Page Turning Books

THE KINGDOMS

Chapter 1

Less than ten minutes before we’re all dead, thought Ethan Freeman, and there is nothing I can do about it!

The stricken A320 Airbus—originally bound for St. Thomas and now limping back to Charlotte, North Carolina—shuddered like a bird suffering a mortal wound, then shook violently. Shouting and screaming from the rear of the plane drowned out the prayer of the older couple seated in front of them, “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy kingdom come—”

Lisa, Ethan’s wife, sobbed beside him. Across the aisle his eighteen year-old son, Josh, yelled, “Dad—are we going to crash?”

“No, son,” he lied. “We-are-not-going-to-crash.”

Megan, his sixteen year-old daughter, seated next to her brother, screamed, “The engine is on FIRE!”

Lisa clung to the seat arms so hard her fingers turned white and whimpered, “We’re all going to die—just like Greg,” then moaned, “I don’t want to die—”

Ethan reached for his wife’s hand as a thunderous explosion shook the plane and slammed him against the window, knocking breath out of him. He cried out in agony as the palm of his right hand was sliced open by a jagged metal clasp sticking up on the arm rest between him and Lisa. Blood gushed out of the ugly-looking wound and splattered the back of the seat in front of him.

The plane banked hard to the right and the nose suddenly pointed toward the ground, six miles below, as if the commercial airliner was being plucked from the cloudless, crystal blue heavens by a giant unseen hand. Ethan glanced toward the rear of the aircraft. A gaping hole replaced the emergency exit. Loose debris disappeared violently out of the plane—and there were at least two rows of seats missing!

Swinging his gaze back to the First Class Cabin, Ethan noticed that ice crystals now clung to the windows. His ears popped as oxygen masks dropped from overhead. Shivering, he reached for the oxygen mask dangling in front of him like a puppet on a string and struggled to place it over his mouth and nose. He took several deep breaths, ignoring his bleeding hand, then yelled out to his family, “Put your masks on!”

In the next instant, he was pressed so hard into his seat it seemed as if he weighed four to five times his normal weight. Black spots danced before his eyes and he fought for breath.

All he could think about was that he had failed his family—that he had not been able to save them. He cried out in desperation, “GOD HELP US—”

Moments later, a flash of blinding white light enveloped him as a blast of fiery heat washed over him.

Then everything went black.

Sam Weaver, lying on a towel in the hot sand, thirty feet from the edge of the blue-green ocean, daydreamed about what it might be like to lead a normal life, when her pager went off.

She opened her eyes and fought rising resentment.

It was her first vacation in over eighteen months. Her boss, E. “Mac” Macready—the Chief of the Major Investigations Division of the National Transportation Safety Board, or the AS-10 in Board nomenclatureBhad promised he’d page her only if it was absolutely necessary.

She stared at her bright pink beach bag, one that matched her swimsuit, for several seconds, tempted to ignore the pager. Then she remembered that when she’d signed up to be an investigator for the NTSB she’d literally signed the rights to her life away. She sat up, brushed several errant strands of thick black hair from off her face, and reached inside the bag.

Her heart beat rapidly as she read the text: Call Mac immediately. Major accident involving Quest Airways A320 your neck of the woods. Go Team notified.

No matter how frustrated she got with the government bureaucracy, her pulse always quickened whenever she received a message like this. Some of her friends back in DC found her reaction a bit gruesome, but her dad understood. “The thrill of figuring out complex problems others find too challenging, or too painful, to deal with is in your blood, Sam,” he’d told her on more than one occasion. “You can’t help yourself. You love Gordian knots.”

She found her cell phone. When she reached Mac he said, “Sorry to interrupt your down-time. I know I promised not to call, but this one is big—and bad.”

“Tell me—”

He did, and then finished by saying, “I’ve already spoken with Ted, Marissa, Tony—and Frank. All of them but Frank are on their way to Hanger Six at Reagan International.”

Ted Anson was the human performance specialist, while Marissa Chen was highly regarded as one of the world’s foremost experts on cockpit and flight data recorders. Tony North was a top notch metallurgist. Frank Bacon had two Ph.D.’s and was the NTSB’s expert on the A320.

Frank was obsessed with planes manufactured by the French consortium. He blamed Airbus for the downsizing that cost him his high-paying job at Boeing. It was widely known he’d compiled a detailed and extensive computerized list of all suspicious incidents resulting in the crash of planes manufactured by Boeing’s chief competitor. When it came to fatal crashes involving Airbus, Frank was like a detective tracking down a serial killer he’d pursued for years in his spare time.

“Frank is in Dallas,” continued Mac. “He’ll meet you and the rest of the Team at the Command Center later this afternoon. You’ll have to call him and let him know where that’s going to be.”

“Me?” Was it finally time?

“Yeah—you.”

“But—but,” she stammered.

“Well, well, well. I’ve always wondered what it would take for the unflappable Sam Weaver to be at a loss for words.”

“I want it official—on the record.”

“Okay. You’re the Investigator-in-Charge. After five years of working with you, I know you don’t care about the title, or need the pay raise. You just want to be in control of your own investigations. I know the feeling.”

Sam took two deep breaths and pulled a notepad out of her bag. “Who’s the Regional on the ground in Georgia?”

“Ed Landers. He’s the senior IIC out of Atlanta, but he’ll answer to you. He’s a first-rate investigator, has a calm head on him, and if he has any kind of agenda, I’ve never heard about it.”

“Which translates, he’s smart, soft-spoken, and doesn’t play politics.”

“Not everyone in government service subscribes to the ‘dog-eat-dog’ mentality, Sam.”

“You could have fooled me.”

Mac snorted and continued. “Ed is already on his way. He’ll set up a perimeter, establish security, and get the investigation started. He’ll also coordinate with local authorities, including police and firefighters, and inform the media the investigation is under our jurisdiction.”

Sam scribbled on her notepad as Mac talked. “Am I flying on one of the Board’s planes? Or going commercial?”

“The Citation is in Fort Lauderdale. The pilot can land at Patrick in an hour.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“One more thing, Sam. Watch your back. Frank has been looking for an excuse to make life miserable for you—”

“I can handle Frank,” she retorted. Her male counterparts at the safety board tended to behave with the macho air of men in a locker room. Frank was one of the biggest proponents of the pervasive attitude.

“I know you can, Sam. Frank has more time with the Board, but you have the kind of moxie, and the people skills, it takes to handle all the egos involved. You’ve worked hard for this slot—you deserve it.”

Mac was in rare form. He’d given her both a promotion and a compliment within a couple of minutes. “What about the ‘flyaway’?” She referred to one of two large standby suitcases used by the Board for investigations. Each contained a video camera and tape, a laptop computer, a printer, a variety of charging devices, film, administrative supplies, as well as several copies of the ubiquitous investigator’s manual. Both of the flyaways also had programmable combination locks.

“You’ll have everything you need by nine a.m. tomorrow.” He gave her the combination he’d programmed in.

“Thanks, Mac. For everything—” she said as she stood up, grabbed her towel and her bag, then headed at a run for her car.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Christian Thriller, Fantasy, Adventure

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author and the book

Connect with Michael J. Webb  on Facebook & G+ & Twitter

Website http://www.michaeljwebbfiction.com/

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

GAML

IBALATU YEAR 15—BUL YEAR 16

Refreshing like rain are my words,

distilling like dew is my speech,

like cloudbursts upon the grassland,

or rainfall upon the young crops.

BARUK CAME OUT OF Danil’s house and set off across the ridge towards home. After completing his childhood and passing through the ceremonies to be counted as a young man of the community, he had deliberately set out to be noticed by Danil and the others of the raiding party. So far he had not succeeded in being really included in that group, and Danil’s own son was too different in age from him to make anything to his advantage out of a potential friendship, but he entertained hopes. Bashur, almost the same height despite their year separation in age, followed him as closely as possible and was clearly attempting to make every available use of the sibling relationship. Today, Baruk had managed to spend time with Danil without his brother. He smiled to himself as he joined the main track down from the high place. He was genuinely fond of Bashur, for all his over-close attachment, and most of the time was happy that he was there with him like a shadow. Though they were not twins, they understood each other’s moods and feelings better than most brothers or friends, even when they disagreed over their thoughts and opinions. Mostly, he appreciated Bashur’s presence nearby. Some days, though, it was good to go on his own.

He heard his name being called, and turned to see Damariel hurrying down towards him from the high place. He waited until he caught up with him.

“Just going home?”

“Yes. Dad let me off some time in the olive field this afternoon. Reckoned we’d done enough for the day or something. So I took the chance to spend a bit of that time with Danil.”

“That went well?”

“Yes. He’s always helpful, whenever I ask he’s happy to talk to me about how the raids are done. I’m learning a lot. There’s not so many of them go regularly, never quite enough for what they want to bring back. So I think I can talk my way into going with them if they think I’m keen. Well, and if I know what I’m doing.”

They walked a bit further in silence together.

“Been up with the seer, then, Damari?”

Damariel nodded.

“And what did you learn today?”

“He’s been teaching me these last months how to read not just our own writing, but the older stuff too. Like they used way back before our time. Actually they still do in the big towns, and if you have to write to the Mitsriy ever.”

Baruk nodded, not especially interested yet in the topic, but before he could speak, Damariel rushed on with enthusiasm.

“Baruk, I never knew before today that a woman from here, from our own town, wrote to the Mitsriy governor once.”

“Oh yes? What did she say?”

“Nothing much, really, just warning him about a big raid between two of the nearby towns. The usual double-dealing and trickery they do in those other places. But she wrote to them, Baruk, and they took notice. She called herself the lady lioness and they thought she was like our queen.”

Baruk laughed.

“They didn’t know much about us, then. Though the lion bit wasn’t far off.”

Damariel joined in the humour.

“No, I suppose not. But they took notice of her all the same. Respected her.”

“She can’t have been from mum’s family or we’d have heard about her years ago. If there was anything like that in her ancestors she’d have told us.”

“That’s true. I don’t know if she was a chief’s wife or the seer at the time, or even just one of the village women who could write. But I saw the copy of what she wrote and have been puzzling over it all morning.”

At that point they both stopped and looked back up the hill. A sudden shouting had started somewhere up near the high place, men’s voices raised in fierce anger. Baruk took a step or two back up the hill, but Damariel stopped him.

“Do you think we ought to?”

“Are you kidding? Whatever it is, I’m not going to miss it.”

They set off again along the ridge, and started running as the shouting began to grow louder. Like them, others were coming out of houses, looking, and starting to gather together up at the heart of the community. At the stones, Ethan the shepherd, his large face red and his large fists clenched, was being held away from Iqnu by three of the other men. Qerith had pulled her kef down over her face and was facing away from them off to one side, leaning on the wall of the seer’s house, her expression completely hidden. The two boys joined the gathering circle of villagers, Baruk pushing through to the front so they could see, and Damariel following. Ethan took a breath and shouted something incoherent at Iqnu; the only words they could make out in the whole tirade were “Isheth” and “while I was away”. Beside him, Baruk heard Damariel gasp.

“What is it, Damari? What’s this about?”

Damariel shook his head, his eyes fixed on Iqnu who was looking around at the ring of villagers, clearly trying to elicit sympathy or help from the assembly. One of the older lads nearby heard the question.

“Ethan says the seer took his woman for himself. While he was away up along the ridge with the flocks. Just before you came he was saying she confessed it all to him when he got back today. Over a year all told they’ve been at it with each other, so he says. Not just once, you know. All while he was away with the flocks. And in her own house, too. Not like it was somewhere else.”

“Is it true?”

“No idea. But Ethan’s all a sweat. Look at him. He’s called the seer both thief and liar, and the seer hasn’t said anything back.”

“Where’s Isheth? What does she say?”

The other shrugged. “Never seen her yet. Maybe she’s got a tale to tell too, but right now she’s not here to tell it.”

Ethan’s parents, Hinnah and Nawar, had arrived. Nawar went over to his son and gripped his arms, waving away the men who had been holding him away from Iqnu. Hinnah went off with Danil’s wife Rivkah towards Isheth’s house. In the sudden quiet they heard Ethan’s voice as he spoke to Nawar. Most of what he said was indistinct, but every so often one word or other would burst out loud. Nawar listened without comment for some time, still keeping hold of his son as though he might burst away at any moment. Qerith moved away from the house to one side and sat on one of the flat stones, her face still covered. Shelomith-Rahmay went and sat with her. Nawar looked very sombre as he turned towards Iqnu, who glanced around the circle again, still trying to gauge whether the mood of the community was for or against him. But before Nawah could speak, Rivkah came running in, across to where Qerith and Shelomith sat, her kef all awry and blood on the sleeve of her smock.

“He’s tried to kill her. Beaten her something terrible. But she’s not yet gone across, not yet. Lady, she needs someone good with healing. Lady, please come and do what you can for her.”

She knelt in front of Qerith, but there was no reply. After a long pause her veiled, hidden head shook once. Shelomith stood up slowly, looking suddenly much older than her years, beckoned to one of the other women to take her place with Qerith, and went off with Rivkah. Someone on the other side of the circle pushed their way through to the front.

“Her brother lives up at Woodlands. Azziy, they call him. Someone should get him. If Ethan’s killed her he’ll want to know about it. The whole family will. It’ll be a matter of honour.”

Nawar thought about it for a long moment, several different emotions playing across his face as he inclined his head reluctantly. But before he could speak, Mahiram’s older voice broke in. “Hear me now, there’s more involved than the honour of two families. It’s a seer’s matter and we need a seer to judge on it now. So yes, send a boy up to Woodlands by all means, but send one up to Giybon as well to get a seer down here to tell us how both Iqnu and Ethan are to be treated. They’ll be here tomorrow. If I’m heard there’ll be no judgement upon anyone’s family before then.”

There was a murmur of acceptance, approval around the circle. Two lads were sent off in different directions up the ridge. Debate began then as to where Ethan and Iqnu should be kept while they waited for others to arrive, but before this could be resolved Rivkah and Shelomith returned with Hinnah, all with torn kef and dust on their head and shoulders. Isheth had not been able to bear her injuries and had gone across. Ethan said nothing, did nothing, but looked away into the distance with no expression on his face. Iqnu grimaced, made as if to tear his own kef but then stopped. Nawar shook his head and sat on one of the nearby stones, head in hands. Qerith shook off the hands of the woman who had been sitting with her, took off her sandals, walked across to Iqnu and slapped him across his face with them, twice, side-to-side, before turning and walking away down the hill. Shelomith went with her.

It was as though Qerith’s actions stirred the community into action, as though they were like a judgement on the case. Two of the men nearby took Iqnu’s arms and led him into his own house. They shut his door and at Mahiram’s word, pushed a boulder against the door so it could not be opened. Ethan turned as though to go with Nawar, but he shook his head and turned away. Ethan stopped short, clearly shocked at his father’s response, and hung his head, speechless. Nawar walked away without turning. Hinnah wavered, looking this way and that between the two men, but eventually, with an anguished look at her son, followed her husband down the hill. Ethan was taken away to a hut adjoining one of the empty, unfamilied houses and put inside it, with a boulder against the door just as they had done with Iqnu. The group began to disperse, a buzz of conversation flowing like streams into the tracks and pathways, flooding into the doorways and filling up the individual houses.

The next morning the door of the hut Ethan had been placed in had been broken open from the inside, and the stone outside the seer’s house tossed to one side. Neither Ethan nor Iqnu were there. By the time Azziy arrived from Woodlands, Iqnu’s body had been found at the base of a low cliff just west of the village. He had died in the end from the fall, but before that had clearly been roughly treated. Ethan was nowhere to be found, but a group of the men who went hunting soon found the place where his tracks led away down into the valley, heading north-west towards the lowlands. They followed the trail for a few dozens of paces but then turned back to the village rather than go on. There seemed little point: the trail was perfectly clear but Ethan was not stopping for anything and had several hours start. When Qerith was told she made no reply, but simply moved back from Shelomith’s home into the great house by the stones and waited for the seer to arrive from Giybon.

In fact they came not from Giybon but from Meyim, a married couple called Saniyahu and Halith. Halith went in to be with Qerith, while Saniyahu called a meeting of the whole adult community beside the town gate and heard the whole tale told. Baruk was not there, nor Damariel, as their adolescent status did not qualify them as part of the formal assembly, but they heard of it later. Ethan was publicly declared no longer welcome in the village, though there seemed little chance he would attempt a return. Iqnu, though already dead, was proclaimed no longer a seer among the four towns, and denied any rights to a burial on their land or with his family. Azziy accepted the sum of four times the bride price that had been paid, renounced any further claim that there might be on Nawar’s family, and took Ishesth’s body to rest with her ancestors. Nawar had remained silent as he had weighed out the sum in silver and other goods in front of them all. The house that Isheth had shared with Ethan was to be pulled down and the stones scattered here and there around the village field walls and terraces, and such possessions as were in it would be given to widows and orphans. Only the foundations and a few of the bigger wall-stones would be left to mark the place in the community memory. Saniyahu and Halith were to take up the duty of town ministry themselves, starting right away, that very day. Apparently the seers had already met and decided the matter in an all-night vigil of talk and prayer. A younger couple, not long past apprenticeship, were to take their place at Meyim, releasing them to begin at Kephrath. Qerith, still veiled and silent, speaking only with Shelomith and Halith, packed her few belongings and moved back to be near family just past Shalem.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Historical Fiction

Rating – PG13

More details about the author and the book

Connect with Richard Abbott on Facebook, Google+ & Twitter

Website http://www.kephrath.com/

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

Chapter 1

One July morning during a hot, leap-year summer, Elizaveta Andreyevna Bestuzheva walked out of an apartment building on Solyanka Street, the home of her latest lover. She lingered for a moment, squinting in the sun, then straightened her shoulders, raised her head proudly, and hurried along the sidewalk. It was almost ten, but morning traffic was still going strong – Moscow was settling into a long day. Elizaveta Andreyevna walked fast, looking straight ahead and trying not to meet anyone’s gaze. Still, at the corner of Solyansky Proyezd, an unrelenting stare invaded her space, but turned out to be a store’s window dressing in the form of a huge, green eye. Taken aback, she peered into it but saw only that it was hopelessly dead.

She turned left, and the gloomy building disappeared from view. Brushing off the memories of last night and the need to make a decision, Elizaveta felt the relief of knowing she was alone. She was sick of her lover – maybe that was the reason their meetings were becoming increasingly lustful. In the mornings, she wanted to look away and make a quick retreat, not even kissing him good-bye. But he was persistent, his parting ritual enveloping her like a heavy fog. Afterward, she always ran down the stairs, distrusting the elevator, and scurried away from the dreary edifice as if it were a mousetrap that had miraculously fallen open.

Elizaveta glanced at her watch, shook her head, and picked up speed. The sidewalk was narrow, yet she stepped lightly, oblivious of the obstacles: oncoming passersby, bumps and potholes, puddles left by last night’s rain. She wasn’t bothered by the city’s deplorable state, but a new sense of unease uncoiled deep inside her and slithered up her spine with a cold tickle. The giant eye still seemed to stare at her from under its heavy lid. She had a sense of another presence, a most delicate thread that connected her to someone else. Involuntarily, she jerked her shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling, and, after admonishing herself, returned to her contemplation.

Old Square gradually came into view, revealing the church that once stood over public executions, and the commercial section next to it crowded with merchant stalls and cars parked willy-nilly. Elizaveta navigated like a seasoned pilot, her shoes squelching in mud seemingly left over from centuries past. Finally, she reached the flimsy fence that, by some strange design, had no gate. She shook her head, stepped gracefully over a massive chain, and found herself in a park with the cool shade she longed for, even though it was still early in the day.

Then began the long journey up the hill. Elizaveta winked at Saints Cyril and Methodius, who stared bleakly at a plaque reading “From a Grateful Nation” – a bitter joke about a nation that never learned how to be grateful. She skirted a bench with a sleeping bum who exuded an unbearable stench, and, after a brief hesitation, took the left alley, which was slightly more shaded than the right.

The promise of another blistering day loomed over Moscow. The park was full of people – victims of morning hangovers, refugees from the nearby office buildings, clutching their beer cans. The adjacent bar was also far from empty. The waitress wandered lazily between the tables, fully aware of the power she wielded. Elizaveta surveyed the unfriendly territory. She noted the casualties dispassionately, without registering their faces, which looked blank in their identically aloof, self-absorbed expressions. She walked with virtually no effort, pretending to float above the sidewalk, the meager greenery, and the bushes filled with trash. Only once did she stumble – and it brought back the sense of that persistent, hidden gaze. She was probably only imagining it, but her heart remained heavy and her thoughts disintegrated into a confused jumble.

As she reached the top of the hill, the sun sliced into her eyes, and the smell of asphalt and burned gasoline filled her nostrils. Elizaveta crossed the road and arrived at the Polytechnic Museum, which cast a much better shadow than the despondent trees. Many years ago, this spot housed a zoo. The museum had fallen on hard times – possibly the hardest since the zoo’s Indian elephant broke under the persistent attention of gawkers and went on a rampage. The fate of the museum, much like the fate of the elephant, was regrettable, but Elizaveta had her own concerns. She continued to feel uneasy and even glanced over her shoulder. There was nothing there. She hesitated at a theater poster framed behind glass, watching the wavy reflections, but they looked harmless enough. Then she snorted, frustrated with herself, and read the advertisement inviting passersby to learn about varieties of packaging at a Packers’ Club that had found a home in the impoverished building. For a moment, she felt amused, and her unease took on a mystical, ghostly quality. Past the museum, Elizaveta gave the menacing Lubyanka building a cursory look and descended into the underground walkway, which led to her office building on Maly Cherkassky. With a glance at her watch, she hastened up the stairs – but the exit beckoned her with its bookstalls, and she gave in and began to examine the covers.

One of the books caught her attention. She opened up an imposing black tome, but somebody jostled her elbow and the book tumbled out of her hands, wreaking colorful havoc on the neatly arranged stand. In the resulting commotion, the woman next to Elizaveta yelped with surprise, a man’s deep voice muttered an apology, and the proprietor of the kiosk rushed to straighten out his wares, worried he might get robbed. Elizaveta tossed an absentminded “It’s okay” in the direction of the voice, whose owner’s face she never saw, and stepped aside to leaf through another book with a picturesque dust jacket. Its contents, however, proved to be too serious, and the second page was branded with a triangle that nearly covered the entire sheet. She immediately remembered something she once read: The triangle is a grand figure; it controls souls. It was an ill-timed sign, a dumb hint verging on mockery. Embarrassed, Elizaveta cast a furtive glance around, set the book down, and hurried away from the racks toward the old, five-story building that housed small companies and underfunded government offices.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Amazon UK

Genre – Literary Fiction

Rating – PG13

More details about the author

Website http://www.vadimbabenko.com/

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

Excerpt 2: Reflections on Fundamental Matters: Not for the Satisfied Mind – Chapter:
Everything Changes (almost)
291. Any systems of Thought and rules oriented towards Action, be it political, ethical, or financial that do
not have at their core a clear and pragmatic way of dealing with unforeseen change are bound to become
obsolete and ineffective. Change will happen whether the system takes it into account or not. Some in
governance attempt to fight and push away Change; often they may temporarily seem to be capable of
fending off Change only to eventually be overwhelmed by it. It seems that a system either factors in Change
effectively on a regular basis or opposes it blindly with eventually more dramatic and destructive
consequences to everybody.
292. The above is not merely a theoretical dissertation. It has important implications, many of which are very
practical in nature. We often take decisions ignoring Change to be disillusioned later on:
a. We trust that some institutions will never go bankrupt, no matter what happens in the future; we
put our life’s savings in them, we believe in these ‘AAA’s (to use a financial jargon), and we feel good
sleeping at night. And here we are not talking about wrongly calculated or rated ‘AAA’ securities such
as a collection of subprime debt but rather the most accurately rated ‘AAA’s, the best one could
think of. Consider the greatest historic institutions, the ‘ever-lasting’ empires in History (the Roman
Empire, the British Empire where the sun never sets with all of its rich colonies), weren’t they
‘AAA’s at their time? Consider then their subsequent history; Britain’s financial status was in
complete disarray in the 1970s. “Real estate will always go up” was the motto of most Anglo-Saxon
countries before 2007. Similarly, most French and Japanese consider that their state will always be
there and capable of providing and intervening when the going gets tough.
b. Japan’s 2011 earthquake and tsunami that resulted in the Fukushima disaster is a recent illustration
of what is called ‘tail risk’ manifesting itself in ways we often fail to imagine. And this happened to
the Japanese, one of the best current cultures in terms of forethought and organisation. It is not that
Japan was not ready; Japan was ready, but the size of the disaster was so large that all of its defences
broke, and a series of very low probability scenarios took place one after the other resulting in the
loss of control of a portion of the nuclear power plant. If the magnitude of the earthquake or the
nature of the tsunami were marginally worse, it is likely that some more dramatic irreversible
consequences could have ensued. If the same thing happens today over the shores of Seattle or
California (which are also on a well-known fault line), they would not stand a chance in comparison
with the Japanese coast. And yet, very large populations live, multiply, and invest very near fault lines
today all over the globe.
c. Who would have thought in Antiquity that horses would become irrelevant one day when it comes
to transportation? Or that papyrus would not be needed anymore because we will eventually all carry
electronic tablets? Or that women would wear what men used to wear in the past and vice versa?
293. A ‘Penny wise, pound foolish’ story. Here is the story of a decent woman. Mrs G. is a middle-class
hard-working disciplined woman. She leads her life in the exemplary fashion of what we consider the best of
the middle class. She works hard and well, never absents herself from work, and takes only what she is
allowed as vacation time. She pays her taxes and bills on time and never abuses the system. She earns a decent
salary, spends a portion of it, and saves the rest. Every month Mrs G. puts aside part of her income in one of
the country’s most reputed pension funds which in turn invests it in some of the most reputed companies in
the country. Mrs G. is frugal, attentive to what she spends, and she meets very specific goals in terms of
monthly saving. She only shops where she can save, and she sometimes skips a night-out or two in order to
meet her goals. The trouble is that Mrs G. does not know that her savings are invested in Citigroup and Bank
of America pre-2007. Over the span of a year, Mrs G. sees most of her life savings almost evaporate from no
fault of her own. Mrs G. has been in the middle of an unexpected change that no one has described to her
before. She has been saving pennies all of her life, to find her pounds being swept away in one year. This is a
tragic story of Change, this is the Absurd…

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

10 Things I Wish I Knew About Being an Author I Didn’t Know Before

Clicking the publish button on Amazon’s Kindle publisher was one of the most exciting experiences of my life not to mention one of the most nerve racking. From the moment I received the coveted “your title is ready for purchase” email I knew that it was the beginning of a long process filled with several professional and personal highs and lows. At that very moment I was not only agreeing to the terms of service set forth by Amazon but opening my work to ridicule, praise, critiques, and if I’m extremely lucky potential rewards all for the sake of sharing my imagination to the world.

Self-publishing a book is nothing short of a major risk but the bigger the risk the bigger the reward at least that is how the saying goes. As with anything, educating yourself on the industry you are entering can save you time and money both of which you can never have enough of. Although I read extensively about self-publishing a year and a half before I actually published my first book there are some things I wish I knew about being an author that I didn’t know before.

1.) Writing requires discipline – I had the perfect scenario for writing my first novel. I would sit down every day write about 4,000 words in order to have it completed in about 30 days. Then reality hit me, with a full time job, working on my Master’s degree, and somewhat of a social life it became more and more difficult to reach my writing goal without seriously setting aside time to write. Writing may come natural to some but even the most talented writer needs time set aside to focus solely on writing.

2.) Mistakes cost – The cost that I am referring to is not primarily monetary. As an author time is your greatest asset. Readers are now accustomed, thanks in part to technology, to receiving information fairly quickly. Because of that one mistake my delay printing for days or the availability of your book for download for hours. Readers are then forced to move on to the next book. If at all possible reduce the amount of errors prior to submitting the final product.

3.) Writing is addictive – while writing my children’s book I quickly found out how addictive writing really is. I instantly got several concepts of other stories and wanted to begin those projects immediately. This leads to the next point.

4.) Writing takes focus – In order to ensure you are channeling all of your creative energy focus on one story at a time. Am I saying don’t work on two books at one time? No but focus solely on one book and if you get writers block move on to the next.

5.) You have to make people support you – Okay you’ve finally written the novel, short story, novella, etc. You’re excited, thrilled, and proud. Unfortunately those feelings don’t transfer to other people. You have to let them know how exciting you are and how great your story is. Your enthusiasm will transfer over to them as curiosity and excitement which is the first step in acquiring a new reader.

6.) Timing isn’t everything, IT’S THE ONLY THING – Launching a book themed around Christmas during the summer may not be a good idea. Ensure your deadlines are aligned with what is currently happening in the world. You may have an advantage to waiting a couple weeks to debut your new novel.

7.) It okay to not be perfect –Even if you have the best editor and proofreader on the market there will still be mistakes in your book. That’s okay. Nothing on this planet is perfect including you. Don’t get bent out of shape if an error is brought to your attention. Correct it and move on.

8.) Trust yourself when all men doubt you – People often are unable to see what they themselves cannot become. Don’t allow someone else to dictate or plant seeds of doubt in your head. Always go through with what you believe to be a good idea.

9.) Market a lot- Research shows that people make a purchase after the 7^th time they have seen an ad. One mention on twitter isn’t going to be enough to get readers to believe in you.

10.) Have fun! – Writing should above all else be fun. It’s the one thing in this world you have complete control over. You are able to create whoever you want, they’re able to live wherever you want them to and they can be whatever your heart desires. From a superhero to a single mother you have the power to entertain someone so get

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Children’s Book, YA

Rating – G

More details about the author and the book

Connect with Adrian Powell on Facebook & Twitter

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

DELETED SCENE FOUR

TEARS OF TESS

Copyright PEPPER WINTERS

(unedited)

Suzette clapped her hands, her pristine maid’s uniform of white and black looking very French and sexy. I admired her for wearing something like that, even if it was house hold protocol. I rented a maids uniform once to surprise Brax. He laughed and said Halloween wasn’t for another two months.

I burned it ceremoniously when he went to work. Brax didn’t need gimmicks to love me. He just needed me. My eyes hurt with tears as Suzette bounced over.

“You’re coming to the markets with me. I need to grab a few more things for dinner.”

My entire body snapped to attention. Out? Freedom? As in out of the house? Around people? My soul rejoiced but I forced myself to look nonchalant. She mustn’t know how eager I was to leave her behind. I think in some way she expected me to stay. Forever. Naïve woman.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Dark New Adult Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG-18

More details about the author

Connect with Pepper Winters  on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.pepperwinters.wordpress.com/

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

∞

Rad had decided Whistler would be his last victim. Whistler had died in Rad’s foyer. The parquet floor had to be torn out and burned, and blood sanded off the underlayment. The wallpaper had to be steamed and scraped from the wall. Every trace of Whistler had to be erased before Rad could bring in workmen to redo his foyer.

When the cops showed up at his office at the university, Rad told them what they would have found out anyway. Robert Whistler had been his student. Yes, he and Whistler had a few beers together. He described an unhappy, confused young man whose disappearance was sad but hardly surprising. “I don’t know what he’s looking for,” Rad said, easing Whistler into present tense. “I don’t think he knows.”

He could have said anything, but clichés worked best on those idiots. He’d known both of them since third grade. Later they would refer to Rad by his childhood nickname, Radish, and snuffle with laughter.

“To your knowledge was he using drugs?” Dave Reynolds asked. Dave used to call Rad mama’s boy and tit-sucker and taunt him for not fighting back.

“He talked about pot,” Rad said. “I never actually saw him smoking it.”

Facing his old schoolmates, their ugliness stark in the office fluorescence, he relished the paradox of his childhood weakness. It protected his strength. In a town like Richfield, where folks never change and you’re only a stranger once, the cops know who the killers aren’t.

Their questions turned to Whistler’s friends. It became apparent they suspected those losers of operating a drug cartel and believed Whistler had met his end in a dispute over methamphetamine. Rad helped them along by implying Whistler had been afraid of their prime suspect. That got them going. Dave pumped his hand and thanked him for his cooperation.

Rad still wondered how Whistler found the article in The St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He couldn’t have been a subscriber. And unless he was looking, he easily could have missed the generic homicide story or failed to recognize the girl he’d seen only once in a bar on Laclede’s Landing. The blurry black-and-white photo negated her most striking feature, her cinnamon hair. It was a disappointment to Rad, who hadn’t been able to take Polaroids of their encounter. All he had were yellowed newspaper clippings and a lock of that hair.

Whistler hadn’t seemed suspicious before he showed up that night in late January. “Yo,” he said when Rad opened the door.

“Robert. It’s been awhile.”

Whistler shuffled in without waiting for an invitation. He reeked of beer. He stopped in the middle of the living room and thrust the folded newspaper at Rad. “Recognize her?”

Rad thought of her raw whisper, her lips reduced to meat, begging him. Please kill me, please just kill me. She still turned him on. “It’s late, Robert. What’s this about?”

“The girl in St. Louis, she disappeared that night you hooked up with her.”

Rad glanced at the photo. “It’s not the same girl.”

“It’s her,” Whistler said. “Could be you’re the last one to see her. You better talk to the cops.”

Rad scanned the article. Before their St. Louis excursion, he’d dreamed of making Whistler his protégée, but the moment for revealing himself had never come. Now he saw how dangerous the dream had been. “The body was found in Illinois, Robert.”

“So?”

“She must have gone out again after our—encounter.”

“I went to your room at four in the morning” Whistler said. “Guess what, you weren’t there.”

“I was sleeping, Robert.”

He had no one to blame but himself. Sometimes he savored the loneliness of his life, but when the darkness was more than he could endure, he yearned for another pair of predator’s eyes to confirm its harsh and absolute reality. His friendship with Robert had grown from his own weakness. Now he was paying. The dumb redneck would go to the cops sooner or later.

“I’ve still got her number,” Rad said. “Let’s call and ask her if she’s dead.”

Whistler looked at him with dull suspicion.

“Come up to my office. The number’s in my Rolodex.”

Leading the way upstairs, Rad considered the situation. Whistler was fifteen years younger, two inches taller, and outweighed him by twenty pounds. He might be drunk, but he wasn’t afraid to fight. If he got the chance.

Halfway up the stairs, Rad spun and slammed his forearm into Whistler’s face, then delivered a sharp kick to the knee. Whistler tumbled down the stairs and sprawled in the foyer, motionless. Then he stirred and raised himself onto his elbows.

A jackknife open and ready, Rad straddled him, leaned one knee hard into his spine and yanked a fistful of hair to expose the scrawny throat. Whistler’s ponytail made it easy. Rad wore his hair like a Roman soldier, cropped, so it wouldn’t give the enemy a handle.

He ditched the jackknife afterward. For years he’d carried it around to cut rope or trim an occasional branch, never dreaming his life would depend on it someday. The four-inch blade was long enough for slitting throats, but it could have been sharper. Its edge seemed to bounce off Whistler’s resilient flesh. Rad was forced to keep pressing and sawing deeper until the skin gave way to sinew underneath. Then came a mess of blood, the dark smell.

Whistler thrashed convulsively. Clawing and plucking at the knife. Lunging with his heels, pummeling Rad’s thighs, swiping at his groin. Several times the blade was knocked from its track or lost traction and slipped. Rad wrenched Whistler’s head further back and twisted until the tortured neck groaned. The dying body has a thousand voices.

Rad kept sawing at the carotid artery. He wasn’t enjoying himself. It wasn’t like doing a girl—slow, elegant recreation. It was work, like chain-sawing tree stumps or hacking holes in rocky ground. Afterward he needed ibuprofen for the bruises and abrasions. His left wrist, wrenched during the struggle, had to be wrapped in an elastic bandage.

Then the cleanup, all night and the next day without sleep. After emptying Whistler’s pockets he wrapped the body in old shower curtains that he kept in the garage to use as drop cloths. He taped the edges so that no trace of death leaked into his car trunk.

Whistler’s Pontiac was blocking the driveway, so he dealt with it first. He wasn’t worried about anyone seeing the car. The yard was cloaked by trees, and students visiting their friends in the neighborhood often parked where they didn’t belong. Stowing his mountain bike in the Pontiac’s backseat, Rad drove across town to Whistler’s Automotive, the garage where Robert worked for his father and uncle. The peaked hood of a parka shielded his face, but nobody saw him. Nobody was walking around in the freezing night.

The car reeked of beer and marijuana. Empty aluminum cans rattled in the backseat. Rad began to shiver, his jaw twitching and molars drumming. It wasn’t fear. Just cold and aftershock. The rush of killing, usually pleasurable, had gone bad.

He parked behind the garage among the cars waiting to be picked up or serviced. Searching the Pontiac’s interior with his pocket halogen flashlight, he gathered up another section of The St. Louis Post-Dispatch and stuffed it inside his parka, then checked the ashtrays for cigarette butts that weren’t Whistler’s brand. He could imagine Robert cruising with his buds, smoking weed and running his mouth. But nothing in the car suggested any confidential parties lately.

He skirted a floodlight to reach the garage’s rear entrance and tried several of Whistler’s keys. In a minute he was inside an office redolent of metal and grease. His flashlight skittered over a desk sloppy with piled-up work orders, coffee cups, and stacked boxes of auto parts. He drew a breath. No lingering odor of beer or recent smoke here. Whistler hadn’t partied in the garage that night, as he sometimes did.

It took more than chance to account for Rad’s luck. Events fell into place like expressions of his will.

Drinking with a friend, Whistler might have talked about Rad and the missing girl. But everything pointed to his being alone—driving somewhere and parking and downing several cans of beer while he brooded. He probably had mentioned the St. Louis trip to some of his buds and maybe his parents. But Rad was safe as long as nothing connected him to the girl with cinnamon hair.

His muscles howled with exhaustion as he cycled home. Blasts of frigid air stung his face. It was three in the morning when he finally pulled his own car out of the driveway. In the next eight hours he stowed Whistler’s body in his farmhouse outside Richfield, returned home and scrubbed the foyer, then showered and drove to campus in time to teach his first class at eleven.

Rad’s farmhouse was half a mile from the nearest paved road, isolated by brush-choked ravines, a wide crescent of meadow, and fields of corn and soybeans where deer came to graze. Friends and strangers pestered Rad for permission to hunt there, but he always said no. The place was his refuge in hunger and rage and black depression. He loved its smell, moldy to the core, already a grave when he buried Whistler in the dirt cellar two days after killing him. He imagined the corpse decomposing, feeding the carnivorous roots of his house.

Nothing much happened in Richfield, so Robert Whistler’s disappearance was news. The local paper ran stories featuring his distraught family and his reputed ties to drug dealing. The cops claimed to be following up clues. Dave and his partner never returned to ask more questions, but Rad knew he’d pushed his luck far enough. After eight sweet captures and Whistler, it was time to stop. He would succumb to fate and become what he was meant to be, an anonymous loser. He would treasure the memories.

He let his hair grow.

Then Lisa had crossed his path. The moment he saw her, Rad had known he would follow her anywhere. Even to Utah.

∞

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Thriller / Horror

Rating – R

More details about the author and the book

Connect with  Mary Maddox on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://marymaddox.com & http://www.ancientchildren.com/

• 
• 
• 
• 
•