephanie Landsem’s latest novel, Martha, Mary, and Lazarus are real enough to invite you into their Bethany home, sit you before the fire, and fill your belly with barley stew and warm bread. The Tomb is an enthralling tale, impeccably researched, full of delightful characters. As women, we have always been told to emulate Mary, the sister who chose to worship at Jesus’ feet. But Landsem’s Martha has much to teach us, about love, loyalty, honor, faith—and the true measure of a family.” -- Carole Towriss, author of In the Shadow of the Sinai“Once again, Stephanie Landsem weaves a masterful tale of danger, intrigue, and love as she draws from the familiar story of two sisters, Mary and Martha, and their brother, Lazarus. Landsem pulls the reader into unexpected corners of history as this humble family does their best to figure out who Jesus really is and what his radical message means for them. She pulls from scripture and traditions passed down through the centuries to explore the human experience behind these beloved characters, breathing new life into the story in clever and surprising ways.” -- Laura Sobiech, author of Fly a Little Higher“Landsem creates a beautiful tapestry of familiar New Testament stories, woven together with fresh insight into what it looked like to walk alongside Jesus, encountering both the mundane and the mysterious in the man who brought the kingdom even to small villages.” -- Tracy Higley, author of The Queen’s Handmaid“Triumphant! Landsem’s words resound with hope and healing, with freedom from the chains which bind us all.” -- Siri Mitchell, author of Like A Flower in Bloom About the Author Stephanie Landsem writes historical fiction because she loves adventure in far-off times and places. In real life, she’s explored ancient ruins, medieval castles, and majestic cathedrals around the world. Stephanie is equally happy at home in Minnesota with her husband, four children, and three fat cats. When she’s not writing, she’s feeding the ravenous horde, avoiding housework, and dreaming about her next adventure—whether it be in person or on the page. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Tomb Read more

Mother Dear: A Thriller

About the Author Nova Lee Maier is a pseudonym of Dutch bestselling author Esther Verhoef, whose psychological thrillers and novels have sold more than 2.5 million copies in the Netherlands. Esther is the recipient of numerous awards, including the NS Publieksprijs (NS Audience Award/Prix Public); the Hebban Crimezone Award; the Diamanten Kogel (Diamond Bullet); and for Mother Dear , the prestigious Gouden Strop (Golden Noose) Award for best crime thriller of the year. She is also the author of Close-Up and Rendezvous , both available in English. For more information, visit www.novaleemaier.com and www.estherverhoef.com. Jozef van der Voort is a professional translator adapting Dutch, German, and French into English. A Dutch-British dual national, he grew up in southeast England and studied literature and languages in Durham and Sheffield. He has lived and worked in Austria, France, Luxembourg, Germany, and Belgium. As a literary translator, he took part in the Emerging Translators Programme run by New Books in German and was also named runner-up in the 2014 Harvill Secker Young Translators’ Prize. Mother Dear is his first translated novel.


Dictionary of Cliches: If You Wonder about the Origins of All Those Old Saws--from First Blush to Bite the Dust--You'll Find This Book the Cat's Meow!

From the Inside Flap "The best kind of reference book--one that amuses as it instructs. I fell for it hook, line, and sinker."CLEVELAND PLAIN DEALERRIN A NUTSHELL, here's a terrific A TO Z listing of the meanings and origins of over 2,000 common or particularly interesting cliches for everyone who delights in the pleasure of words. From the Back Cover The Dictionary of Cliches offers the most thorough treatment yet published of all those trite but apt sayings we use all the time but rarely stop to consider. About the Author James Rogers is the author of The Dictionary of Clichés . Read more

500 All Time Funniest Golf Jokes, Stories & Fairway Wisdom

100 Best Solitaire Games

About the Author The authors are lifelong solitaire players and greatly enjoy finding new solitaires games, and solving the best way to beat them.

Celtic Knots for Beaded Jewellery

Review "Eighteen fabulous projects with easy-to-follow-, step-by-step instructions."  —karenplatt.co.uk About the Author Suzen Millodot has always loved arts and crafts, and is the author of the very successful books Chinese Knots for Beaded Jewellery and Celtic Knots for Beaded Jewellery. She is an accomplished artist, having taught batik for many years in Canada, Hong Kong and Wales. She first developed a fascination for decorative knots whilst living in Wales and later in Hong Kong. Her jewellery now incorporates knots from all over the world and from all periods of history, and she complements the knots with unusual and exotic beads she has collected on her travels. She and her husband now live in Wales very close to their daughter and grandchildren. She occasionally teaches and continues to make original jewellery and wearable art using knots and macramé.

1001 Smartest Things Ever Said

The Must Have 2016 Sudoku Puzzle Book: 366 puzzle daily sudoku book for the leap year. A challenge for every day of the year. 366 Sudoku Games - 5 levels of difficulty (easy to hard)

Masyu Mixed Grids - Hard - Volume 4 - 276 Logic Puzzles

Chinese, Celtic & Ornamental Knots for Beaded Jewellery

Review "Throughout the knots are explained in detail with clear, step by step, coloured diagrams which are easy to follow. The book contains more than 40 projects for you to try including necklaces, bracelets, earrings and brooches." — Bead Society of Great Britain Journal About the Author Suzen Millodot is an artist who has taught batik for many years in Canada, Hong Kong, and Wales. She is the author of "Celtic Knots for Beaded Jewellery," "Chinese Knots for Beaded Jewellery," "Micro Macrame Jewellery," ""and "Ornamental Knots for Beaded Jewellery."

Moll Flanders

Review "A very helpful edition of Moll Flanders with its informative introduction and especially its thorough endnotes. It is an edition especially helpful for undergraduates who do not have such a broad knowledge of the 18th century laws, social problems, etc."--Judith B. Slagle. Carson-Newman College "Excellent edition has all of the necessary 'extras': introduction and notes, both reflecting excellent scholarship." --Arline Garbarini, Dominican College About the Author G. A. Starr is Professor of English at the University of California, Berkeley. Linda Bree is Editorial Director, Arts and Literature, at Cambridge University Press.

God Loves Golfers Best: The Best Jokes, Quotes, and Cartoons for Golfers

About the Author Ray Foley is an expert bartender and publisher of Bartender magazine. He is also the founder of the Bartenders Foundation Inc. and the author of Bartending for Dummies. He has appeared on ABC-TV News, CBS News, NBC News, Good Morning America and Live with Regis and Kathie Lee. He has also been featured in major magazines, including Forbes and Playboy. Ray resides in New Jersey with his wife and partner, Jaclyn. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Golf Course or Four married guys go golfing. While playing the 4th hole, the following conversation takes place: 1st Guy: "You have no idea what I had to do to be able to come out golfing this weekend. I had to promise my wife that I would paint every room in the house next weekend." 2nd Guy: "That's nothing. I had to promise my wife I would build a new deck for the pool." 3rd Guy: "Man, you both have it easy! I had to promise my wife I would remodel the kitchen for her." They continued to play the hole when they realized that the 4th guy hadn't said anything. So they asked him, "You haven't said anything about what you had to do to be able to come golfing this weekend. What's the deal?" 4th Guy: "I just set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. and when it went off, I shut off the alarm, gave the wife a nudge, and said, 'Golf course or intercourse?' And she said, 'Wear your sweater.'"

The Long Walk

Review "A master storyteller." - Houston Chronicle"An illusionist extraordinaire." - Publishers Weekly"A master storyteller." - Houston Chronicle "An illusionist extraordinaire." - Publishers WeeklyA master storyteller. ("Houston Chronicle") An illusionist extraordinaire. ("Publishers Weekly") About the Author Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes Holly , Fairy Tale , Billy Summers , If It Bleeds , The Institute , Elevation , The Outsider , Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King), and the Bill Hodges trilogy: End of Watch , Finders Keepers , and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and a television series streaming on Peacock). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower , It , Pet Sematary , Doctor Sleep , and Firestarter are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest-grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2020 Audio Publishers Association Lifetime Achievement Award, the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.

Murphy's Laws of Golf

The Big Book Of Sudoku (Big Book of 500 Puzzles)

When Your Child Breaks Your Heart: Help for Hurting Moms

From the Back Cover When tragedy strikes our families or when our sons or daughters choose an unfortunate path in life, it's hard to reconcile the present with all our hopes for the future. Our children's decisions may conflict with the way we raised them, or we may lose contact as family members shut each other out.In When Your Child Breaks Your Heart , beloved author Barbara Johnson tells the story of how, as a wife and mother, she faced so many challenges--the crippling of her husband from a debilitating accident, the death of two sons, and the choices of a third son that caused him to stay away from family for years. But even through her pain, she set out on a journey of survival and restoration that included a steady diet of laughter, joy, and hope. In this gripping book, Barbara tells her family's searing story honestly and compassionately, and she reveals how she was able to emerge triumphantly with her faith intact and her spirit unbroken. She offers hope to families facing similar circumstances, sharing how God brought her through the deep waters without letting her drown--and how he will do the same for us. Barbara Johnson 's books have sold millions of copies. She was the founder of the nonprofit Spatula Ministries, and before her death in 2007, she delivered comforting, humor-filled messages across the country as a popular conference speaker. About the Author Barbara Johnson's (1927-2007) books have sold millions of copies. Founder of the nonprofit Spatula Ministries, she delivered comforting, humor-filled messages across the country as a popular conference speaker and part of the "Women of Faith" tour.

Number-Crunching Math Puzzles

Numbricks Mixed Grids Deluxe - Hard - Volume 7 - 468 Logic Puzzles

Two Golf Balls Rolled Into A Bar (golf balls rolled into bar)

About the Author In less than two years, Bob Morris, 78 years young, went from being a recruiter to a comedian and then to a published author. In May of 2013 he retired as a recruiter after 48 years to pursue his dream and number one item on his bucket list which was to do stand-up comedy before a live audience. He went to The Manhattan Comedy School in New York City to learn how to write jokes and perform them. After six weeks he completed school and on July 10th performed before 240 people at the Gotham Comedy Club in New York City. Without question he was a howling success. He came away realizing that he could write funny and perform funny. His family and friends kept asking him "So what's next?" The standard next step for comedian "wannabees" is to go to venues that have late evening "open mics" (microphones) to get performing experience (unpaid) and perhaps get discovered. That approach was not appealing because getting home after midnight would put a strain on his 48 year marriage. Bob also felt that becoming discovered was not likely to happen in the near future. He needed a faster pace. He decided to combine two of his passions - golf and humor- and wrote an original golf joke book using the name Bogey Bob Morris. The way he golfs it should have been Double Bogey Bob Morris. The book, Two Golf Balls Rolled Into A bar, was published in November, 2014. He has already started on the next book: Three Golf Balls Rolled Into A Bar! He graduated Middlebury College in 1956 majoring in Drama.His senior year drama project was producing and directing a comedy written by his father. In the summer of 1954 he was an apprentice at the Falmouth Playhouse in Massachusetts. The following summer he was in the summer acting group at Tufts College. His first job out of college was a Page Boy at the American Broadcasting Company in New York City. At night time he attend the NY School of Television where he learned more about what he saw at his job. In 1957 he had to spend 6 months on active duty with the NY National Guard. Upon returning he ended up working in a Greenwich Village theater. He then knocked around in various sales jobs and in March of 1964 he began a 48 year career as a recruiter. Later that year he got married to Susan, a California girl he met on Fire Island. Two years later he became a father to Melissa and the three moved to Rye NY. Two more children came along; Corrine in 1968 and Erica in 1970. They are all married with 2 kids each.

The Best of Everything Basketball Book (The All-Time Best of Sports)

1001 Basketball Trivia Questions

About the Author Dale Ratermann has written over 40 books. He previously worked in sports marketing. Brian Brosi won the Arizona State University sports trivia championship as a student in 1975.

Hidden Mate (The Wolf Born Trilogy)

Where the Crawdads Sing

Review “A painfully beautiful first novel that is at once a murder mystery, a coming-of-age narrative and a celebration of nature....Owens here surveys the desolate marshlands of the North Carolina coast through the eyes of an abandoned child. And in her isolation that child makes us open our own eyes to the secret wonders—and dangers—of her private world.”— The New York Times Book Review “Steeped in the rhythms and shadows of the coastal marshes of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, this fierce and hauntingly beautiful novel centers on...Kya’s heartbreaking story of learning to trust human connections, intertwine[d] with a gripping murder mystery, revealing savage truths. An astonishing debut.”— People “This lush mystery is perfect for fans of Barbara Kingsolver.”— Bustle “A lush debut novel, Owens delivers her mystery wrapped in gorgeous, lyrical prose. It’s clear she’s from this place—the land of the southern coasts, but also the emotional terrain—you can feel it in the pages.  A magnificent achievement, ambitious, credible and very timely.”—Alexandra Fuller, New York Times bestselling author of Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight “Heart-wrenching...A fresh exploration of isolation and nature from a female perspective along with a compelling love story.”— Entertainment Weekly “This wonderful novel has a bit of everything—mystery, romance, and fascinating characters, all told in a story that takes place in North Carolina.”—Nicholas Sparks, New York Times bestselling author of Every Breath “Delia Owen’s gorgeous novel is both a coming-of-age tale and an engrossing whodunit.”— Real Simple “Evocative...Kya makes for an unforgettable heroine.”— Publishers Weekly “The New Southern novel...A lyrical debut.” — Southern Living “A nature-infused romance with a killer twist.”— Refinery29 “Anyone who liked The Great Alone will want to read Where the Crawdads Sing ....This astonishing debut is a beautiful and haunting novel that packs a powerful punch. It’s the first novel in a long time that made me cry.”—Kristin Hannah, author of The Great Alone and The Nightingale “Both a coming-of-age story and a mysterious account of a murder investigation told from the perspective of a young girl...Through Kya’s story, Owens explores how isolation affects human behavior, and the deep effect that rejection can have on our lives.”— Vanity Fair “Lyrical...Its appeal ris[es] from Kya’s deep connection to the place where makes her home, and to all of its creatures.”— Booklist “This beautiful, evocative novel is likely to stay with you for many days afterward....absorbing.” — AARP “This haunting tale captivates every bit as much for its crime drama elements as for the humanity at its core.” — Mystery & Suspense Magazine “Compelling, original...A mystery, a courtroom drama, a romance and a coming-of-age story, Where the Crawdads Sing is a moving, beautiful tale. Readers will remember Kya for a long, long time.” — ShelfAwareness “With prose luminous as a low-country moon, Owens weaves a compelling tale of a forgotten girl in the unforgiving coastal marshes of North Carolina. It is a murder mystery/love story/courtroom drama that readers will love, but the novel delves so much deeper into the bone and sinew of our very nature, asking often unanswerable questions, old and intractable as the marsh itself. A stunning debut!” — Christopher Scotton, author of The Secret Wisdom of the Earth “A compelling mystery with prose so luminous it can cut through the murkiest of pluff mud.”— Augusta Chronicle “Carries the rhythm of an old time ballad. It is clear Owens knows this land intimately, from the black mud sucking at footsteps to the taste of saltwater and the cry of seagulls.” — David Joy, author of The Line That Held Us About the Author Delia Owens is the coauthor of three internationally bestselling nonfiction books about her life as a wildlife scientist in Africa. She holds a BS in Zoology from the University of Georgia and a PhD in Animal Behavior from the University of California at Davis. She has won the John Burroughs Award for Nature Writing and has been published in Nature, The African Journal of Ecology, and International Wildlife , among many others. She lives in the mountains of North Carolina. Where the Crawdads Sing is her first novel. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1.Ma1952The morning burned so August-hot, the marsh's moist breath hung the oaks and pines with fog. The palmetto patches stood unusually quiet except for the low, slow flap of the heron's wings lifting from the lagoon. And then, Kya, only six at the time, heard the screen door slap. Standing on the stool, she stopped scrubbing grits from the pot and lowered it into the basin of worn-out suds. No sounds now but her own breathing. Who had left the shack? Not Ma. She never let the door slam.But when Kya ran to the porch, she saw her mother in a long brown skirt, kick pleats nipping at her ankles, as she walked down the sandy lane in high heels. The stubby-nosed shoes were fake alligator skin. Her only going-out pair. Kya wanted to holler out but knew not to rouse Pa, so opened the door and stood on the brick-'n'-board steps. From there she saw the blue train case Ma carried. Usually, with the confidence of a pup, Kya knew her mother would return with meat wrapped in greasy brown paper or with a chicken, head dangling down. But she never wore the gator heels, never took a case.Ma always looked back where the foot lane met the road, one arm held high, white palm waving, as she turned onto the track, which wove through bog forests, cattail lagoons, and maybe-if the tide obliged-eventually into town. But today she walked on, unsteady in the ruts. Her tall figure emerged now and then through the holes of the forest until only swatches of white scarf flashed between the leaves. Kya sprinted to the spot she knew would bare the road; surely Ma would wave from there, but she arrived only in time to glimpse the blue case-the color so wrong for the woods-as it disappeared. A heaviness, thick as black-cotton mud, pushed her chest as she returned to the steps to wait.Kya was the youngest of five, the others much older, though later she couldn't recall their ages. They lived with Ma and Pa, squeezed together like penned rabbits, in the rough-cut shack, its screened porch staring big-eyed from under the oaks.Jodie, the brother closest to Kya, but still seven years older, stepped from the house and stood behind her. He had her same dark eyes and black hair; had taught her birdsongs, star names, how to steer the boat through saw grass."Ma'll be back," he said."I dunno. She's wearin' her gator shoes.""A ma don't leave her kids. It ain't in 'em.""You told me that fox left her babies.""Yeah, but that vixen got 'er leg all tore up. She'd've starved to death if she'd tried to feed herself 'n' her kits. She was better off to leave 'em, heal herself up, then whelp more when she could raise 'em good. Ma ain't starvin', she'll be back." Jodie wasn't nearly as sure as he sounded, but said it for Kya.Her throat tight, she whispered, "But Ma's carryin' that blue case like she's goin' somewheres big."The shack sat back from the palmettos, which sprawled across sand flats to a necklace of green lagoons and, in the distance, all the marsh beyond. Miles of blade-grass so tough it grew in salt water, interrupted only by trees so bent they wore the shape of the wind. Oak forests bunched around the other sides of the shack and sheltered the closest lagoon, its surface so rich in life it churned. Salt air and gull-song drifted through the trees from the sea.Claiming territory hadn't changed much since the 1500s. The scattered marsh holdings weren't legally described, just staked out natural-a creek boundary here, a dead oak there-by renegades. A man doesn't set up a palmetto lean-to in a bog unless he's on the run from somebody or at the end of his own road.The marsh was guarded by a torn shoreline, labeled by early explorers as the "Graveyard of the Atlantic" because riptides, furious winds, and shallow shoals wrecked ships like paper hats along what would become the North Carolina coast. One seaman's journal read, "rang'd along the Shoar . . . but could discern no Entrance . . . A violent Storm overtook us . . . we were forced to get off to Sea, to secure Ourselves and Ship, and were driven by the Rapidity of a strong Current . . ."The Land . . . being marshy and Swamps, we return'd towards our Ship . . . Discouragement of all such as should hereafter come into those Parts to settle."Those looking for serious land moved on, and this infamous marsh became a net, scooping up a mishmash of mutinous sailors, castaways, debtors, and fugitives dodging wars, taxes, or laws that they didn't take to. The ones malaria didn't kill or the swamp didn't swallow bred into a woodsmen tribe of several races and multiple cultures, each of whom could fell a small forest with a hatchet and pack a buck for miles. Like river rats, each had his own territory, yet had to fit into the fringe or simply disappear some day in the swamp. Two hundred years later, they were joined by runaway slaves, who escaped into the marsh and were called maroons, and freed slaves, penniless and beleaguered, who dispersed into the water-land because of scant options.Maybe it was mean country, but not an inch was lean. Layers of life-squiggly sand crabs, mud-waddling crayfish, waterfowl, fish, shrimp, oysters, fatted deer, and plump geese-were piled on the land or in the water. A man who didn't mind scrabbling for supper would never starve.It was now 1952, so some of the claims had been held by a string of disconnected, unrecorded persons for four centuries. Most before the Civil War. Others squatted on the land more recently, especially after the World Wars, when men came back broke and broke-up. The marsh did not confine them but defined them and, like any sacred ground, kept their secrets deep. No one cared that they held the land because nobody else wanted it. After all, it was wasteland bog.Just like their whiskey, the marsh dwellers bootlegged their own laws-not like those burned onto stone tablets or inscribed on documents, but deeper ones, stamped in their genes. Ancient and natural, like those hatched from hawks and doves. When cornered, desperate, or isolated, man reverts to those instincts that aim straight at survival. Quick and just. They will always be the trump cards because they are passed on more frequently from one generation to the next than the gentler genes. It is not a morality, but simple math. Among themselves, doves fight as often as hawks.Ma didnÕt come back that day. No one spoke of it. Least of all Pa. Stinking of fish and drum likker, he clanked pot lids. ÒWharÕs supper?ÓEyes downcast, the brothers and sisters shrugged. Pa dog-cussed, then limp-stepped out, back into the woods. There had been fights before; Ma had even left a time or two, but she always came back, scooping up whoever would be cuddled.The two older sisters cooked a supper of red beans and cornbread, but no one sat to eat at the table, as they would have with Ma. Each dipped beans from the pot, flopped cornbread on top, and wandered off to eat on their floor mattresses or the faded sofa.Kya couldn't eat. She sat on the porch steps, looking down the lane. Tall for her age, bone skinny, she had deep-tanned skin and straight hair, black and thick as crow wings.Darkness put a stop to her lookout. Croaking frogs would drown the sounds of footsteps; even so, she lay on her porch bed, listening. Just that morning she'd awakened to fatback crackling in the iron skillet and whiffs of biscuits browning in the wood oven. Pulling up her bib overalls, she'd rushed into the kitchen to put the plates and forks out. Pick the weevils from the grits. Most dawns, smiling wide, Ma hugged her-"Good morning, my special girl"-and the two of them moved about the chores, dancelike. Sometimes Ma sang folk songs or quoted nursery rhymes: "This little piggy went to market." Or she'd swing Kya into a jitterbug, their feet banging the plywood floor until the music of the battery-operated radio died, sounding as if it were singing to itself at the bottom of a barrel. Other mornings Ma spoke about adult things Kya didn't understand, but she figured Ma's words needed somewhere to go, so she absorbed them through her skin, as she poked more wood in the cookstove. Nodding like she knew.Then, the hustle of getting everybody up and fed. Pa not there. He had two settings: silence and shouting. So it was just fine when he slept through, or didn't come home at all.But this morning, Ma had been quiet; her smile lost, her eyes red. She'd tied a white scarf pirate style, low across her forehead, but the purple and yellow edges of a bruise spilled out. Right after breakfast, even before the dishes were washed, Ma had put a few personals in the train case and walked down the road.The next morning,Kya took up her post again on the steps, her dark eyes boring down the lane like a tunnel waiting for a train. The marsh beyond was veiled in fog so low its cushy bottom sat right on the mud. Barefoot, Kya drummed her toes, twirled grass stems at doodlebugs, but a six-year-old canÕt sit long and soon she moseyed onto the tidal flats, sucking sounds pulling at her toes. Squatting at the edge of the clear water, she watched minnows dart between sunspots and shadows.Jodie hollered to her from the palmettos. She stared; maybe he was coming with news. But as he wove through the spiky fronds, she knew by the way he moved, casual, that Ma wasn't home."Ya wanta play explorers?" he asked."Ya said ya're too old to play 'splorers.""Nah, I just said that. Never too old. Race ya!"They tore across the flats, then through the woods toward the beach. She squealed as he overtook her and laughed until they reached the large oak that jutted enormous arms over the sand. Jodie and their older brother, Murph, had hammered a few boards across the branches as a lookout tower and tree fort. Now, much of it was falling in, dangling from rusty nails.Usually if she was allowed to crew at all it was as slave girl, bringing her brothers warm biscuits swiped from Ma's pan.But today Jodie said, "You can be captain."Kya raised her right arm in a charge. "Run off the Spaniards!" They broke off stick-swords and crashed through brambles, shouting and stabbing at the enemy.Then-make-believe coming and going easily-she walked to a mossy log and sat. Silently, he joined her. He wanted to say something to get her mind off Ma, but no words came, so they watched the swimming shadows of water striders.Kya returned to the porch steps later and waited for a long time, but, as she looked to the end of the lane, she never cried. Her face was still, her lips a simple thin line under searching eyes. But Ma didn't come back that day either.2.Jodie1952After Ma left, over the next few weeks, Kya's oldest brother and two sisters drifted away too, as if by example. They had endured Pa's red-faced rages, which started as shouts, then escalated into fist-slugs, or backhanded punches, until one by one, they disappeared. They were nearly grown anyway. And later, just as she forgot their ages, she couldn't remember their real names, only that they were called Missy, Murph, and Mandy. On her porch mattress, Kya found a small pile of socks left by her sisters.On the morning when Jodie was the only sibling left, Kya awakened to the clatter-clank and hot grease of breakfast. She dashed into the kitchen, thinking Ma was home frying corn fritters or hoecakes. But it was Jodie, standing at the woodstove, stirring grits. She smiled to hide the letdown, and he patted the top of her head, gently shushing her to be quiet: if they didn't wake Pa, they could eat alone. Jodie didn't know how to make biscuits, and there wasn't any bacon, so he cooked grits and scrambled eggs in lard, and they sat down together, silently exchanging glances and smiles.They washed their dishes fast, then ran out the door toward the marsh, he in the lead. But just then Pa shouted and hobbled toward them. Impossibly lean, his frame seemed to flop about from poor gravity. His molars yellow as an old dog's teeth.Kya looked up at Jodie. "We can run. Hide in the mossy place.""It's okay. It'll be okay," he said.Later, near sunset, Jodie found Kya on the beach staring at the sea. As he stepped up beside her, she didnÕt look at him but kept her eyes on the roiling waves. Still, she knew by the way he spoke that Pa had slugged his face."I hafta go, Kya. Can't live here no longer."She almost turned to him, but didn't. Wanted to beg him not to leave her alone with Pa, but the words jammed up."When you're old enough you'll understand," he said. Kya wanted to holler out that she may be young, but she wasn't stupid. She knew Pa was the reason they all left; what she wondered was why no one took her with them. She'd thought of leaving too, but had nowhere to go and no bus money."Kya, ya be careful, hear. If anybody comes, don't go in the house. They can get ya there. Run deep in the marsh, hide in the bushes. Always cover yo' tracks; I learned ya how. And ya can hide from Pa, too." When she still didn't speak, he said good-bye and strode across the beach to the woods. Just before he stepped into the trees, she finally turned and watched him walk away."This little piggy stayed home," she said to the waves.Breaking her freeze, she ran to the shack. Shouted his name down the hall, but Jodie's things were already gone, his floor bed stripped bare.She sank onto his mattress, watching the last of that day slide down the wall. Light lingered after the sun, as it does, some of it pooling in the room, so that for a brief moment the lumpy beds and piles of old clothes took on more shape and color than the trees outside.A gnawing hunger-such a mundane thing-surprised her. She walked to the kitchen and stood at the door. All her life the room had been warmed from baking bread, boiling butter beans, or bubbling fish stew. Now, it was stale, quiet, and dark. "Who's gonna cook?" she asked out loud. Could have asked, Who's gonna dance? Read more

Barely Breathing: The Breathing Series (Volume 2)