The small town of Sullivan has barricaded itself against the outside world. It is one of the last enclaves of civilization and the residents are determined that their town remain free from the strange and terrifying plague that is sweeping the land—a plague that transforms ordinary people into murderous, bloodthirsty madmen. But the transformation is only the beginning. With the shocking realization that mankind is evolving into something different, something horrifying, the struggle for survival becomes a battle to save humanity.

I was ten years old when my parents were killed by pirates. This did not bother me as much as you might think - I hardly knew my parents.Bronte Mettlestone's parents ran away to have adventures when she was a baby, leaving her to be raised by her Aunt Isabelle and the Butler. She's had a perfectly pleasant childhood of afternoon teas and riding lessons - and no adventures, thank you very much.But Bronte's parents have left extremely detailed (and bossy) instructions for Bronte in their will. The instructions must be followed to the letter, or disaster will befall Bronte's home. She is to travel the kingdoms and empires, perfectly alone, delivering special gifts to her ten other aunts. There is a farmer aunt who owns an orange orchard and a veterinarian aunt who specialises in dragon care, a pair of aunts who captain a cruise ship together and a former rockstar aunt who is now the reigning monarch of a small kingdom.Now, armed with only her parents'...

It’s time to crash and burn…Traveling across the United States in their beat up station wagon, sisters Audrey and Liv Westing flee their dark pasts. Playing gigs as a singing duo in questionable bars and dives, they live life in the fast lane. No regrets. No Looking back. When their beauty and music attract the eye of a deadly, but powerful Cartel family, everything spirals out of control. The fall is worth the pain… Along with a sexy, blind percussionist named Saul, the sisters shoot their way to the top of the music charts, but the price to pay for stardom is steep when knee deep in carnal contracts that demand more than the sisters can give. Love is a killer… Where hearts are the currency and music is the only escape, Liv and Audrey must make their way through a world of sketchy music deals, sexy assassins, and unfathomable demands from those who want nothing more than to own every piece of them. But Audrey and Liv don't mind breaking every single rule to survive. Wait for the encore before the sky falls…

Joseph Hocking was a Cornish novelist in the early 20th century who wrote popular novels like The Birthright.

The Animated Pinup is presented here in a high quality paperback edition. This popular classic work by Lewis Parker is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of Lewis Parker then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.

This collection of literature attempts to compile many of the classic, timeless works that have stood the test of time and offer them at a reduced, affordable price, in an attractive volume so that everyone can enjoy them.

n Algonquin Maiden was published in 1887. It is a romance set in what would be later known as Toronto, Canada. The story begins, "It was a May morning in 1825--spring-time of the year, late spring-time of the century. It had rained the night before, and a warm pallor in the eastern sky was the only indication that the sun was trying to pierce the gray dome of nearly opaque watery fog, lying low upon that part of the world now known as the city of Toronto, then the town of Little York. This cluster of five or six hundred houses had taken up a determined position at the edge of a forest then gloomily forbidding in its aspect, interminable in extent, inexorable in its resistance to the shy or to the sturdy approaches of the settler. Man versus nature--the successive assaults of perishing humanity upon the almost impregnable fortresses of the eternal forests--this was the struggle of Canadian civilization, and its hard-won triumphs were bodied forth in the scattered roofs of these cheap habitations."

Birds called. Breezes played among branches just bursting into green. Daffodils, proud and erect, stood in clumps about the dazzling lawn. Young, pulsing, eager things elbowed their way through last year's leaves to taste the morning sun; the wide-eyed celandine, yellower than butter; the little violet, hugging the earth for fear of being seen; the sturdy bourgeois daisy; the pale-faced anemone, earliest to wake and earliest to sleep; the blue bird's-eye in small family groups; the blatant dandelion already a head and shoulders taller than any neighbor. Every twig in the old garden bore its new load of buds that were soft as kittens' paws; and up the wrinkled trunks of ancient trees young ivy leaves chased each other like school-boys. Spring had come again, and its eternal spirit spread the message of new-born hope, stirred the sap of awakening life, warmed the bosom of a wintry earth and put into the hearts of birds the old desire to mate. But the lonely girl turned a deaf ear to the call, and rounded her shoulders over the elderly desk with tears blistering her letter. "I'm miserable, miserable," she wrote. "There doesn't seem to be anything to live for. I suppose it's selfish and horrid to grumble because Mother has married again, but why did she choose the very moment when she was to take me into life? Oh, Alice, what am I to do? I feel like a rabbit with its foot in a trap, listening to the traffic on the main road—like a newly fledged bird brought down with a broken wing among the dead leaves of Rip Van Winkle's sleeping-place. You'll laugh when you read this, and say that I'm dramatizing my feelings and writing for effect; but if you've got any heart at all, you'd cry if you saw me (me of all girls!) buried alive out here without a single soul to speak to who's as young as I am—hushed if I laugh by mistake, scowled at if I let myself move quickly, catching old age every hour I stay here." "Why, Alice, just think of it! There's not a person or a thing in and out of this house that's not old. I don't mean old as we thought of it at school, thirty and thirty-five, but really and awfully old. The house is the oldest for miles round. My grandfather is seventy-two, and my grandmother's seventy. The servants are old, the trees are old, the horses are old; and even the dogs lie about with dim eyes waiting for death." "When Mother was here, it was bearable. We escaped as often as we could, and rode and drove and made secret visits to the city and saw the plays at matinees. There's nothing old about Mother. I suppose that's why she married again. But now that I'm left alone in this house of decay, where everybody and everything belongs to the past, I'm frightened of being so young, and catch looks that make me feel that I ought to be ashamed of myself. It's so long since I quarreled with a girl or flirted with a boy that I can't remember it. I'm forgetting how to laugh. I'm beginning not to care about clothes or whether I look nice." "One day is exactly like another. I wander about aimlessly with nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to speak to. I've even begun to give up reading novels, because they make me so jealous. It's all wrong, Alice. It's bad and unhealthy. It puts mutinous thoughts into my head. Honestly, the only way in which I can get the sort of thrill that I ought to have now, if ever I am to thrill at all, is in making wild plans of escape, so wild and so naughty that I don't think I'd better write about them, even to you, dear." "Mother's on her honeymoon. She went away a week ago in a state of self-conscious happiness that left Grandfather and Grandmother snappy and disagreeable. She will be away four months, and every weekly letter that comes from her will make this place more and more unbearable and me more restless and dangerous....

"Now you polish up those buckles real good, won't you, 'Zekiel? I will say for Fanshaw, you could most see your face in the harness always."The young fellow addressed rubbed away at the nickel plating good humoredly, although he had heard enough exhortations in the last twenty-four hours to chafe somewhat the spirit of youth. His mother, a large, heavy woman, stood over him, her face full of care."It's a big change from driving a grocery wagon to driving a gentleman's carriage, 'Zekiel. I do hope you sense it.""You'd make a bronze image sense it, mother," answered the young man, smiling broadly. "You might sit and sermonize just as well, mightn't you? Sitting's as cheap as standing,"—he cast a glance around the clean spaces of the barn in search of a chair,—"or if you'd rather go and attend to your knitting, I've seen harness before, you know.""I'm not sure as you've ever handled a gentleman's harness in your life, 'Zekiel Forbes.""It's a fact they don't wear 'em much down Boston way."

THE PICTURE. H, Madge, just stay as you are; there—your head a little more turned this way." "But, Raymond, I can't possibly make the toast if I do." "Never mind the toast; I shan't be many minutes," said the boy who was painting in the window, while he mixed some colours in an excited, eager manner. "The fire is very hot. Mayn't I move just to one side?" "No; it is the way that the firelight is falling on your hair and cheek that I want. Please, Madge; five minutes." "Very well," and the patient little sister dropped the toasting-fork, and folded her hands in her lap, with the scorching blaze playing on her forehead and cheek, and sparkling in her deep brown eyes. The boy went on with rapid, bold strokes, while a smile played over his compressed lips as he glanced at Madge every few moments. "The very thing I have been watching for—that warm, delicious glow—that red light slanting over her face;—glorious!" and he shook back the hair from his forehead, and worked on unconscious of how the minutes flew by. "Raymond, it is very hot." "There—one moment more, please, Madge." One minute—two—three, fled by, and then Raymond threw down his brush and came over to his sister's side. "Poor little Madge," and he laid his hand coaxingly on her silky hair. "Perhaps you have made my fortune." This was some small consolation for having roasted her face, and she went to look at the picture. "I'm not as pretty as that, Raymond." "FACES IN THE FIRE." "Well, artists may idealize a little; may they not?" "Yes. What is this to be called?" "Faces in the Fire." "Shall you sell it?" "I shall try." THE COTTAGE IN THE COUNTRY. Raymond Leicester had not a prepossessing face; it was heavy, and to a casual observer, stupid. He had dark hazel eyes, shaded by an overhanging brow and rather sweeping eyelashes; a straight nose, and compressed lips, hiding a row of defective teeth; a high massive forehead and light hair, which was seldom smooth, but very straight. This he had a habit of tossing back with a jerk when he was excited; and sometimes the dull eyes flashed with a very bright sparkle in them when he caught an idea which pleased him,—for Raymond was an artist, not by profession, but because it was in his heart to paint, and he could not help himself. He was sixteen now, and Madge was twelve. Madge was the only thing in the world that he really cared for, except his pictures. Their mother was dead, Madge could hardly remember her; but Raymond always had an image before him of a tender, sorrowful woman, who used to hold him in her arms, and whisper to him, while the hot tears fell upon his baby cheeks,—"You will comfort me, my little son. You will take care of your mother and of baby Madge." And he remembered the cottage in the country where they had lived, the porch where the rose-tree grew, the orchard and the moss-grown well, the tall white lilies in the garden that stood like fairies guarding the house, and the pear-tree that was laden with fruit. He remembered how his mother had sat in that porch with him, reading stories to him out of the Bible, but often lifting her sad pale face and looking down the road as if watching for some one....

The Bright Face of Danger - Being an Account of Some Adventures of Henri de Launay, Son of the Sieur de la Tournoire is presented here in a high quality paperback edition. This popular classic work by Robert Neilson Stephens is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of Robert Neilson Stephens then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.

JOHN HENRY ON RACE TIPSTERS One day last week I was beating the ballast up Broadway when Pete, the Piker, declared himself in and began to chatter about cinches at the track. "Get the saw, Pete, and cut it," I said; "it's many a long day since I've been a Patsy for the ponies. Once they stung me so hard that for months my bank account looked like a porous plaster, so I took the chloroform treatment and now you and your tips to the discards, my boy, to the discards!" Pete isn't really a native of Dopeville-on-the-Fence, but he likes to have people think he knows the racing game backwards. And he does—backwards. In real life he's a theatrical manager and his name on the three-sheets is Peter J. Badtime, the Human Salary Spoiler.

A brief collection of essays.A collection of essays on growing up in American culture. From how globalization impacts our everyday lives to the implications of hot dog eating contests LA Powell discovers some harsh truths about western society.

Sixfold is an all-writer-voted journal. All writers who upload their manuscripts vote to select the highest-voted $1000 prize-winning manuscripts and all the short stories and poetry published in each issue.Sixfold is an all-writer-voted journal. All writers who upload their manuscripts vote to select the highest-voted $1000 prize-winning manuscripts and all the short stories and poetry published in each issue.In Sixfold Poetry Summer 2015:Jennifer Leigh Stevenson | For Your Own Good & other poemsMarianne S. Johnson | Tortious & other poemsKate Magill | Nest Study #1 & other poemsKaren Kraco | Studio & other poemsMatt Daly | Beneath Your Bark & other poemsPaulette Guerin | Emergence & other poemsHank Hudepohl | Crossed Words & other poemsAlma Eppchez | At the Back of the Road Atlas & other poemsJim Burrows | At the Megachurch & other poemsRachel Stolzman Gullo | Lioness & other poemsYana Lyandres | New York Transplant & other poemsHeather Katzoff | Start & other poemsTom Yori | Cana & other poemsBarth Landor | What Is Left & other poemsAbigail F. Taylor | Never So Still & other poemsGeorge Longenecker | Polar Bears Drowning & other poemsBen Cromwell | Sometimes a Flock of Birds & other poemsRobert Mammano | the way the ground shakes & other poemsJanet Smith | Rocket Ship & other poemsGina Loring | Dementia & other poemsJ. Lee Strickland | Minoan Elegy & other poemsToni Hanner | Catching the Baby & other poems

Despite Victorian society's strict rules for women, Rebecca and Flora Hawes' desire for adventure has led them to the Sinai Desert. Accompanied by their young butler and their maid, the sisters search for a biblical manuscript. On their exotic journey, they experience challenges and wonders, and recall the events that brought them to this time and place.