The Spiral of Silence: Public Opinion - Our Social Skin, 2nd Edition

About the Author Elisabeth Noelle-Neumann is founder and director of the Public Opinion Research Center in Allensbach, Germany, and professor of communications research at the University of Mainz.

Review " Constitutional Law for a Changing America: Rights, Liberties, and Justice is superb. It entertains students while forcing them to think about the cases and issues. That is a rare achievement for a textbook. [The book] does a great job of placing the cases within the context of their particular eras and reminds students that you cannot divorce courts and their rulings from the rest of the political structure and the times in which the opinions are issued. The text blends social science and law better than any other available today." -- Robert M. Howard " Constitutional Law for a Changing America is a great teaching textbook. Most constitutional law textbooks begin with an interpretive essay, and then just give the cases one after the other in a separate section. [This book] introduces each topic in a comprehensive way, but then embeds the cases in a narrative that helps students see the cases in context. The authors do a great job of introducing each case, explaining how it relates to other cases and pointing out specific things to look for, to help students think about what they′re reading. Combined with the bullet points in the new editions summarizing the arguments for both sides in each case, this is tremendously effective in helping students learn and understand both the details of the cases and their broader significance. The photos and "Aftermath" boxes give students a vivid sense of human stories behind the cases. I use this book with confidence that it will help me teach more effectively." -- John Kaplan " Constitutional Law for a Changing America perfectly balances contextual material with the text of the opinions. No other casebook comes close to matching the depth and breadth of supplementary information. The various tables, charts, and graphs all help students place the Court in the broader context of the American political system. The authors accomplish this while still maintaining a focus on constitutional questions and debates. Especially useful are the "Arguments" sections, which are an exceptionally effective tool for engaging students with the different perspectives in the cases." -- Chad Westerland "My students like the Epstein/Walker text not only because the cases are edited in a way that allows for easy reading, but also because the facts and arguments of each case are separated from the decision itself, giving students some guidance in their reading. The additional excerpts provide context for students that they always want to discuss. As an instructor, I like the online bank of cases because the additional resources permit for flexibility in what cases I choose to cover in class." -- Amanda DiPaolo About the Author Lee Epstein is Ethan A.H. Shepley Distinguished University Professor at Washington University in St. Louis. She is also a fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and of the American Academy of Political and Social Science. A recipient of 12 grants from the National Science Foundation for her work on law and legal institutions, Epstein has authored or co-authored over 100 articles and essays, as well as 15 books, including The Choices Justices Make (co-authored with Jack Knight), which won the Pritchett Award for the Best Book on Law and Courts and the Lasting Contribution Award for making a “lasting impression on the field of law and courts.” The Constitutional Law for a Changing America series (co-authored with Thomas G. Walker) received the Teaching and Mentoring Award from the Law and Courts Section of the American Political Science Association. Her most recent books are The Behavior of Federal Judges, with William M. Landes and Richard A. Posner, and An Introduction to Empirical Legal Research, with Andrew D. Martin. Thomas G. Walker is the Goodrich C. White Professor of Political Science at Emory University, where he teaches courses in constitutional law and the judicial process. He is the coauthor of A Court Divided (1988), with Deborah Barrow, which won the V. O. Key, Jr. Award for the best book on southern politics, and the Constitutional Law for a Changing America series, with Lee Epstein. He is also author of Eligible for Execution: The Story of the Daryl Atkins Case (2009).

Constitutional Law for a Changing America: Institutional Powers and Constraints, 8th Edition

Review “The design and focus of the book are terrific. I use several of the supplemental cases from the resource center in every unit; they are very helpful.” -- Steven B. Lichtman Published On: 2012-12-20“Overall, I like the Epstein and Walker book very much. In particular, I like the cases included as well as the specific excerpts. Additionally, I like the online bank of cases because there are some that I prefer to cover in class. Having the ‘Facts’ separated from the ‘Arguments’ is very appreciated and allowed for a more focused discussion during class and students were able to follow along more easily.” -- Kirk Randazzo Published On: 2012-12-20“Students find the text lively and very helpful. In fact, some had been relying on Internet downloads until they realized how much essential background material they were forfeiting by not using the text. They find the text, moreover, easy to read―anything but ponderous (which many competing casebooks are).” -- Elizabeth Hull Published On: 2012-12-20“The strengths of the Epstein/Walker text include currency with online updates of most recent post-publication decisions; significant political analysis and editorial commentary to supplement the court’s legal opinions; summary tables of legal doctrine; and boxed comparative information about constitutional law and high courts in other countries. I also find the ‘Facts’ section critical as it assists students in case analysis that requires comparisons when deciding whether a precedent is controlling or can be distinguished. The ‘Arguments’ section helps students understand the need to address both sides when answering test problems or writing research papers.” -- Howard Tolley Published On: 2012-12-20“Students really like the book and have made spontaneous comments in their course evaluations about how much they enjoy the text. The text has several strengths: great use of visuals and graphics; case discussion is quite good at placing cases in historical context; and the boxes with personal interest pieces are also very helpful.” -- Liane C. Kosaki, PhD Published On: 2012-12-20 About the Author Lee Epstein is Ethan A.H. Shepley Distinguished University Professor at Washington University in St. Louis. She is also a fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and of the American Academy of Political and Social Science. A recipient of 12 grants from the National Science Foundation for her work on law and legal institutions, Epstein has authored or co-authored over 100 articles and essays, as well as 15 books, including The Choices Justices Make (co-authored with Jack Knight), which won the Pritchett Award for the Best Book on Law and Courts and the Lasting Contribution Award for making a “lasting impression on the field of law and courts.” The Constitutional Law for a Changing America series (co-authored with Thomas G. Walker) received the Teaching and Mentoring Award from the Law and Courts Section of the American Political Science Association. Her most recent books are The Behavior of Federal Judges, with William M. Landes and Richard A. Posner, and An Introduction to Empirical Legal Research, with Andrew D. Martin. Thomas G. Walker is the Goodrich C. White Professor of Political Science at Emory University, where he teaches courses in constitutional law and the judicial process. He is the coauthor of A Court Divided (1988), with Deborah Barrow, which won the V. O. Key, Jr. Award for the best book on southern politics, and the Constitutional Law for a Changing America series, with Lee Epstein. He is also author of Eligible for Execution: The Story of the Daryl Atkins Case (2009).

I Am Malala: The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban

Review "The touching story will not only inform you of changing conditions in Pakistan, but inspire your rebellious spirit."― Matthew Love, Time Out New York "Ms. Yousafzai has single-handedly turned the issue of the right of girls-and all children-to be educated into headline news. And she is a figure worth hearing."― Isabel Berwick, The Financial Times "Wise beyond her years...."― Annie Gowen, Marie Claire "Riveting.... Co-written with Christina Lamb, a veteran British journalist who has an evident passion for Pakistan and can render its complicated history with pristine clarity, this is a book that should be read not only for its vivid drama but for its urgent message about the untapped power of girls.... It is difficult to imagine a chronicle of a war more moving, apart from perhaps the diary of Anne Frank. With the essential difference that we lost that girl, and by some miracle, we still have this one."― Marie Arana, Washington Post "Remarkable...a must-read, first-person account of her journey through global terrorism, her brave, encouraging parents, and her own fight for girls' education."― MarieClaire.com "The victory of Malala Yousafzai is that she's just getting started."― Mary Elizabeth Williams, Salon "Briskly written but full of arresting detail.... Striking [and] surprising..."― Jill Lawless, Associated Press "Ms. Yousafzai's stature as a symbol of peace and bravery has been established across the world..."― Salman Masood, The New York Times "Not only has Malala Yousafzai become an international symbol of inspiration and bravery, but her survival instilled educators with courage-and is slowly helping make Pakistani schools safer."― Nick Schifrin, ABC.com "For a teenage girl in a distant corner of the globe to spark life into this movement-against overwhelming odds-is truly extraordinary. The world must not allow Malala's message to die."― Dallas Morning News "Her powerful message remains undiluted."― Tina Jordan, Entertainment Weekly "In simple, clear writing, I AM MALALA gives a rare and moving first-person glance into what it's like to be a teenager in a country seized by extremists who stand against the basic freedoms you believe in." ― Krystin Arneson, Bustle "Malala matters....In her modesty and dignity, she should be Islam's beloved daughter, her journey a return to the early promise of Muslim modernism."― Fouad Ajami, New York Post "Incredibly inspirational.... Malala is intelligent and fiery with dreams of changing the world, but the book has the added benefit of being a true story that is easily interwoven with important global issues such as human rights, development, education, and peace.... If there is one thing that I AM MALALA should teach us, it is to look beyond Manichean narratives of good and evil. It is important to applaud Malala for the awareness she has built around important issues like education for young women."― Cristina Maza, PolicyMic "Riveting.... [Malala's] clear voice [is] beautifully captured by Lamb."― Rafia Zakaria, Ms. Magazine "A gripping story.... What makes this book so important is not just the universal value of Malala's cause.... It's the relevance of her story to one of the most vexing security questions in today's crazy world...."― Trudy Rubin, Philadelphia Inquirer "An inspiring, clearly written memoir that offers a glimpse of an extraordinary young woman and the confounding world from which she comes."― Karen Sandstrom, Cleveland Plain Dealer "One hears some ghosts of Anne Frank in reading I AM MALALA, the flightiness, effervescence and, well...girlishness of an adolescent girl flung once again the indifferent violence of inhuman men, like flowers hurled against a stone wall."― Leonard Pitts Jr., Miami Herald "An eye-opener in the fight for girls' education equality."― More "The voice that beams, 'I am Malala' is the voice that continues to meet the assassin's challenge. It is the voice of a courageous campaigner who still fights for girls' education. The voice of an icon who may one day be able to return to her country, but who even from afar symbolizes its noblest cause."― Shehryar Fazli, Los Angeles Review of Books "A story for each and every girl who chooses to break societal taboos, challenge the clergy, declare war against illiteracy and believe in the power of the pen."― Daud Khattak, Newark Star Ledger "[A] vivid autobiography.... Yousafzai possesses an eloquence beyond her years, but her touching asides drive home the fact that she's also very much a 16-year-old girl.... Captivating and surprisingly personal."― Erika W. Smith, Bust "Like millions around the world, I draw strength from brave Malala's example.... Malala is a testament that women everywhere will not be intimidated into silence. We will make our voices heard."― Gabrielle Giffords, Time magazine's "TIME 100" "Compelling. It's a brave girl's tale in an unsafe country, and it reveals her fierce determination to make the world a better place."― Michael Taube, Washington Times "How did Yousafzai have the courage, at 15, to stand up to the Taliban in her native Pakistan? Her memoir, written less than a year after she nearly died for her efforts, will open your eyes."― People About the Author Malala Yousafzai , the educational campaigner from Swat Valley, Pakistan, came to public attention by writing for BBC Urdu about life under the Taliban. Using the pen name Gul Makai, she often spoke about her family's fight for girls' education in her community.In October 2012, Malala was targeted by the Taliban and shot in the head as she was returning from school on a bus. She miraculously survived and continues her campaign for education.In recognition of her courage and advocacy, Malala was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2014, becoming the youngest-ever recipient at just seventeen years of age. She was also honored with the National Youth Peace Prize in Pakistan in 2011 and the International Children's Peace Prize in 2013, and she was short-listed for Time magazine's Person of the Year.Malala continues to champion universal access to education through the Malala Fund, a non-profit organization investing in community-led programs and supporting education advocates around the world. Christina Lamb is one of the world's leading foreign correspondents. She has reported on Pakistan and Afghanistan since 1987. Educated at Oxford and Harvard, she is the author of five books and has won a number of awards, including Britain's Foreign Correspondent of the Year five times, as well as the Prix Bayeux-Calvados, Europe's most prestigious award for war correspondents. She currently works for the Sunday Times and lives in London and Portugal with her husband and son.

On Writing Well: The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction

Review “ On Writing Well belongs on any shelf of serious reference works for writers.” — New York Times “Not since The Elements of Style has there been a guide to writing as well presented and readable as this one. A love and respect for the language is evident on every page.” — Library Journal About the Author William Zinsser is a writer, editor and teacher. He began his career on the New York Herald Tribune and has since written regularly for leading magazines. During the 1970s he was master of Branford College at Yale. His 17 books, ranging from baseball to music to American travel, include the influential Writing to Learn and Writing About Your Life . He teaches at the New School in New York. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. On Writing Well, 30th Anniversary Edition The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction By William Zinsser HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Copyright ©2006 William ZinsserAll right reserved. ISBN: 0060891548 Chapter One The Transaction A school in Connecticut once held "a day devoted to the arts," and I was asked if I would come and talk about writing as a vocation. When I arrived I found that a second speaker had been invited -- Dr. Brock (as I'll call him), a surgeon who had recently begun to write and had sold some stories to magazines. He was going to talk about writing as an avocation. That made us a panel, and we sat down to face a crowd of students and teachers and parents, all eager to learn the secrets of our glamorous work. Dr. Brock was dressed in a bright red jacket, looking vaguely bohemian, as authors are supposed to look, and the first question went to him. What was it like to be a writer? He said it was tremendous fun. Coming home from an arduous day at the hospital, he would go straight to his yellow pad and write his tensions away. The words just flowed. It was easy. I then said that writing wasn't easy and wasn't fun. It was hard and lonely, and the words seldom just flowed. Next Dr. Brock was asked if it was important to rewrite. Absolutely not, he said. "Let it all hang out," he told us, and whatever form the sentences take will reflect the writer at his most natural. I then said that rewriting is the essence of writing. I pointed out that professional writers rewrite their sentences over and over and then rewrite what they have rewritten. "What do you do on days when it isn't going well?" Dr. Brock was asked. He said he just stopped writing and put the work aside for a day when it would go better. I then said that the professional writer must establish a daily schedule and stick to it. I said that writing is a craft, not an art, and that the man who runs away from his craft because he lacks inspiration is fooling himself. He is also going broke. "What if you're feeling depressed or unhappy?" a student asked. "Won't that affect your writing?" Probably it will, Dr. Brock replied. Go fishing. Take a walk. Probably it won't, I said. If your job is to write every day, you learn to do it like any other job. A student asked if we found it useful to circulate in the literary world. Dr. Brock said he was greatly enjoying his new life as a man of letters, and he told several stories of being taken to lunch by his publisher and his agent at Manhattan restaurants where writers and editors gather. I said that professional writers are solitary drudges who seldom see other writers. "Do you put symbolism in your writing?" a student asked me. "Not if I can help it," I replied. I have an unbroken record of missing the deeper meaning in any story, play or movie, and as for dance and mime, I have never had any idea of what is being conveyed. "I love symbols!" Dr. Brock exclaimed, and he described with gusto the joys of weaving them through his work. So the morning went, and it was a revelation to all of us. At the end Dr. Brock told me he was enormously interested in my answers -- it had never occurred to him that writing could be hard. I told him I was just as interested in his answers -- it had never occurred to me that writing could be easy. Maybe I should take up surgery on the side. As for the students, anyone might think we left them bewildered. But in fact we gave them a broader glimpse of the writing process than if only one of us had talked. For there isn't any "right" way to do such personal work. There are all kinds of writers and all kinds of methods, and any method that helps you to say what you want to say is the right method for you. Some people write by day, others by night. Some people need silence, others turn on the radio. Some write by hand, some by word processor, some by talking into a tape recorder. Some people write their first draft in one long burst and then revise; others can't write the second paragraph until they have fiddled endlessly with the first. But all of them are vulnerable and all of them are tense. They are driven by a compulsion to put some part of themselves on paper, and yet they don't just write what comes naturally. They sit down to commit an act of literature, and the self who emerges on paper is far stiffer than the person who sat down to write. The problem is to find the real man or woman behind the tension. Ultimately the product that any writer has to sell is not the subject being written about, but who he or she is. I often find myself reading with interest about a topic I never thought would interest me -- some scientific quest, perhaps. What holds me is the enthusiasm of the writer for his field. How was he drawn into it? What emotional baggage did he bring along? How did it change his life? It's not necessary to want to spend a year alone at Walden Pond to become involved with a writer who did. This is the personal transaction that's at the heart of good nonfiction writing. Out of it come two of the most important qualities that this book will go in search of humanity and warmth. Good writing has an aliveness that keeps the reader reading from one paragraph to the next, and it's not a question of gimmicks to "personalize" the author. It's a question of using the English language in a way that it will achieve the greatest clarity and strength. Can such principles be taught? Maybe not. But most of them can be learned. Continues... Excerpted from On Writing Well, 30th Anniversary Edition by William Zinsser Copyright ©2006 by William Zinsser. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more

100 Great Archaeological Discoveries

The Giving Tree

Amazon.com Review To say that this particular apple tree is a "giving tree" is an understatement. In Shel Silverstein's popular tale of few words and simple line drawings, a tree starts out as a leafy playground, shade provider, and apple bearer for a rambunctious little boy. Making the boy happy makes the tree happy, but with time it becomes more challenging for the generous tree to meet his needs. When he asks for money, she suggests that he sell her apples. When he asks for a house, she offers her branches for lumber. When the boy is old, too old and sad to play in the tree, he asks the tree for a boat. She suggests that he cut her down to a stump so he can craft a boat out of her trunk. He unthinkingly does it. At this point in the story, the double-page spread shows a pathetic solitary stump, poignantly cut down to the heart the boy once carved into the tree as a child that said "M.E. + T." "And then the tree was happy... but not really." When there's nothing left of her, the boy returns again as an old man, needing a quiet place to sit and rest. The stump offers up her services, and he sits on it. "And the tree was happy." While the message of this book is unclear (Take and take and take? Give and give and give? Complete self-sacrifice is good? Complete self-sacrifice is infinitely sad?), Silverstein has perhaps deliberately left the book open to interpretation. (All ages) --Karin Snelson Review “If you’re looking for a children’s book that teaches generosity or unselfishness, most people will point you right to The Giving Tree , Shel Silverstein’s lovely story of a tree that will do anything for the boy it loves—and for good reason. This classic is always a good place to start.” — Brightly From the Back Cover "Once there was a tree . . . and she loved a little boy." So begins a story of unforgettable perception, beautifully written and illustrated by the gifted and versatile Shel Silverstein. Every day the boy would come to the tree to eat her apples, swing from her branches, or slide down her trunk . . . and the tree was happy. But as the boy grew older, he began to want more from the tree, and the tree gave and gave. Since it was first published fifty years ago, Shel Silverstein's moving parable for readers of all ages has offered an affecting interpretation of the gift of giving and a serene acceptance of another's capacity to love in return. About the Author Shel Silverstein 's incomparable career as a bestselling children's book author and illustrator began with Lafcadio, the Lion Who Shot Back . He is also the creator of picture books including A Giraffe and a Half , Who Wants a Cheap Rhinoceros? , The Missing Piece , The Missing Piece Meets the Big O , and the perennial favorite The Giving Tree , as well as classic poetry collections such as Where the Sidewalk Ends , A Light in the Attic , Every Thing On It , Don't Bump the Glump! , and Runny Babbit . Read more

Las huellas imborrables: Una investigación sobre el peso de la culpa y los horrores del pasado (Los crímenes de Fjällbacka nº 5) (Spanish Edition)

About the Author Camilla Läckberg es la exitosa autora de la serie de Los crímenes de Fjällbacka, de la que se han vendido hasta la fecha más de 28 millones de ejemplares en todo el mundo. Con Alas de plata hace una nueva incursión en el género del suspense psicológico después de Una jaula de oro. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Review «Una vez más, la sueca Camila Läckberg nos deja sin aliento con una de sus inquietantes historias. » AR«Thriller sueco con otro caso de la pareja protagonista de La princesa de hielo.» Semana --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.


10 Color Book

From the Back Cover A First Book of Colors With Shapes to Snap In and Rhymes to Read Aloud A big brown bone for a dog named Ace, a pink bar of soap to wash your face.  Big, interactive, and filled with fun, here's a book for reading and playing again and again! About the Author William Accorsi is the author of 10 Button Book and 10 Color Book . He is a folk artist who creates sculptures of animals and people out of wire, beads, and buttons. His work hangs in major galleries and collections throughout the USA, and he is the only artist to have been awarded two solo exhibitions at New York’s Museum of Arts and Design. Mr. Accorsi lives in Beacon, New York.

The Tudor Secret (The Elizabeth I Spymaster Chronicles)

Review Riveting . . . In Gortner's capable hands, Prescott is a believable and enjoyable hero, a man of strong loyalties but naïve enough to be exploited. And while the Dudleys are mostly broadly drawn villains, Robert has depth, and though readers familiar with the Tudor era will know the key players, they may be surprised by their depiction here. Gortner handles action with aplomb, adding a riveting, fast-paced thriller to the crowded genre of Tudor fiction. ( Publishers Weekly on The Tudor Secret )Even Tudor fans who know all the key players and historical backdrop will be captivated by Gortner's storytelling and his engaging hero. He juxtaposes his naïve and loyal hero with the cruel Robert Dudley, enhancing the plot and grabbing reader interest as much as the quick pace and lush historical references. The novel is both entertaining and thoughtful. ( RT Book Review on The Tudor Secret )Dazzling cast of characters . . . at its heart, the brilliant and enigmatic Elizabeth. Never have spy and counterspy been more challenged, villains more duplicitous, and life for those in power--or hoping to be--more dangerous. . . . Fast-moving tale of espionage and suspense . . . The velvet peril of Tudor England comes alive in this haunting look at Elizabeth I's secret spy. ( Margaret George, New York Times bestselling author of The Autobiography of Henry VIII on The Tudor Secret )A brilliantly executed plot and three-dimensional characters . . . this is historical fiction, and very well done at that; very highly recommended. ( Historical Novels Review, editors' choice )An intriguing and provocative book about one of history's most controversial queens and the turbulent world of sixteenth-century France. ( Sharon Kay Penman, New York Times bestselling author of Devil's Brood on The Confessions of Catherine de Medici )A dramatic, epic novel . . . Meticulously researched, this engrossing novel offers a fresh portrait of a queen who has too often been portrayed as a villain. ( Sandra Gulland, bestselling author of The Josephine B. Trilogy, on The Confessions of Catherine de Medici )A can't-put-it-down novel. . . . Gortner is a brilliant new star in historical fiction! ( Robin Maxwell, author of The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn, on The Last Queen )A sparkling historical . . . Disturbing royal secrets and court manipulations wickedly twist this enthralling story, brilliantly told. ( Publishers Weekly on The Last Queen )Meticulously researched . . . Gortner breathes life into his queen. ( Library Journal on The Confessions of Catherine de Medici ) About the Author C. W. Gortner is the author of the acclaimed historical novels The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici . He holds an MFA in writing with an emphasis on Renaissance studies from the New College of California. In his extensive travels to research his books, he has danced a galliard in a Tudor great hall and experienced life in a Spanish castle. He is also a dedicated advocate for animal rights and environmental issues. Half Spanish by birth, he lives in Northern California.

Bizzy Bear: Off We Go!

Review Truly has my heart.—A Fuse #8 Production (SLJ blog) About the Author Benji Davies divides his time between illustrating children's books and directing animation. He has worked on a wide range of projects all over the world. He lives in London.

Lander Rock Climbs 2018

Under the Sea-Sparkle Books

Where's the Fairy?

Horton Hatches the Egg

Amazon.com Review Poor Horton. Dr. Seuss's kindly elephant is persuaded to sit on an egg while its mother, the good-for-nothing bird lazy Maysie, takes a break. Little does Horton know that Maysie is setting off for a permanent vacation in Palm Springs. He waits, and waits, never leaving his precarious branch, even through a freezing winter and a spring that's punctuated by the insults of his friends. ("They taunted. They teased him. They yelled 'How Absurd! Old Horton the Elephant thinks he's a bird!'") Further indignities await, but Horton has the patience of Job--from whose story this one clearly derives--and he is rewarded in the end by the surprise birth of... an elephant-bird. Horton Hatches the Egg contains some of Theodor Geisel's most inspired verse and some of his best-ever illustrations, the dated style of which only accentuates their power and charm. A book no childhood should be without. (Ages 2 to 7) --Richard Farr From the Inside Flap Illus. in color by the author. It's the talk of the jungle when an elephant hatches an egg. Extravagant nonsense and rollicking verse. From the Back Cover Illus. in color by the author. It's the talk of the jungle when an elephant hatches an egg. Extravagant nonsense and rollicking verse. About the Author Theodor Seuss Geisel—aka Dr. Seuss —is one of the most beloved children’s book authors of all time. From The Cat in the Hat to Oh, the Places You’ll Go!, his iconic characters, stories, and art style have been a lasting influence on generations of children and adults. The books he wrote and illustrated under the name Dr. Seuss (and others that he wrote but did not illustrate, including some under the pseudonyms Theo. LeSieg and Rosetta Stone) have been translated into 45 languages. Hundreds of millions of copies have found their way into homes and hearts around the world. Dr. Seuss’s long list of awards includes Caldecott Honors, the Pulitzer Prize, and eight honorary doctorates. Works based on his original stories have won three Oscars, three Emmys, three Grammys, and a Peabody. Read more

A Mouse Told His Mother

From School Library Journal PreSchool-Grade 2. This delightful story captures the easy banter between a little mouse and his mother. When informed that it is bedtime, the little creature avoids the subject by insisting that he is going on an adventure. While his mother guides him through the nighttime rituals, little mouse's imagination takes charge. Along the way, he informs her of his intentions to dive for pirate treasure, climb a mountain, ride a bucking bronco, and more. '"I am going to the moon.' 'Take your toothbrush,' said his mother." This back and forth goes on until the inevitable resolution with little mouse tucked in bed fast asleep. Each page begins with the catch phrase from the title, creating a lulling repetition that is sure to make young eyes heavy. Begin's illustrations successfully blend little mouse's fantasies with reality. When he imagines he's flying an airplane, his patchwork quilt becomes the landscape below. This thoughtful and well-illustrated book will be welcome in any bedtime collection.?Christy Norris, Valley Cottage Library, NYCopyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Booklist Ages 3^-5. A young mouse is on his way to bed--but you wouldn't know it from the way he talks. He is going on a trip, he is off to catch a crocodile, he is climbing up snowcapped mountains. Wise Mama Mouse gives him practical advice to temper his flights of fancy: he is going to bed; he should wash well and put on his warm pajamas. Roberts cleverly matches each of the little mouse's pronouncements with the more grounded recommendations from his mother. Begin, who appears to have specialized in drawing mouse worlds such as that in Pryor's Porcupine Mouse (1988), provides wonderful glossy artwork that fills the pages. She cleverly creates both the wide world of the little mouse's imagination and the cozier bedroom closer to home in this delightful nighttime lark. Ilene Cooper From Kirkus Reviews A mouse child, at bedtime, tells his mother that he's going on a trip--to the moon, to dive for pirate treasure, to fly an airplane around the world, to explore a spooky cave, etc. Each exploit is suggested by something he sees around him--the boat in his bathtub, a toy plane, the dark ``cave'' under his bed. Without contradicting him, his mother gently brings him back to earth--and nearer bed--each time by reminding him to take his toothbrush, pack and extra blanket, and ``lights out now.'' In the delightful point- counterpoint between parent and child, Roberts (with Patricia Hubbell, Camel Caravan, 1996) follows the model of Margaret Wise Brown's Runaway Bunny; the parent wins this one, too, when the tired mouse drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face. Children will have fun matching the mouse's adventures with the everyday objects that inspire them. Begin has imagined the domestic details of a mouse's world with winsome humor: twig furniture, an acorn-cap washbasin, a bathtub made from an empty catfood tin; the pictures not only enhance the story, but really make it work. (Picture book. 3-7) -- Copyright ©1997, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. Read more

One Second After (A John Matherson Novel, 1)

Review “Civilization slides into the abyss of a new dark age in this horrifying apocalyptic novel. Forstchen has put Bin Laden's wet dream on paper and, in the process, taken civilization straight to the rack.” ― Stephen Coonts, New York Times bestselling author of The Art of War “The only thing more terrifying than this masterfully crafted story is the possibility of it actually happening―and not a damn thing being done to protect us.” ― W.E.B. Griffin & William E. Butterworth IV “Forstchen's work has flair and power.” ― Joel Rosenberg, author of The Sleeping Dragon “Forstchen did such a damned fine job with One Second After that shortly after the first page, I had been reeled in hook, line, and sinker.” ― David Hagberg, New York Times bestselling author of Tower Down About the Author William R. Forstchen is the author of the New York Times bestseller One Second After and We Look Like Men of War , among numerous other books in diverse subjects ranging from history to science fiction. He has co-authored several books with Newt Gingrich, including Gettysburg: A Novel of the Civil War , Pearl Harbor , Days of Infamy , To Try Men’s Souls and Valley Forge . Forstchen holds a Ph.D. in History from Purdue University, with specializations in military history and the history of technology. He is currently a Faculty Fellow and Professor of History at Montreat College, near Asheville North Carolina. He is a pilot and flies an original WWII recon "warbird." He resides near Asheville with his daughter Meghan. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. One Second After By William R. Forstchen Tor Books Copyright © 2011 William R. ForstchenAll right reserved. ISBN: 9780765356864 Chapter One BLACK MOUNTAIN, NORTH CAROLINA, 2:30 EDT John Matherson lifted the plastic bag off the counter. "You sure I have the right ones?" he asked. Nancy, the owner of the shop, Ivy Corner, smiled. "Don't worry, John; she already had them picked out weeks ago. Give her a big hug and kiss for me. Hard to believe she's twelve today." John sighed and nodded, looking down at the bag, stuffed with a dozen Beanie Babies, one for each year of Jennifer's life, which started twelve years ago this day. "Hope she still wants these at thirteen," he said. "God save me when that first boy shows up at the door wanting to take her out." The two laughed, Nancy nodding in agreement. He was already enduring that with Elizabeth, his sixteen- year- old, and perhaps for that, and so many other reasons as well, he just wished that he could preserve, could drag out, just for a few more days, weeks, or months the precious time all fathers remember fondly, when they still had their "little girl." It was a beautiful spring day, the cherry trees lining the street in full bloom, a light shower of pink petals drifting on the wind as he walked up the street, past Doc Kellor's office, the antique stores, the new, rather Gothic- looking art gallery that had opened last month, the usual curio shops, and even an old- style ice- cream parlor . . . at a dollar fifty a scoop. Next up the street was Benson's Used and Rare Books. John hesitated, wanted to go in just for a few minutes, then pulled out his cell phone to check the time. Two thirty. Her bus would be rolling in at three, no time today to go in, have a cup of coffee, and talk about books and history. Walt Benson saw him, held up a cup, gesturing for John to join him. He shook his head, pointed to his wrist even though he never wore a watch, and continued to walk up to the corner to where his Talon SUV was parked in front of Taylor's Hardware and General Store. John paused and looked back down the street for a moment. I'm living in a damn Norman Rockwell painting, he thought yet again, for the thousandth time. Winding up here . . . he never imagined it, never planned for it, or even wanted it. Eight years back he was at the Army War College, Carlisle, PA, teaching military history and lecturing on asymmetrical warfare, and waiting to jump the hoop and finally get his first star. And then two things happened. His promotion came through, with assignment to Brussels as a liaison to NATO, a rather nice posting to most likely end out his career . . . and then Mary had returned from the doctor's several days after the promotion, her face pale, lips pressed tight, and said four words: "I have breast cancer." The commandant at Carlisle, Bob Scales, an old friend who had stood as godfather for John's Jennifer, understood the request he then laid before him. John would take the promotion, but could it be to the Pentagon? It'd place them nearby to Johns Hopkins, and not too far from Mary's family. It didn't work. Cutbacks were hitting as it was, oh, there was great sympathy from upstairs, but he had to take Brussels if he wanted the star and maybe a year later they'd find a slot for him stateside. After talking to Mary's doctor . . . John resigned. He would take her back home to Black Mountain, North Carolina, which was what she wanted and the cancer treatment center at Chapel Hill would be nearby. Bob's connections were good, remarkably good, when John first mentioned Black Mountain. A single phone call was made; the old- boy network, though disdained as politically incorrect, did exist and it did help at times when needed. The president of Montreat College, North Carolina, in Mary's hometown, did indeed "suddenly" need an assistant director of development. John hated development and admissions work but survived fit until finally a tenure- track professorship in history opened four years back and he was slotted in. The fact that the president of the college, Dan Hunt, owed his life to Bob Scales, who had dragged him out of a minefield back in 1970, was a definite mark in John's favor that could not be ignored between friends. Dan had lost his leg, Bob got another of his Bronze Stars for saving him, and the two had been buddies ever since, each looking out, as well, for those whom the other cared for. So Mary got to go home, after twenty years of following John from Benning, to Germany, to Okinawa, sweating out Desert Storm, from there to the Pentagon, then a year, a wonderful year, at West Point and then three more wonderful years teaching at Carlisle. At heart he was a history teacher, and maybe whichever bastard in the personnel office at the Pentagon had nixed John's request to stay stateside had done him a favor. So they came home to Black Mountain, North Carolina. He did not hesitate one second in granting her wish, resigning his commission and promotion and moving to this corner of the Carolina mountains. He looked back down Main Street, frozen for a moment in time and memories. Mary would be gone four years next week, her last time out a slow, exhausting walk down this street, which as a girl she had run along. It was indeed a Norman Rockwell town. That final walk down this street with her, everyone knew her, everyone knew what was happening, and everyone came out to say hi, to give her a hug, a kiss, all knowing it was farewell but not saying it. It was a gesture of love John would never forget. He pushed the thought aside. It was still too close and Jennifer's bus would be pulling up in twenty minutes. He got into his Talon, started it up, turned onto State Street, and headed east. He did love the view as State Street curved through town, past yet more shops, nearly all the buildings redbrick, dating back to the turn of the century. The village had once been a thriving community, part of the tuberculosis sanitarium business. When the railroad had finally pierced the mountains of western North Carolina in the early 1880s some of the first to flood in were tuberculosis victims. They came by the thousands, to the sanitariums that sprang up on every sunlit mountain slope. By the early twenties there were a dozen such institutions surrounding Asheville, the big city situated a dozen miles to the west of Black Mountain. And then came the Depression. Black Mountain remained frozen in time, and then came antibiotics right after the war and the sanitariums emptied out. And all those wonderful buildings, which in other towns would have given way to shopping plazas and strip malls, had remained intact, progress passing Black Mountain by. Now there were conference centers for various churches and summer camps for kids where the sanitariums had been. His own college had been founded at such a site up in what everyone called the Cove. A small college, six hundred kids, most of them from small towns across the Carolinas and a few from Atlanta or Florida. Some of the kids were freaked out by the relative isolation, but most of them grudgingly admitted they loved it, a beautiful campus, a safe place, an old logging trail across the edge of the campus leading straight on up to Mount Mitchell, good white water nearby for kayaking, and plenty of woods to disappear into for partying for some of them, to get around the fairly strict campus rules. The town itself finally revived, starting in the 1980s, but wonderfully, the charming turn- of- the- century look was maintained, and in the summer and fall the streets would be crammed with tourists and day- trippers coming up from Charlotte or Winston- Salem to escape the boiling heat of the lowlands, joined by hundreds of summer "cottagers" who lived in the Cove, many of the cottages darn near mansions for some of the older wealth of the South. That had been Mary's family, Old South and wealth. Me-ma Jennie, Mary's mother and Jennifer's namesake, still hung on doggedly to their home up in the Cove, refusing to consider moving, even though "Papa" Tyler was now in a nearby nursing home, in the final stages of cancer. John continued to drive east, the traffic on Interstate 40, coming up through the Swannanoa Gap, roaring by on his left. The old- timers in the town still expressed their hatred of that "darn road." Before it came in, Black Mountain was a sleepy southern mountain hamlet. With the road had come development, traffic, and the foods of tourists on weekends that the chamber of commerce loved and everyone else tried to tolerate. Staying on the old highway that paralleled the interstate, John drove for less than a mile out of town, then turned right onto a dirt road that twisted up the side of a hill overlooking the town. The old mountain joke used to be "you know you're getting directions to a mountain home when they say, 'Turn onto the dirt road.' " For a kid from New Jersey, John still got a bit of a kick out of the fact that he did indeed live in the South, on the side of a mountain, halfway up a dirt road, with a view worth a million bucks. The home he and Mary had purchased was in one of the first new developments in the area. In a county where there was no zoning, the lower part of the hill had several trailers, an old shack where Connie Yarborough, a wonderful down- the- hill neighbor, still did not have electricity or town water, and next to her was an eccentric Volkswagen repair shop . . . the owner, Jim Bartlett, a true sixties throwback, his lot littered with dozens of rusting Beetles, vans, and even a few precious VW Buses and Karmann Ghias. The house (Mary and John actually named Rivendell, because of their mutual love of Tolkien) offered a broad sweeping view of the valley below; the skyline of Asheville was in the distance, framed by the Great Smoky Mountains beyond, facing due west so Mary could have her sunsets. When trying to describe the view he'd just tell friends, "Check out Last of the Mohicans ; it was filmed a half hour from where we live." It was a fairly contemporary-looking type of home, high ceiling, the west wall, from bedroom across the living room to the dining area, all glass. The bed was still positioned to face the glass wall, as Mary wanted it so she could watch the outside world as her life drifted away. He pulled up the drive. The two "idiots" Ginger and Zach, both golden retrievers, both beautiful- looking dogs—and both thicker than bricks when it came to brains—had been out sunning on the bedroom deck. They stood up and barked madly, as if he were an invader. Though if he were a real invader they'd have cowered in terror and stained the carpet as they .ed into Jennifer's room to hide. The two idiots charged through the bedroom, then out through the entryway screen door . . . the lower half of the door a charade, as the screen was gone. Put a new one in, it'd last a few days and the idiots would charge right through it again. John had given up on that fight years ago. As for actually closing the door . . . it never even crossed his mind anymore. This was Black Mountain. Strange as it seemed, folks rarely locked up, keys would be left in cars, kids did indeed play in the streets in the evening, there were parades for the Fourth of July, Christmas, and the ridiculous Pine cone Festival, complete to the crowning of a Miss Pinecone. Papa Tyler had absolutely humiliated his daughter, Mary, in front of John early on in their courtship when he proudly pulled out a photo of her, Miss Pine cone 1977. In Black Mountain there was still an ice- cream truck that made the rounds on summer nights. . . . It was all one helluva difference from his boyhood just outside of Newark, New Jersey. There was a car parked at the top of the driveway. Mary's mother, Me-ma Jennie. Me-ma Jennie was behind the wheel of her wonderful and highly eccentric 1959 Ford Edsel. Ford . . . that's where the family money had come from, ownership of a string of car dealerships across the Carolinas dating back to Henry Ford himself. There was even a photo framed in the house up in the Cove of Mary's great-granddad and Henry Ford at the opening of a dealership in Charlotte back before World War I. Though it wasn't polite to be overtly "business" in their strata and Jennie preferred the role of genteel southern lady, in her day, John knew, she was one shrewd business person, as was her husband. John pulled up alongside the Edsel. Jennie put down the book she was reading and got out. "Hi, Jen." She absolutely hated "Ma," "Mother," "Mom," or, mortal sin of all mortal sins, "Me-ma" or "Grandma" from her Yankee son- in- law, who was definitely not her first choice for her only daughter. But that had softened with time, especially towards the end, especially when he had brought the girls back home to Jen. The two got out of their cars and she held up a cheek to be kissed, her height, at little more than five foot two, overshadowed by his six- foot- four bulk, and there was a light touch of her hand on his arm and an affectionate squeeze. "Thought you'd never get here in time. She'll be home any minute." Jen had yet to slip into the higher pitch or gravelly tone of an "old lady's" voice. He wondered if she practiced every night reciting before a mirror to keep that wonderful young woman-sounding southern lilt. It was an accent that still haunted him. The same as Mary's when they had first met at Duke, twenty- eight years ago. At times, if Jen was in the next room and called to the girls, it would still bring tears to his eyes. "We got time. Why didn't you go inside to wait?" "With those two mongrels? The way they jump, they'd ruin my nylons." Ginger and Zach were all over John, jumping, barking, leaping about . . . and studiously avoiding Jen. Though dumb, goldens knew when someone didn't like them no matter how charming they might be. John reached in, pulled out the bag of Beanies, and, walking over to the stone wall that bordered the path to the house, began to line them up, one at a time, setting them side by side. "Now John, really, isn't she getting a bit old for that?" "Not yet, not my little girl." Jen laughed softly. "You can't keep time back forever." "I can try, can't I?" he said with a grin. She smiled sadly. "How do you think Tyler and I felt about you, the day you came through our door?" He reached out and gave her an affectionate touch on the cheek. "You guys loved me." "You a Yankee? Like hell. Tyler actually thought about driving you off with a shotgun. And that first night you stayed over . . ." Even after all these years he found he still blushed a bit at that. Jen had caught Mary and him in a less than "proper" situation on the family room sofa at two in the morning. Though not fully improper, it was embarrassing nevertheless, and Jen had never let him live it down. He set the Beanies out, stepped back, eyeballed them, like a sergeant examining a row of new recruits. The red, white, and blue "patriot" bear on the right should be in the middle of the ranks where a flag bearer might be. He could hear the growl of the school bus as it shifted gears, turning off of old Route 70, coming up the hill. "Here she comes," Jen announced excitedly. Going back to the Edsel, she leaned in the open window and brought out a .at, elegantly wrapped box, tied off with a neat bow. "Jewelry?" John asked. "Of course; she's twelve now. A proper young lady should have a gold necklace at twelve. Her mother did." "Yeah, I remember that necklace," he said with a grin. "She was wearing it that night you just mentioned. And she was twenty then." "You cad," Jen said softly, and slapped him lightly on the shoulder, and he pretended that it was a painful blow. Ginger and Zach had stopped jumping around John, both of them cocking their heads, taking in the sound of the approaching school bus, the squeal of the brakes as it stopped at the bottom of the driveway, its yellow barely visible now through the spring- blooming trees. They were both off like lightning bolts, running full tilt down the driveway, barking up a storm, and seconds later he could hear the laughter of Jennifer; of Patricia, a year older and their neighbor; and of Seth, Pat's eleventh-grade brother. The girls came running up the driveway, Seth threw a stick, the two dogs diverted by it for a moment but then turned together and charged up the hill behind the girls. Seth waved then crossed the street to his house. John felt a hand slip into his . . . Jen's. "Just like her mother," Jen whispered, voice choked. Yes, he could see Mary in Jennifer, slender, actually skinny as a rail, shoulder-length blond hair tied back, still a lanky little girl. She slowed a bit, reaching out to put a hand on a tree as if to brace herself, Patricia turned and waited for her. John felt a momentary concern, wanted to go down to her, but knew better, Jen actually held him back. "You are too protective," Jen whispered. "She must handle it on her own." Young Jennifer caught her breath, looked up, a bit pale, saw them waiting, and a radiant smile lit her face. "Me-ma! And you drove the Edsel today. Can we go for a ride?" Jen let her hand slip, bent over slightly as Jennifer ran up to her grandmother, the two embracing. "How's my birthday girl?" They hugged and Grandma Jen showered Jennifer with kisses, twelve of them, counting each off. Pat looked over at the Beanies lined up, smiled, and looked up at John. "Afternoon, Mr. Matherson." "How are you, Pat?" "I think she needs to be checked," Pat whispered. "It can wait." "Daddy!" Jennifer was now in his arms. He lifted her up, hugged her with fierce intensity so that she laughed, then groaned, "You'll break my back!" He let go of her, watching her eyes as she looked past him to the Beanie Babies lining the wall . . . and yes, there was still that childlike glow in them. "Patriot Bear! And Ollie Ostrich!" As she started to sweep them up, he looked over at Jen with a bit of a triumphant smile, as if to say, "See, she's still my little girl." Jen, rising to the challenge, came up to Jennifer's side and held out the .at box. "Happy Birthday, darling." Jennifer tore the paper off. Ginger, thinking the paper was now a gift to her, half- swallowed it and ran off as Zach chased her. When Jennifer opened the box her eyes widened. "Oh, Me-ma." "It's time my girl had a real gold necklace. Maybe your friend can help you put it on." John looked down at the gift. My God, it must of cost a fortune, heavy, almost pencil thick. Jen looked at him out of the corner of her eye as if to meet any challenge. "You're a young lady now," Jen announced as Pat helped to clasp the necklace on, and then Jen produced a small mirror from her purse and held it up. "Oh, Grandma . . . it's lovely." "A lovely gift for a lovely lady." John stood silent for a moment, not sure what to say as his little girl gazed into the mirror, raising her head slightly, the way a woman would, to admire the gold. "Sweetie, I think you better check your blood sugar; you seemed a bit winded coming up the hill," John finally said, and his words came out heavily, breaking the moment. "Yes, Daddy." Jennifer leaned against the wall, took off her backpack and pulled out the blood-sugar test monitor. It was one of the new digital readout models. No more finger pricking, just a quick jab to the arm. She absently fingered the necklace with her free hand while waiting for the readout. One forty- two . . . a bit high. "I think you better get some insulin into you," John said. She nodded. Jennifer had lived with it for ten years now. He knew that was a major part of his protectiveness of her. When she was in her terrible twos and threes, it tore his heart out every time he had to prick her finger, the sight of his or Mary's approach with the test kit set off howls of protest. The doctors had all said that, as quickly as possible, Jennifer had to learn to monitor herself, that John and Mary needed to step back even when she was only seven and eight to let her know her own signs, test, and medicate. Mary had handled it far better than John had, perhaps because of her own illness towards the end. Jen with her strength had the same attitude. Strange. Here I am, a soldier of twenty years. Saw some action, but the only casualties were the Iraqis, never my own men. I was trained to handle things, but when it came to my daugher's diabetes, a damn aggressive type 1, I was always on edge. Tough, damn good at what I did, well respected by my men, and yet complete jelly when it comes to my girls. "There's a few more gifts inside," John said. "Why don't you girls go on in? Once your sister gets home and your friends show up we can have our party." "Oh, Dad, didn't you get Elizabeth's message?" "What message?" "Here, silly." She reached up and .shed the cell phone out of his breast pocket, tucked in behind a pack of cigarettes. She started to pull the cigarettes out, to stomp on them or tear them up, but a look from him warned her off. "Someday, Daddy," she sighed, then taking the phone she punched a few keys and handed it back. "Home late. Out with Ben," the screen read. "She texted you and me during lunch." "Texted?" "Yes, Daddy, text message, all the kids are doing it now." "What's wrong with a phone call?" She looked at him as if he were from the antediluvian period and then headed inside. "Texted?" Jen asked. John held the phone so she could read the message. Jen smiled. "Better start keeping a sharper watch on Elizabeth," she said. "If that Ben Johnson has any of his grandfather's blood in him." She chuckled as if remembering something from long ago. "I don't need to hear this." "No, you don't, Colonel." "Actually, I kind of prefer 'Doctor,' or 'Professor.' " "A doctor is someone who sticks things in you. A professor, well, they always struck me as a bit strange. Either rakes chasing the girls or boring, dusty types. Down here in the South, 'Colonel' sounds best. More masculine." "Well, I am no longer in active ser vice. I am a professor, so let's just settle for 'John.' " Jen gazed up at him for a moment, then came up to his side, stood on tiptoes, and kissed his cheek lightly. "I can see why my own little girl once fell for you, John. You'll lose both of them soon enough to some pimply- faced boys, so do hang on to her as long as you can." "Well, you sure as hell didn't help, draping that gold necklace on her. What did it cost, a thousand, fifteen hundred?" "Roughly, but then again, no lady tells the truth when it comes to her buying jewelry." "Until the bill comes in and the husband has to pay." There was a pause. He knew he had misspoken. If he had said such a thing around Mary, she'd have lit into him about a woman being independent and the hell with a husband handling the bills . . . and in fact she did handle all the family finances right up till the last weeks of her life. As for Tyler, though, he no longer even knew what a bill was, and that hurt, no matter how self-reliant Jen tried to appear to be. "I best be going," Jen said. "Sorry, I didn't mean it that way." "It's all right, John. Let me go up to the nursing home to spend some time with Tyler and I'll be back for the party." "Jennifer was expecting a ride in that monstrous car of yours." "The Edsel, my dear young man, was a generation ahead of its time." "And the biggest .op in the history of Ford Motors. My God, look at that grille; it's ugly as sin." She lightened up a bit with the banter. There were half a dozen cars in her huge garage, several newer ones but also an actual Model A, up on blocks, and, beauty of beauties, a powder blue 1965 Mustang convertible. A lot of bad memories, though, were tied to that Mustang. When John and Mary were dating, they had conned her parents into letting them borrow the car for a cruise up the Blue Ridge Parkway to Mount Mitchell and John, driving it, had rear- ended an elderly couple's Winnebago. No one was hurt, but the car was totaled and Tyler had poured thousands into getting it restored . . . and swore that no one other than him or Jen would ever drive it again. And Jen still lived by that ruling. "This Edsel will run forever, my dear, and just check on eBay to see how much it's worth. I bet a heck of a lot more than that SUV thing you've got." He settled back against the stone wall as Jen maneuvered "the monster" around and cruised down the driveway at breakneck speed. The wall was warm from the afternoon sun. The Beanies were still there, and oh, that did hurt a bit; at least she could have carried Patriot Bear or the ostrich in. Inside he could hear Jennifer and Pat chatting away about the necklace until the stereo kicked on. Some strange female wailing sounds. Britney Spears? No, she was old stuff now, thank God. What it was he couldn't tell, other than the fact that he didn't like it. Pink Floyd, some of the old stuff his parents listened to like Sinatra or Glenn Miller, or, better yet, the Chieftains were more his speed. He picked up one of the Beanies, Patriot Bear. "Well, my friend, guess we'll soon be left behind," he said. Leaning against the wall, he soaked in the view, the tranquility of the moment, broken only by the distant rumble of traffic on I-40 and the noise inside the house. Ginger and Zach came back from their romp in the field behind the house and flopped down at his feet, panting hard. The scent of lilacs was heavy on the air; if anyone wanted to truly see spring, they should live in these mountains. Down in the valley below, the cherry trees were in full bloom, just several hundred feet higher here at his home they were just beginning to blossom, but the lilacs were already blooming. To his right, ten miles away, the top of Mount Mitchell was actually crowned with a touch of snow, winter was still up there. "When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed . . ." The scent always triggered in his mind Whitman's lament for Lincoln. It reminded John that to night, the second Tuesday of the month, was Civil War Roundtable night in the basement of the Methodist church. It'd be another fun round of the usual raucous debate, the other members all needling him as their one and only Yankee, whom they could pick on. And then the phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, expecting it to be Elizabeth. There was going to be hell to pay if it was. How she could stand up her kid sister on her birthday to sneak off with that pimple- faced, horny, fast- handed Johnson kid . . . But the area code was 703 . . . and John recognized the next three numbers . . . the Pentagon. He opened the phone and clicked it on. "Hey, Bob." "John, how you doing? Where's my goddaughter?" He said it doing a halfway decent imitation of Marlon Brando as Don Corleone. Bob Scales, now three stars, John's former boss at Carlisle and a damn good friend, had stood as Jennifer's godfather, and though Irish Catholic rather than Italian, he took the job seriously. He and his wife, Barbara, usually came down three or four times a year. When Mary died they had taken a couple of weeks off and stayed to help. They never had children and thus they considered Jennifer and Elizabeth to be their surrogates. "Growing up," John said sadly. "Her grandmother gave her a gold necklace that must of cost a grand or more, which counted a helluva lot more than the Beanies, and the stack of Pokemon cards still waiting inside. I even got tickets to Disney World for once school lets out that I'll give her at dinner, but I wonder now if it will be the same." "You mean when you took her there when she was six and Elizabeth ten? Hell, yeah, it will be different, but you'll still see the little girl come out down there, even with Elizabeth. How's Elizabeth doing, by the way?" "I'm thinking of shooting her boyfriend later today." Bob roared with laughter. "Maybe it's best I didn't have daughters," Bob finally replied. "Sons, yeah . . ." His voice trailed off for a moment. "Hey, let me speak to Jennifer, OK?" "Sure." John walked into the house, shouting for Jennifer, who came dashing out of her bedroom, still wearing that damn necklace, and grabbed the phone. "Hi, Uncle Bob!" John tapped her on the shoulder. "You take your insulin?" he asked. She nodded her head; then chattering away, she walked around the house. John looked out the window across the valley to the mountains beyond. It was a beautiful, pristine spring day. And his mood began to lighten. Several of Jennifer's friends would be over soon for a small party. He'd cook up some burgers on the grill out on the side deck; the kids would then retreat to Jennifer's room. He had just opened the pool in the backyard over the weekend, and though the water was a chilly sixty-eight, a couple of the kids might jump in. He'd flush them out around dark, go to his Roundtable meeting, and maybe later this eve ning he'd dig back into that article he was committed to for the Civil War Journal about Lee versus Grant as a strategic commander . . . a no- brainer but still an extra five hundred bucks when done and another vita builder for tenure review next year. He could stay up late; his first lecture wasn't until eleven in the morning tomorrow. "Dad, Uncle Bob wants you!" Jennifer came out of her bedroom, holding up the phone. John took it, gave her a quick peck on the top of her head and a playful swat as she ran back off. Seconds later the damn stereo in her room doubled in sound. "Yeah, Bob?" "John, I gotta run." He could sense some tension in Bob's voice. He could hear some voices in the background . . . shouting. It was hard to tell, though; Jennifer's stereo was blaring. "Sure, Bob. Will you be down next month?" "Look, John, something's up. Got a problem here. I gotta—" The phone went dead. At that same instant, the ceiling fan began to slowly wind down, the stereo in Jennifer's room shut down, and looking over to his side alcove office he saw the computer screen saver disappear, the green light of the on button on the nineteen- inch monitor disappearing. There was a chirping beep, the signal that the home security and .re alarm system was off- line; then that went silent as well. "Bob?" Silence on the other end. John snapped the phone shut. Damn, power failure. "Dad?" It was Jennifer. "My CD player died." "Yeah, honey." Thank God, he thought silently. "Power failure." She looked at him, a bit crestfallen, as if he were somehow responsible or could snap his finger to make the CD player come back on. Actually, if he could permanently arrange for that damn player to die, he would be tempted to do it. "What about my party? Pat just gave me a CD and I wanted to play it." "No worry, sweetie. Let me call the power company. Most likely a blown transformer." He picked up the landline phone . . . silence, no dial tone. Last time that happened some drunk had rammed into a telephone pole down at the bottom of the hill and wiped everything out. The drunk of course had walked away from it. Cell phone. John opened it back up, started to punch numbers . . . nothing. Damn. Cell phone was dead. He put it down on the kitchen table. Puzzling. The battery in his phone must have gone out just as Bob clicked off. Hell, without electricity John couldn't charge it back up to call the power company. He looked over at Jennifer, who stared at him expectantly, as if he would now resolve things. "No problem at all, kid. They'll be on it, and besides, it's a beautiful day; you don't need to be listening to that garbage anyhow. Why can't you like Mozart or Debussy the way Pat here does?" Pat looked at him uncomfortably and he realized he had committed one of the mortal sins of parenting; never compare your daughter to one of her buddies. "Go on outside; give the dogs a run. They'll have the power back by dinnertime." Excerpted from ONE SECOND AFTER by William R. Forstchen Copyright © 2009 by William R. Forstchen Published in March 2009 by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher. Continues... Excerpted from One Second After by William R. Forstchen Copyright © 2011 by William R. Forstchen. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more

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The Longest Ride

Review "Sparks is a poet . . . a master."― Philadelphia Inquirer "Epic Sparks . . . showcases the author's most accomplished work to date . . . There are moments of perfection . . . Reaching not only young and old, the novel is commingled with enough cowboy action, literary flavor, and a maturing gift for dialogue to reach across the sexes."― Mountain Times (NC) "These parallel love stories are each rich in their own right, but together, they tell a broader and more complicated tale of love's growth and evolution over time . . . some surprising twists right up until the very end."― BookReporter.com About the Author With over 100 million copies of his books sold, Nicholas Sparks is one of the world's most beloved storytellers. His novels include sixteen #1 New York Times bestsellers, and all of his books, including Three Weeks with My Brother , the memoir he wrote with his brother, Micah, have been New York Times and international bestsellers, and were translated into more than fifty languages. Eleven of Nicholas Sparks's novels -- The Choice, The Longest Ride, The Best of Me, Safe Haven, The Lucky One, The Last Song, Dear John, Nights in Rodanthe, The Notebook, A Walk to Remember , and Message in a Bottle -- have been adapted into major motion pictures.