...for a good night’s sleep. After waking up from a night filled with dreams of soaking up some sunshine on sandy beaches, I turned to my alarm clock to see what time it was. The blinking screen read 5:53 AM, June 3, 2017. So I rolled out of bed, and got dressed in some comfortable clothes. I was filled with excitement and nervous energy while I devoured a nutritious breakfast of blueberry oatmeal before proceeding to finish getting ready. “Abby! C’mon! We have to go or you’re gonna be late!” yelled my mother, who is a tall woman in her forties with short, flaxen hair and greenish-gray eyes. “I’m brushing my teeth! Be down in a minute!” I called...
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...Memoirs Of A Geisha Arthur Golden Chapter one Suppose that you and I were sitting in a quiet room overlooking a gar -1 den, chatting and sipping at our cups of green tea while we talked J about something that had happened a long while ago, and I said to you, "That afternoon when I met so-and-so . . . was the very best afternoon of my life, and also the very worst afternoon." I expect you might put down your teacup and say, "Well, now, which was it? Was it the best or the worst? Because it can't possibly have been both!" Ordinarily I'd have to laugh at myself and agree with you. But the truth is that the afternoon when I met Mr. Tanaka Ichiro really was the best and the worst of my life. He seemed so fascinating to me, even the fish smell on his hands was a kind of perfume. If I had never known him, I'm sure I would not have become a geisha. I wasn't born and raised to be a Kyoto geisha. I wasn't even born in Kyoto. I'm a fisherman's daughter from a little town called Yoroido on the Sea of Japan. In all my life I've never told more than a handful of people anything at all about Yoroido, or about the house in which I grew up, or about my mother and father, or my older sister -and certainly not about how I became a geisha, or what it was like to be one. Most people would much rather carry on with their fantasies that my mother and grandmother were geisha, and that I began my training in dance when I was weaned from the breast, and so on. As a matter of fact, one day many years...
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...Acclaim for Yann Martel's Life of Pi "Life of Pi is not just a readable and engaging novel, it's a finely twisted length of yarn— yarn implying a far-fetched story you can't quite swallow whole, but can't dismiss outright. Life of Pi is in this tradition—a story of uncertain veracity, made credible by the art of the yarn-spinner. Like its noteworthy ancestors, among which I take to be Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver's Travels, the Ancient Mariner, Moby Dick and Pincher Martin, it's a tale of disaster at sea coupled with miraculous survival—a boys' adventure for grownups." —Margaret Atwood, The Sunday Times (London) "A fabulous romp through an imagination by turns ecstatic, cunning, despairing and resilient, this novel is an impressive achievement. . . . Martel displays the clever voice and tremendous storytelling skills of an emerging master." —Publisher's Weekly (starred review) "[Life of Pi] has a buoyant, exotic, insistence reminiscent of Edgar Allen Poe's most Gothic fiction. . . . Oddities abound and the storytelling is first-rate. Yann Martel has written a novel full of grisly reality, outlandish plot, inventive setting and thought-provoking questions about the value and purpose of fiction." —The Edmonton journal "Martel's ceaselessly clever writing . . . [and] artful, occasionally hilarious, internal dialogue . . . make a fine argument for the divinity of good art." —The Gazette "Astounding and beautiful. . . . The book is a pleasure not only for the subtleties of its philosophy...
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...Acclaim for Chuck Palahniuk’s Choke “Just as dark and outrageous as his previous work. … His voice is so distinctive that he exists as a genre unto himself.” —The Washington Post “Palahniuk’s language is urgent and tense, touched with psychopathic brilliance, his images dead-on accurate. … [He] is an author who makes full use of the alchemical powers of fiction to synthesize a universe that mirrors our own fiction as a way of illuminating the world without obliterating its complexity.” —LA Weekly “Puts a bleakly humorous spin on self-help, addiction recovery, and childhood trauma. … Choke’s funny, mantra-like prose plows toward the mayhem it portends from the get-go.” —The Village Voice “Oddly, defiantly, addictive.” happily —Daily News “[Choke] shines a flashlight into America’s dark corners. … As darkly comic and starkly terrifying as your high school yearbook photo.” —GQ “Palahniuk is a gifted writer, and the novel is full of terrific lines.” —The New York Times Book Review “[Palahniuk’s] most enduring trait … is that marvelous quicksilver voice of his. … The exuberance of his language makes it still worthwhile to brave these often chilly and dark waters.” —The Oregonian “Choke is another welcome antidote to antiseptic consumer life, and you can’t blame it for grabbing you by the throat.” —Maxim “Palahniuk is a cult writer in the truest sense.” —Entertainment Weekly “His subversive riffs conjure a kind of jump-cut cinema of the diseased imagination, resulting...
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...Need Assistance? Click "Chat Now" to chat with a Live Operator. Chat Now No Thanks! The Ragamuffin Mystery CHAPTER ONE Off in the Caravan “This is going to be just about the most exciting holiday we’ve ever had!” said Roger, carrying a suitcase and bag down to the front door. “Diana, bring that pile of books, will you, before we forget them?” Diana picked them up and ran down the stairs after Roger. At the front door stood a caravan. Diana stood and gloated over it for about the twentieth time. “Fancy Dad buying a caravan!” she said. “And oh, what a pity he can’t come with us after all!” “Yes - after all our plans!” said Roger. “Still, it’s a jolly good thing Mummy didn’t back out, when she heard Dad had to go off to America - I was awfully afraid she would! My heart went into my boots, I can tell you.” “Same here,” said Diana, stacking the books neatly on a shelf in the caravan. “Have we got our bird-book - we’ll see plenty of birds on our travels, and that’s my holiday task - writing an essay on ‘Birds I have seen’.” “Well, don’t forget to take the field-glasses then,” said Roger. “They’re hanging in the hall. I say - what did you think about Mummy asking Miss Pepper to come with us, now that Daddy can’t manage?” Miss Pepper was a very old friend of their mother’s. The children were fond of her - but Roger felt rather doubtful about having her on a caravan holiday with them. “You see - she’s all right in a house...
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...Yann Martel: Life of Pi life of pi A NOVEL author's note This book was born as I was hungry. Let me explain. In the spring of 1996, my second book, a novel, came out in Canada. It didn't fare well. Reviewers were puzzled, or damned it with faint praise. Then readers ignored it. Despite my best efforts at playing the clown or the trapeze artist, the media circus made no difference. The book did not move. Books lined the shelves of bookstores like kids standing in a row to play baseball or soccer, and mine was the gangly, unathletic kid that no one wanted on their team. It vanished quickly and quietly. The fiasco did not affect me too much. I had already moved on to another story, a novel set in Portugal in 1939. Only I was feeling restless. And I had a little money. So I flew to Bombay. This is not so illogical if you realize three things: that a stint in India will beat the restlessness out of any living creature; that a little money can go a long way there; and that a novel set in Portugal in 1939 may have very little to do with Portugal in 1939. I had been to India before, in the north, for five months. On that first trip I had come to the subcontinent completely unprepared. Actually, I had a preparation of one word. When I told a friend who knew the country well of my travel plans, he said casually, "They speak a funny English in India. They like words like bamboozle." I remembered his words as my plane started its descent towards Delhi, so the word bamboozle ...
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...Albom, Mitch. The five people you meet in heaven / Mitch Albom. p. cm. ISBN 0-7868-6871-6 (alk. paper) 1. Accident victims—Fiction. 2. Amusement parks—Fiction. 3. Amusement rides—Fiction. 4. Future life—Fiction. 5. Aged men—Fiction. 6. HeavenFiction. 7. Death—Fiction. I. Title. PS3601.L335F59 2003 813'.6-dc21 2003047888 Hyperion books are available for special promotions and premiums. For details contact Michael Rentas, Manager, Inventory and Premium Sales, Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, 11th floor, New York, New York 10023-6298, or call 212-456-0133. FIRST EDITION This book is dedicated to Edward Beitchman, my beloved uncle, who gave me my first concept of heaven. Every year, around the Thanksgiving table, he spoke of a night in the hospital when he awoke to see the souls of his departed loved ones sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for him. I never forgot that story. And I never forgot him. Everyone has an idea of heaven, as do most religions, and they should all be respected. The version...
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...[pic] The Firm John Grisham [pic] • Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5 • Chapter 6 • Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9 • Chapter 10 • Chapter 11 • Chapter 12 • Chapter 13 • Chapter 14 • Chapter 15 • Chapter 16 • Chapter 17 • Chapter 18 • Chapter 19 • Chapter 20 • Chapter 21 • Chapter 22 • Chapter 23 • Chapter 24 • Chapter 25 • Chapter 26 • Chapter 27 • Chapter 28 • Chapter 29 • Chapter 30 • Chapter 31 • Chapter 32 • Chapter 33 • Chapter 34 • Chapter 35 • Chapter 36 • Chapter 37 • Chapter 38 • Chapter 39 • Chapter 40 • Chapter 41 • About the Arthor The Firm by John Grisham Chapter 1 The senior partner studied the resume for the hundredth time and again found nothing he disliked about Mitchell Y. McDeere, at least not on paper. He had the brains, the ambition, the good looks. And he was hungry; with his background, he had to be. He was married, and that was mandatory. The Firm had never hired an unmarried lawyer, and it frowned heavily on divorce, as well as womanizing and drinking. Drug testing was in the contract. He had a degree in accounting, passed the CPA exam the first time he took it and wanted to be a tax lawyer, which of course was a requirement with a tax firm. He was white, and The Firm had never hired a black. They...
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...The Lucky One - Nicholas Spark CONTENTS l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Epilogue Chapter One Clayton and Thibault Deputy Keith Clayton hadn't heard them approach, and up close, he didn't like the looks of them any more than he had the first time he'd seen them. The dog was part of it. He wasn't fond of German shepherds, and this one, though he was standing quietly, reminded him of Panther, the police dog that rode with Deputy Kenny Moore and was quick to bite suspects in the crotch at the slightest command. Most of the time he regarded Moore as an idiot, but he was still just about the closest thing to a friend that Clayton had in the department, and he had to admit that Moore had a way of telling those crotch-biting stories that made Clayton double over in laughter. And Moore would definitely have appreciated the little skinny-dipping party Clayton had just broken up, when he'd spied a couple of coeds sunning down by the creek in all their morning glory. He hadn't been there for more than a few minutes and had snapped only a couple...
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...( Word Converter - Unregistered ) http://www.word-pdf-converter.com Life is an ugly, awful place not to have a best friend. Halley and Scarlett have been best friends ever since they met. Halley has always been the quiet one; Scarlett braver and more outgoing. Halley has always turned to Scarlett when things get rough, and Scarlett has always known just what to do. It's the perfect setup. But everything changes at the beginning of their junior year. Scarlett's boyfriend is killed in a motorcycle accident; then she finds out that she is carrying his baby. For the first time ever, Scarlett really needs Halley. Now Halley has to learn how to be strong for Scarlett. It won't be easy, but Halley knows that she can't let Scarlett down. Because a true friend is a promise you keep forever. ( Word Converter - Unregistered ) http://www.word-pdf-converter.com ( Word Converter - Unregistered ) http://www.word-pdf-converter.com Best friends. "Scarlett?" I said, there in the dark, and as she turned to me I saw her face was streaked with tears. For a minute, I didn't know what to do. I thought again of that picture tucked in her mirror, of her and Michael just weeks ago, the water so bright and shiny behind them. And I thought of what she had done all the millions of times I'd cried to her, collapsing at even the slightest wounding of my heart or pride. So I reached over and pulled her to me, wrapping my arms around her, and held my best friend close, returning so many favors...
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...Chapter 1 I Get What I Pay For Welcome to Red Grove. Population 200 “Now, two hundred and one,” I murmured as I passed the painted wooden sign in my trusty red Jeep. Small towns like Red Grove always made me think of horror movies as if a gap-toothed, overall-wearing butcher might hobble out of his deep woods shanty, pitchfork in hand, at any moment. The town had an off the charts creepy factor. On my right, a dark forest worthy of the Brothers Grimm. On my left, a cemetery edged in a weathered wrought iron fence. I think there were more than two hundred headstones. More dead than living. Nice. There must be some mistake. I came here to start over. Could a new life be hiding behind the unappealing rural exterior? My promised house remained a mystery. I double-checked the notebook with my father’s scrawled directions resting on the passenger’s seat next to me. Technically, I’d lived in Red Grove as a child, but we’d moved before I turned two. I didn’t remember the town at all or the residents, living or dead. I shifted my attention back to my driving. “Holy shit!” I proclaimed as I overcorrected the wheel, and my foot drifted from the gas. The man on the side of the road was so attractive I could’ve died—literally. He was planting something. A tree, I think. Every time his shovel hit the dirt, a ripple coursed through his shoulders and down his stomach. I raised an eyebrow at the glint of sun on tanned, shirtless skin. Dark hair, low slung jeans. I tried not to...
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...swiftly moving and blue in the channels. Troops went by the house and down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the trees too were dusty and the leaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along the road and the dust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the soldiers marching and afterward the road bare and white except for the leaves. The plain was rich with crops; there were many orchards of fruit trees and beyond the plain the mountains were brown and bare. There was fighting in the mountains and at night we could see the flashes from the artillery. In the dark it was like summer lightning, but the nights were cool and there was not the feeling of a storm coming. Sometimes in the dark we heard the troops marching under the window and guns going past pulled by motortractors. There was much traffic at night and many mules on the roads with boxes of ammunition on each side of their packsaddles and gray motor trucks that carried men, and other trucks with loads covered with canvas that moved slower in the traffic. There were big guns too that passed in the day drawn by tractors, the long barrels of the guns covered with green branches and green leafy branches and vines laid over the tractors. To the north we could look across a valley and see a forest of chestnut trees and behind it another mountain on this side of the river. There was fighting for that mountain too, but it was not successful...
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...At liftoff, Matt Eversmann said a Hail Mary. He was curled into a seat between two helicopter crew chiefs, the knees of his long legs up to his shoulders. Before him, jammed on both sides of the Black Hawk helicopter, was his "chalk," twelve young men in flak vests over tan desert camouflage fatigues. He knew their faces so well they were like brothers. The older guys on this crew, like Eversmann, a staff sergeant with five years in at age twenty-six, had lived and trained together for years. Some had come up together through basic training, jump school, and Ranger school. They had traveled the world, to Korea, Thailand, Central America... they knew each other better than most brothers did. They'd been drunk together, gotten into fights, slept on forest floors, jumped out of airplanes, climbed mountains, shot down foaming rivers with their hearts in their throats, baked and frozen and starved together, passed countless bored hours, teased one another endlessly about girlfriends or lack of same, driven in the middle of the night from Fort Benning to retrieve each other from some diner or strip club on Victory Drive after getting drunk and falling asleep or pissing off some barkeep. Through all those things, they had been training for a moment like this. It was the first time the lanky sergeant had been put in charge, and he was nervous about it. Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death, Amen. It was midafternoon, October 3, 1993. Eversmann's Chalk Four...
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...fine sheen of perspiration glistens under the strip-lights. He lets out a long, shaky breath, disguised as a sigh, and turns back to his drink. ‘Hey. Excuse me?’ I look up from polishing glasses. ‘Can I get another one here?’ I want to tell him it’s really not a good idea, it won’t help, it might even put him over the limit. But he’s a big guy and it’s fifteen minutes till closing time and, according to company guidelines, I have no reason to tell him no, so I walk over, take his glass and hold it up to the optic. He nods at the bottle. ‘Double,’ he says, and slides a fat hand down his damp face. ‘That’ll be seven pounds twenty, please.’ It’s a quarter to eleven on a Tuesday night and the Shamrock and Clover, East City Airport’s Irishthemed pub, which is as Irish as Mahatma Gandhi, is winding down for the night. The bar closes ten minutes after the last plane takes off, and right now it’s just me, an intense young man with a laptop, the cackling women at table two and the man nursing a double Jameson’s waiting for either the SC107 to Stockholm or the DB224 to Munich – the latter has been delayed for forty...
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...PRAISE FOR AUTHORS Merline Lovelace “Merline Lovelace’s Mind Games is an exciting and skillfully told tale.” —RT Book Reviews Lori Devoti “Lori Devoti provides yet another action-packed mythological tale.” —RT Book Reviews on Wild Hunt Linda Winstead Jones “Raintree: Haunted, by Linda Winstead Jones, is nonstop action from start to finish.” —RT Book Reviews Lisa Childs “In Childs’s gripping tale…there are some surprising twists.” —RT Book Reviews Bonnie Vanak “Bonnie Vanak’s Enemy Lover offers nonstop excitement and great sexual tension.” —RT Book Reviews CHRISTMAS WITH A VAMPIRE Merline Lovelace Lori Devoti Linda Winstead Jones Lisa Childs Bonnie Vanak CONTENTS A CHRISTMAS KISS Merline Lovelace ABOUT THE AUTHOR CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN THE VAMPIRE WHO STOLE CHRISTMAS Lori Devoti ABOUT THE AUTHOR CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN SUNDOWN Linda Winstead Jones ABOUT THE AUTHOR CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE EPILOGUE NOTHING SAYS CHRISTMAS LIKE A VAMPIRE Lisa Childs ABOUT THE AUTHOR CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE UNWRAPPED Bonnie Vanak ABOUT THE AUTHOR CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE...
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