A Life Through Books

After a freak accident nearly takes Andrew’s life, he faces months of rehab. His goal—a complete recovery that will enable him to rejoin the Suns and compete at an elite level again. Caryn, however, fears that this accident wasn’t just a fluke. If it happened once…

Caryn decided to surprise Andrew one day when she visited. She’d gotten in the habit of pulling on the same old pair of jeans and whatever shirt was handy. She looked through her closet, finally selecting a brightly flowered dress that matched her mood. She took a little extra care with her makeup and hair, and even added a touch of perfume behind her ears.

Andrew’s surprised expression quickly turned into a warm smile when she entered the room, and he set aside his iPad and held his hand out to her as she walked toward the chair.

“Hello, gorgeous.” He grasped her hand and pulled her toward him. “You look sensational.” She perched on the arm of the chair, the warmth in his eyes spreading through her.

“Good day so far?” She kissed him, a brush across the lips.

“Right now I’d say freaking fantastic. Unless you’re wearing that dress just to torment me.” 

“Not my intent.”

Andrew pulled her onto his lap, his fingers tracing the edge of the bodice. “My favorite dress, you know.”

“I thought you liked it.” Caryn’s stomach contracted expectantly at his touch. Her skin tingled beneath his fingers, and she kissed him gently. His arms closed around her, and Andrew held her tightly as his lips accepted her kiss, quickly deepening it. His hands grazed her skin, and tenderness quickly yielded to passion in a seemingly endless kiss.

Caryn knew her cheeks were flushed when she pulled back to catch her breath. Andrew touched her chin gently, his darkened eyes casting a spell she didn’t want to resist. He started to speak, then changed his mind, and guided her lips toward his again.

They might have forgotten they were in the hospital and allowed their emotions to lead them, finally given in to the desire Caryn knew raged within both of them, but Andrew unexpectedly pulled back. Caryn murmured a protest. He placed a finger gently against her lips, and then looked over her shoulder. She followed his gaze, feeling her cheeks burn when she saw Dan Forster.

“Doctor, your timing is incredible.” Andrew smiled wryly.

“Sorry to interrupt, Chadwick,” Forster retorted. “Busy day or I’d come back later.” 

Caryn stood awkwardly and moved away from the chair, noticing that Andrew’s eyes followed her every movement. She shivered slightly, suddenly cold without his arms around her, every nerve in her body alive to his touch. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, even after he turned his attention to the doctor’s questions. She tried to concentrate on their conversation, but only a few words penetrated the haze of desire.

“I suppose you’ll be asking about putting a lock on that door,” Forster commented as he completed his entry on Andrew’s electronic chart.

Caryn blushed, but Andrew laughed. “Sounds like a good idea to me. When do I get some R&R with my wife?”

“Negotiate that at your own risk. You know the comings and goings of the staff better than I do. You’re making good progress, Andrew. You will move to the Rehab Center in the not-so-distant future.”

“Other than a relocation, how will that change anything?”

“More types of therapy than you are receiving now. We’ll focus on all your sensory systems, push you beyond your comfort zone. I’ll remain your primary doctor.”

“So we could incorporate the plan Pettit outlined?”

“That would serve as the center of your PT program.”

“And to move there, I have to…?”

“Andrew, I need to see significant improvement with your balance, the ability to walk with a cane, and no assistance with your personal needs.”

Caryn watched as Andrew processed this, then nodded with a smile. “I like goals.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

“I especially like goals when I’m scoring them during a game.”

Forster laughed. “Patience, Chadwick.”

Scoring goals in a game. The words literally knocked the wind out of Caryn as her mind flashed back to that night. Andrew diving to block the puck… the instant she knew he’d misjudged the angle, the puck crashing against the side of his head. Caryn turned her head, her heart racing and reached inside her purse. She grabbed the container for her anti-anxiety medicine, and fingered one into her hand while Andrew continued to chat with Forster. Neither appeared to notice as she swallowed it dry, and then Caryn concentrated on taking deep calming breaths. As soon as Dan walked from the room, Caryn stepped to the counter and opened a Diet Coke. 

“Can I get you anything, Drew?”

“I’m good. Headache?”

Caryn looked over her shoulder at him and shrugged. “Just trying to avoid one.” She felt his eyes searching hers, and then he beckoned her to his side. He grasped her waist and pulled her onto his lap.

“You got so pale all of a sudden. Are you okay?”

Caryn shrugged. “Skipped breakfast again. You know how that affects me.” She managed a quiet laugh. I can’t keep burdening him with my fears. He needs positive support, not a whiny, frightened, unsupportive wife. I can deal with my fears later.

“So do I need to send you a text each morning to remind you?” His eyes teased her.

Caryn looked at him with a light laugh. “If you don’t forget.”

“I’ll do my best.” He slipped his hand to her neck and gently massaged her shoulder. If he noticed the tense muscles he didn’t mention it. “Today, you looked so beautiful when you walked in. I just wanted to get up and carry you away.”

She touched his cheek. “You will soon, Andrew.”

“It’s taking forever,” he complained. “I’m tired of this hospital. I can’t even remember what ‘normal’ is anymore.”

“Maybe you could come home for a weekend?” Caryn ventured tentatively.

“Yeah, maybe when Dan releases me to the Rehab Center.”

“How was therapy today? I never had a chance to ask you.”

“For the most part I’m done with the parallel bars. Now I’m working with weights to strengthen my legs and arms, and of course, balance activities.”

Caryn rested her hand on his bicep. “This feels plenty strong to me.” A smile crossed her face. “So you’re going to come home even more ripped than you are now?”

Andrew laughed. “I’m hardly ‘ripped’ as you put it. I’m losing muscle tone and strength every day.”

Caryn ran her hand against his chest, and then playfully lifted his shirt to peer at his abs. “If you say so, Drew.” She lightly outlined the muscles with her fingers. “Enough to get my heart racing. You just keep that shirt on during therapy, understand?”

“How about when I get a massage?”

She knew by his tone that Andrew was teasing. “Just keep it on.” She tried to maintain a straight face, but the look in his eyes caused her to break into giggles. “I love you, Drew,” she managed. “And I don’t want any other woman’s hands on you.”

About the Author

By the time she was an eight-year-old tomboy growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, Robyn M. Ryan definitely knew what she wanted to do when she grew up—play major league baseball or write. She wrote throughout elementary and high school, first composing novels featuring favorite TV and music personalities, and then venturing into sports writing.

Attending UGA’s journalism school launched her career in public relations, which included an internship with the Atlanta Flames NHL hockey team. With the encouragement of a writers group on twitter—WritersThatChat—This Piece of My Heart, a hockey romance, and the first book in Robyn’s series Clearing the Ice was published May 2016. This Piece of My Soul, published January, 2017, continues the series and introduces the Tampa Suns professional hockey team.

Besides writing, Robyn’s passions include following the New York Rangers, NASCAR, and the Atlanta Braves; splitting time between homes in Atlanta and Palm Coast, and visiting Paris as often as possible. Two brilliant Westies rule both homes.

As do many writers, Robyn chooses to write using a pseudonym—hers is a combination of her sons’ names, a contribution from her youngest nephew.

About the Author

Reut Barak is a freelance journalist, previously published in National Geographic online. She has an MBA from the University of Oxford, and has worked and traveled internationally. This is her first book series.

Well, no not really... The true story is:

Reut was born in Camelot in the year 1201, following the famous explosion of the northern dragon tower.

She has a degree in fantasy and science fiction from the University of Atlantis and this record can be found in the central library, now twenty thousand leagues under the sea.

She likes phoenix riding, dragon fighting and painting the roses red.

More here:

www.funnyfairytales.org

When there is Darkness in your life, a person rises to show us light. A light of hope out of depression. That person is OM SWAMI. He is not Dark Knight. He is the Monk Who Sold His Porsche. And now with this book he has thrown light on reality of depression. --By Ajinkya Sonwane on 26 April 2016 

This book helps us find the right response in trying times and situations. I wish I had this book when I was struck with depressive episode in my life 23 years back. --By Vipul Agarwal on 3 May 2016

When all is not well ~ when we glance at the title of book, it seems why we need to read this book, for most of us, situations are somewhat under control and even if they are spiralling out of circumference, then we may ask “ What a simple book will do?” or “There are so many self help books out there, why shall I read it?” To be honest, if I haven’t read other books by author, then I must have thought the same, but it must have been a big mistake and would have dearly missed the beautiful teachings and transforming thoughts expressed in book.

About the Author

Om Swami is a monk who lives in a remote place in the Himalayan foothills. He has a bachelor degree in business and an MBA from Sydney, Australia. Swami served in executive roles in large corporations around the world. He founded and led a profitable software company with offices in San Francisco, New York, Toronto, London, Sydney and India.

Om Swami completely renounced his business interests to pursue a more spiritual life. He is the bestselling author of Kundalini: An Untold Story, A Fistful of Love and If Truth Be Told: A Monk’s Memoir.

His blog omswami.com is read by millions all over the world.

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Middle Grade Science Fiction

Date to be Published: December 6, 2017

Support this Novel via the Kickstarter

For Explorers of All Ages!

Tumble forward in time with the fourth collection in the series Kirkus Review called “a must-have in science fiction collections.” These twenty-four imaginative, entertaining tales take readers of all ages to exciting places — from star ships to Mars to alien adventure!

"There are not very many action, adventure, superhero, or sci-fi stories that feature girls, but there needs to be. I have read this whole book and now I have become even more interested in space and robots and things like that." ~ Lily F. (10 years old)

Excerpt from one of the Short Stories

THE GREAT BROCCOLI WI-FI THEFT

 by Nancy Kress

Nancy Kress is the author of thirty-three books, including twenty-six novels, four collections of short stories, and three books on writing.  Her work has won six Nebulas, two Hugos, a Sturgeon, and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award.  Most recent works are the Nebula-winning novella “Yesterday’s Kin” (Tachyon, 2014) and THE BEST OF NANCY KRESS (Subterranean, 2015).  Forthcoming in 2017 is TOMORROW’S KIN (Tor), the first novel of a trilogy based on “Yesterday’s Kin” and extending its universe for several generations.  Kress’s work has been translated into Swedish, Danish, French, Italian, German, Spanish, Polish, Croatian, Chinese, Lithuanian, Romanian, Japanese, Korean, Hebrew, Russian, and Klingon, none of which she can read.  In addition to writing, Kress often teaches at various venues around the country and abroad; in 2008 she was the Picador visiting lecturer at the University of Leipzig.  Kress lives in Seattle with her husband, writer Jack Skillingstead, and Cosette, the world’s most spoiled toy poodle.  

Do you know what a pas de chat is?  I didn’t either, two months ago.  But I know now, and it’s going to make me a hero.  Really!  Everybody will applaud for me so hard their hands will sting—especially Mom!  They’ll give me a medal!  It’s going to be great!

I’m going to solve a mystery that nobody else can solve.

Just as soon as I figure out how.

#

My name is Nia.  I’m ten.  I live sometimes on the moon, at Alpha Base, and sometimes on Earth, in Illinois.  I like both places, but Illinois has a big problem: GRAVITY.  There’s too much of it here.  I wish they could just ship some of this gravity to the moon and even things out a little bit, but it doesn’t work that way.  On the moon there isn’t enough gravity to keep human muscles strong unless you exercise a lot, and I got lazy.  So now I’m back on Earth because my mom’s job moved us here—again!—and my muscles aren’t strong enough.  Which is why I was in ballet class doing a pas de chat.  It was not my idea.

“No, no,” said Mademoiselle Janine, who was in charge of the class.  “Nia, you must land lightly.  Lightly!  Ellen, show her the pas de chat.”

Ellen smirked at me and raised her arms.  Pas de chat means “step of the cat,” which is a really stupid name because it doesn’t look anything like a cat.  I know—we have a cat.  In the pas de chat you bend one leg, jump off the other leg, bend that one in the air, then land lightly.  If you can find a cat that can do that, I’ll give you a million dollars.

Ellen did the step.  She landed lightly. 

“Now you try, Nia,” Mademoiselle said.

I landed like a baby elephant.

“Well…” said Mademoiselle.  “These things take practice.”

Did I mention that ballet class was definitely not my idea?

#

“I want to quit ballet,” I said at dinner.  “I’m no good at ballet.”

Dad said, “You’re probably better than you think.”  Dad is always on my side.

Mom said, “You might not be good at it, but you can’t go on quitting things when they get hard.”  Mom is always on the side of doing hard things.

“But I stink at ballet,” I said.  I pushed my mashed potatoes around with my fork.  “I’m not good at anything.”

“That’s not true,” Dad said.  “You’re good at a lot of things.”

I said, “Name three!”

“Well…you’re good at spelling.”

“Nobody needs to spell good.  Autocorrect fixes it.”

Mom said, “Nobody needs to spell well.  ‘Well,’ not ‘good.’”

“See?” I said.  “I’m not good at sentences, either! I’m not good at anything!”

“Yes, you are,” Dad said.  “You’re good at training our pets.”

That was true.  We have a dog named Bandit, a robot-dog named Luna, and a cat named Pickles.  I trained Bandit to fetch.  I programmed Luna, which is the closest you can get to training a robot.  I couldn’t train Pickles to do anything, but…cats.  They do what they want.

I said, “That’s only two things.”

Mom smiled.  “You’re good at getting into trouble.”

Dad said warningly, “Angela…”

“I’m teasing!  Nia, I just wanted to make you laugh!”

I wasn’t laughing.  Mom never understands!

But then she said, “Look, Nia, everybody has to practice and work hard in order to get good at something.  Do you know how many times my broccoli has failed?”

Mom is a plant geneticist.  That means she changes plants’ genes to make them better.  Right now she’s changing broccoli, which in my opinion can’t ever be made better no matter what you do to it.  I hate broccoli.  She was just making me feel worse.

She knew it, too, because she put her hand on mine and said, “Nia, honey, after dinner let me show you something.”

I said, “As long as it’s not broccoli.”

To be continued in the 2018 Young Explorer’s Adventure Guide!

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Khaled is a former journalist with local and international exposure. His articles have been published and syndicated to newspapers worldwide, and his short stories have appeared in literary journals and magazines. The author is a member of the UK Crime Writers Association and the International Thriller Writers. He lives in Singapore.

About the Author

Kimberley O’Malley is a recent transplant to Charlotte, North Carolina from the frozen North. She is learning to say y’all but draws the line at sweet tea. Sarcasm is an art form in her world. When not writing, she is a full-time nurse and part-time soccer Mom, but not necessarily in that order. She shares her life with an amazing husband of more than twenty years, two teenagers, and one very sweet Shetland Sheepdog, Molly.

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They walked in late in the evening, a little drunk and a lot rowdy, three of them laughing and dragging the fourth along with them.

I carried an empty tray in one hand and tried to tuck my notepad into the back pocket of my black, too tight jeans with the other. The place was filled with smoke and laughter, but I was dead tired and the thick layer of cheap makeup I had put on many hours earlier felt sticky. I wasn’t sure where to sleep when I got off shift, and my usual place behind the University library wasn’t an option because early that morning, they’d started removing the dumpsters I usually huddled between. Someone said that they were clearing the site to start building a new art department, but I didn’t care. I’d been busy grabbing my few belongings, scanning the area to see if someone left anything useful that I could get my hands on.

“Come on Hawk,” I heard one of the men saying. “You lost the bet, we got to choose your loss, and this is our choice.”

I wondered what they were doing in a bar like Kinkers. I’d worked there for almost six months, and it was clean enough, but it was located on a back road in a part of Prosper well known to be unsafe. The owner liked to call it a roadhouse and they served lunch, which was the shift I worked most of the time. In the evenings, it was mostly a bar, and no one ever ordered any food, unless you counted peanuts and chips.

It was also a strip joint, and it was usually filled with men but that night was a Friday, so it was ladies’ night. This meant male strippers and an audience filled with women in various stages of inebriation.

 “I’m not going to –” the man they’d called Hawk started, but another man cut him off.

“Oh, but you are,” he said gleefully, and called out when the angry man made a dash for the door, “Guys, do something. He’s escaping.”

I couldn’t hold back a loud giggle when I realized why they were there. They meant to put their friend on stage. One of the other men moved slightly, and I turned to look at him. Then I stopped breathing. He was tall and lean, with unruly black hair that was a little too long, and laughing brown eyes. He was so beautiful.

Our eyes met and held, and his brows went up a little.

“Hey, he’s running,” someone shouted, and our gazes unlocked.

The beautiful man turned toward the door, and flicked his fingers at our bouncers in a small gesture, indicating that they should stop his fleeing friend. To my surprise, they grinned and stepped in front of the man just as he reached the doors. I wondered if he’d be crazy enough to fight the brawny bouncers, and for a few seconds, it seemed like he would, but then his head tilted back, and he looked up at the ceiling. I saw his shoulders go up a little as if he was inhaling, and then he turned.

He was gorgeous too although in a completely different way. He looked dangerous and hard. When he walked back to his friends, his eyes flicked over me, and I pulled in air because of the intensity in them, but also because their color was such light amber, they were almost yellow.

“Get the thong,” one of his friends shouted, and the women around the stage that had followed the events started cheering.

“No,” the yellow-eyed man said calmly. “I’ll do this because I pay my debts, but I am not wearing a thong.”

“Don’t worry, Hawk,” the beautiful man laughed. “There are other options.”

Another cheer erupted, and then they moved toward the door leading backstage. Bobby Dawner, the owner of the bar, met them and greeted the beautiful man with a back-thumping bear hug. I heard him boom the man’s name, and it burned into my soul.

“Miller.”

That was the night everything changed. When I got off my shift and walked through the empty streets, looking for something, anything, that could provide cover, I was beaten up by a young man who wanted my meager tips from the evening. I woke up in the hospital and saw a woman sitting in a chair, calmly watching me.

“Do you need help, child?” she asked.

I looked back at her for a long time, and then I gave up. I’d learned the hard way never to trust anyone, but her eyes were kind, and I couldn’t make it on my own anymore, so I decided that I’d accept whatever bad things she might have in store for me. It wouldn’t be worse than the life I already had.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Her eyes softened, and a gentle smile curved her mouth, and when I saw it, I smiled back, tentatively.

“I’m Joelle,” she said.

I was fourteen years old, and that was the night my life resumed.

About the Author

The proper way to put it here would probably be to describe how I love to play with our two big dogs, adore my fantastic daughters and how much I love to read.

Another way would be to use my imagination and then I would be a super powerful warrior woman, think Xena the warrior princess (though with less tacky clothes). Or when I think of it, maybe I’m actually more of a Hercule Poirot (sans the suit and moustache). Or maybe I’m like Aragorn, strong and cool and then I might get to meet Gandalf! Or I could be Bella’s pretty cousin and snap Jacob up in a second (yeah, I’m so not team Edward), or wait, maybe I could be like one of them heroines in historical novels who swoon all the time. I’ve always wanted to swoon…

Well, I guess you get how my mind is working (or not working, some say).

Anyways, I like to write. Stories, adventures, romantic and happy stuff mixed up with sorrow and hardship, and bit of laughter here and there because the way I see it – life is way too short to go around feeling grumpy.