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Juniper Song is not who she says she is, she didn’t write the book she claims she wrote, and she is certainly not Asian American… Yellowface by R. F. Kuang
Juniper Song is not who she says she is, she didn’t write the book she claims she wrote, and she is certainly not Asian American… Yellowface by R. F. Kuang
She can’t resist the call to take down a sadistic criminal hiding behind a pious façade… El Diablo by Kathryn Dodson
She can’t resist the call to take down a sadistic criminal hiding behind a pious façade… El Diablo by Kathryn Dodson
It’s Giveaway time! Get a free bonus entry into our monthly raffle and check out Pain, Pumpernickel & Profound Forgiveness: A Daughter’s Story of Her Punishing & Loving Relationship With Her Father by Rosanne D’Ausilio PhD
It’s Giveaway time! Get a free bonus entry into our monthly raffle and check out Pain, Pumpernickel & Profound Forgiveness: A Daughter’s Story of Her Punishing & Loving Relationship With Her Father by Rosanne D’Ausilio PhD
A Gripping Tale of Timeless Love, Eternal Trial, and the Pursuit of Second Chances… An Angel to Lend by Sivan Kish
A Gripping Tale of Timeless Love, Eternal Trial, and the Pursuit of Second Chances… An Angel to Lend by Sivan Kish
One question haunts her: will he save her… or destroy her for good? Bound by Revenge: A Dark Mafia Romance by Anna Cole
One question haunts her: will he save her… or destroy her for good? Bound by Revenge: A Dark Mafia Romance by Anna Cole
The magic of Christmas in a mountain ski town brings up long-forgotten holiday memories in… Christmas at Mountain View Lodge by Deanna Lynn Sletten
The magic of Christmas in a mountain ski town brings up long-forgotten holiday memories in… Christmas at Mountain View Lodge by Deanna Lynn Sletten
Through dark humor and sharp wit, Heller critiques the dehumanizing effects of war in… Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
Through dark humor and sharp wit, Heller critiques the dehumanizing effects of war in… Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
It’s Giveaway time! Get a free bonus entry into our monthly raffle and check out Hush Money (Spenser Book 26) by Robert B. Parker
It’s Giveaway time! Get a free bonus entry into our monthly raffle and check out Hush Money (Spenser Book 26) by Robert B. Parker
Feeling nostalgic? Nancy Drew 11: The Clue of the Broken Locket (Nancy Drew Mysteries) by Carolyn Keene
Feeling nostalgic? Nancy Drew 11: The Clue of the Broken Locket (Nancy Drew Mysteries) by Carolyn Keene
Two perfect families. Two beautiful homes. A one-way trip to hell. The House Swap by Miranda Rijks
Two perfect families. Two beautiful homes. A one-way trip to hell. The House Swap by Miranda Rijks
FREE holiday box-set of three romance novellas! Christmas in Wishful: A Small Town Southern Holiday Romance Extravaganza by bestselling author Kait Nolan
FREE holiday box-set of three romance novellas! Christmas in Wishful: A Small Town Southern Holiday Romance Extravaganza by bestselling author Kait Nolan
Lose Belly Fat, Sculpt Glutes, and Feel More Energized! Chair Yoga for Weight Loss: Transform Your Body in 28 Days with Illustrated Exercises by ETS Publishing
Lose Belly Fat, Sculpt Glutes, and Feel More Energized! Chair Yoga for Weight Loss: Transform Your Body in 28 Days with Illustrated Exercises by ETS Publishing
An inspirational book that was originally published in 1942 and has now been updated and distributed to over a million men and women deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan is the latest addition to our Free Book Alert listings….
But first, a word from … Today’s Sponsor
If you loved George Clooney in Up in the Air, you’re bound to enjoy the totally different ride experienced by a germaphobic CEO, a marketing VP turned Elvis impersonator, the Sundance Kid of Everyman Compensation, and a purchasing director nicknamed the eBay Wizard who make up the unforgettable cast of characters in Deb Hosey White’s Pink Slips and Parting Gifts….
By the time Easton Company CEO Jeffrey Elkins entices a major competitor to buy his Fortune 500 Company, the corporate jet is waiting and his parachute is platinum.
In thirteen weeks the deal of a lifetime transforms a handful of quirky executives into undeserving multimillionaires, propels a workforce into unemployment and dispatches unsuspecting retirees into poverty. The corporate jet is sold on eBay, and a CEO utters his final words before relinquishing his title: Make sure the employees get their pumpkin pies.
The memorable cast of corporate characters includes a germaphobic CEO, a marketing VP turned Elvis impersonator, the Sundance Kid of Everyman Compensation, and a purchasing director nicknamed the eBay Wizard.
An estimated one in five corporate employees has experienced a merger or acquisition. PinkSlips and Parting Gifts is their story – the one every corporate cubicle jockey, business-class road warrior and mid-level manager will want to read.
“Pink Slips and Parting Gifts” is a choice and highly recommended novel that shouldn’t be ignored.–Midwest Book Review
Pink Slips and Parting Gifts was certainly an eye opener for me, and I would highly recommend it for anyone who wants to see the truth behind big business today and the power of the privileged few.–AllBooks Review
…the back cover says…”Pink Slips and Parting Gifts is…the one every corporate cubicle jockey, business-class road warrior and mid-level manager will want to read.” I respectfully agree! –Reader Views
An estimated one in five corporate employees has experienced a merger or acquisition. Pink Slips and Parting Gifts is their story – the one every corporate cubicle jockey, business-class road warrior and mid-level manager will want to read.
Find all the books, read about the author, and more
Deb Hosey White is an executive management consultant and retirement coach. With more than thirty years experience working for Fortune 1000 companies, she has lived mergers and acquisitions from inside the conference rooms, cubicles and executive suites of corporate America.A long-time Baltimore-Washington area resident, Deb White now lives and writes in beautiful North Carolina with her husband David.
Click here to download Pink Slips and Parting Giftsor a free sample to your Kindle, iPad, iPhone, iPod Touch, BlackBerry, Android-compatible, PC or Mac and start reading within 60 seconds!
Just use the slider at right of your screen below to scroll through a complete, updated list of free contemporary Kindle titles, and click on an icon like this one (at right) to read a free sample right here in your browser! Titles are sorted in reverse chronological order so you can easily see new freebies!
(Please note: If your device does not display “Kindle for the Web,” just view this post on any computer or frame-friendly device)
Another day, another terrific page-turner for less than a dollar!
(Ed. Note: Kindle and Kindle App readers have already discovered author Sandra Edwards and made her a bestseller in the Kindle Store with books like Crazy for You and Incredible Dreams. Now she’s done it again in a slightly different genre.
I’ll admit that I could never say no to the high-concept premise, and I’ll also share the news: Sandra Edwards has once against written a book that absolutely delivers on the premise. -S.W.)
Here’s the set-up:
After being bitten by the genealogy bug, Grace Hendricks awakens a conspiracy that’s been lying dormant—ever since she disappeared shortly after her father’s funeral eleven years ago. Now, here in the present, his military records have been tampered with and his death certificate is no longer on file.
In an effort to unravel the mystery she turns to Eric Wayne, an old flame she thought she’d tucked safely away into the past. Eric has no intentions of getting involved with Grace and her crazy allegations, until he realizes that someone else is buried in his former commanding General’s grave.
Kindle Nation Readers Shake Rattle and Roll! We’re serious readers here, not the types to oil up on the beach and flex our muscles. But just in case you were wondering how much influence you and other Kindle Nation citizens have, and how much independent authors and publishers depend upon us to clear the sand away and support distinguished work by emerging authors, we have a few tidbits to report as of 4 pm EST Sunday 11.7.2010:
This is not new territory, of course, for Nicholson. Last weekend his KND sponsorship helped launch his new novel Disintegration, and since then the book has soared from #2,093 to #41 in the Kindle Store. Smart authors like Nicholson do plenty of other things to help get the word out about their books, of course, but it’s nice to know that those of us who just flat out love to read can play a role in making a book into a success.
Other books that have had a nice ride lately with a little help from the citizens of Kindle Nation include Daniel Silver’s Cop: A Novel, Normala’s Living from the Heart, J.A. Konrath’s Shaken, L.J. Sellers’ The Sex Club, and many, many more.
007 on Kindle. Ian Fleming’s James Bond spy novels may never be taught in literature classes at Harvard or Oxford, but they are, at the very least, guilty pleasures for thousands of Kindle Nation citizens.
Ian Fleming Publications, the company that has managed publishing rights for the late James Bond creator’s estate since his death, announced this week that it will make the Bond novels available digitally in the U.K. without an intermediary role for agency model publisher Penguin, Fleming’s longtime print publisher.
Penguin may be shaken by the news, but readers are certainly stirred in a positive way by the prospect that the ebook versions, which will be available from the UK Kindle Store as well as other ebook retailers, are likely to be priced more fairly than would be the case if Penguin were allowed to set the prices.
Let the Best Books Lists Rock Your Kindle. Kindle Nation citizens, get your holiday shopping carts ready for the best books of the year!
There will be many such lists, and Amazon book editors just announced their picks for the 100 best books of the year, as well as the top 100 customer favorites. This annual ranking includes the Editors’ Picks for the Top 100 Books of the Year, the Top 100 Customer Favorites and Top 10 lists in nearly two-dozen categories.
National Digital Library System Would Increase Literacy. In an articlefor the Atlantic, old friend David Rothman makes a strong case for the need for a national digital library system—something that would make Kindle Nation citizens, lovers of reading, and advocates of literacy proud.
“E-book gadgets have finally cracked the mass market here in the United States or at least have come a long way,” writes Rothman. “But there is one thing I currently cannot do with my Kindle despite all the sizzle in the commercials — read public library books.”
“A library plan and related initiatives should include the actual collections, not just for traditional education and research but also for job training; tight integration with schools, libraries, and other institutions; encouragement of the spread of the right hardware and connections; and the cost-justification described in the stimulus proposal.”
While Rothman concedes that multimedia is “essential,” he argues that without basic literacy and analytical skills, “young people will not be fit for many demanding blue-collar jobs, much less for Ph.D.-level work, and economic growth will suffer.”
We reported last month on Scholastic’s survey that indicated a majority of young people prefers reading digital to print materials. Jibing with this research, Rothman believes that e-book technology will expand young people’s reading interests “through such wrinkles as Kindle-style dictionaries and encyclopedia links to help students better understand the words in front of them.”
Finally, Rothman calls on the Obama administration to emphasize the need for expanded literacy as well as increased broadband accessibility.
Today we offer a special treat for Kindle Nation citizens — some of the greatest books ever written as a must-have complement to the latest contemporary additions to our Free Book Alert listings….
But first, a word from … Today’s Sponsor
A band of hunters–family men–fathers–grandfathers … Which one has taken the thrill of the hunt to a new level?
Suddenly you’re in his head.
And he’s in your face.
Four straight 5-star reviews from Amazon reviewers!
When attorney Diana Martin takes on a case referred by her best friend, private investigator Jess Edwards, the women cross paths with a group of hunters that includes the new client, his estranged son-in-law, and three other men who have more in common than hunting: their women are disappearing.
Within the band of hunters, a psychopath hides in plain sight. For him, the thrill of big game has lost its savor. Now he collects ethnically diverse women of exceptional beauty. And he’s learned how to keep them perfectly beautiful forever.
As Diana struggles with her self-image after a failed marriage, she’s tempted by the advances of her client’s son-in-law whose wife is one of the missing women. Jess warns her of potential trouble, unaware that more than a broken heart is a stake for Diana. In fact, both Diana and Jess have recently made the psychopath’s acquisitions list.
Click here to download The Trophy Hunteror a free sample to your Kindle, iPad, iPhone, iPod Touch, BlackBerry, Android-compatible, PC or Mac and start reading within 60 seconds!
Interested in learning more about sponsorship? Just click on this link for more information.
Over 100 Free Must-Have Classic Titles In the Kindle Store (M-Z)
If you’ve been told that the 16,000+ free “public domain” listings in the Kindle Store are dusty old tomes that nobody reads any more, you are in a for nice treat. My colleague Morris Rosenthal at Foner Books has been doing some great work, and it is a treat to be able to share it with the citizens of Kindle Nation in, for starters, the first section of this curated listing of over 100 free must-have classics in the Kindle Store.
Just use the slider at right of your screen below to scroll through a complete, updated list of free contemporary Kindle titles, and click on an icon like this one (at right) to read a free sample right here in your browser! Titles are sorted in reverse chronological order so you can easily see new freebies!
A great horror writer ought to have a fine sense of humor, and I suspect it’s the combination of the two that has made Scott Nicholson every bit as much of a Kindle Nation fave as Stephen King.
And how much do we love Scott, here in the Nation?
Well, a week ago we helped him launch his edgy new novel Disintegration. At the time of our post, Disintegration was doing very well at #2,083 overall in the Kindle Store. Right now, 6 days later, it sits at #38. Not that there haven’t been other things going on, but I’m just saying. #38.
Scott’s a good man, and he is back this evening to show his appreciation to Kindle Nation citizens by offering six free chapters — a free excerpt of over 15,000 words from his new book As I Die Lying — as a Scary Saturday read just for you and me.
But we won’t stay rich if we throw 99 cents away too easily, and that’s why Scott is offering you the opportunity to scroll down to begin reading the free excerpt.
Here’s the set-up:
In the style of Chuck Palahniuk, Jeff Lindsay’s “Darkly Dreaming Dexter” series, and Bret Easton Ellis, but probably written by a demon, comes a psychological thriller from the bestselling author of Disintegration, The Red Church, and Speed Dating with the Dead. DRM-free and professionally formatted, As I Die Lying is 99 cents for a limited time. Richard Coldiron’s unauthorized autobiography follows his journey through a troubled childhood, where he meets his invisible friend, his other invisible friend…and then some who aren’t so friendly.
There’s Mister Milktoast, the protective punster; Little Hitler, who leers from the shadows; Loverboy, the lusty bastard; and Bookworm, who is thoughtful, introspective, and determined to solve the riddle of Richard’s disintegration, and of course only makes things worse. As Richard works on his autobiography, his minor characters struggle with their various redemptive arcs.
But he’s about to get a new tenant: the Insider, a malevolent soul-hopping spirit that may or may not be born from Richard’s nightmares and demands a co-writing credit and a little bit of foot-kissing dark worship.
Now Richard doesn’t know which voice to trust. The book’s been rejected 117 times. The people he loves keep turning up dead. And here comes the woman of his dreams.
Scroll down to begin reading the free excerpt
Click on the title or cover image below below to download the complete book to your Kindle or Kindle app for just 99 cents!
As I Die Lying (A Richard Coldiron Book) by Scott Nicholson Visit Amazon’s Scott Nicholson Page Find all the books, read about the author, and more. 5.0 out of 5 stars (2 customer reviews) Kindle Price: $0.99 Text-to-Speech: Enabled
In an autobiography, that means you have to relive your life. And that’s the last thing I want to do. Once was more than enough. And five times was far too many.
Unless it’s six, in which case all that follows was written by that other guy, the one trying to hitchhike my story and make me sound worse than I really am. If he wasn’t such a lousy writer, this would have been published long ago and we wouldn’t have gotten to the end. Some of us might have lived happily ever after.
Rest assured, anytime I look cruel, inept, or sociopathic in this story, it’s because he’s changed things around. He wants a fall guy so he can get away with murder. My murder. Maybe your murder, too.
So I look for evidence. Everything else is just metaphysical tourism.
Photographs and locks of hair, pressed flowers and postcards, teddy bears and blue ribbons. Memories, souvenirs, keepsakes, and your girlfriend’s big toe. Old love letters and other horrors, agonies, scars. Why do we hoard such things?
I’ve come to believe it’s because we need proof.
History, even revisionist history, is written by the winners. So if you want to tell the whole story, the true story, get it out there yourself and make everyone believe. With luck and a shrewd marketing push, it’s a bestseller. If you’re pathetic, you’re filed in Self-Help. If this book is published under the last name “Zwiecker” and ends up on the bottom shelf in the fantasy section, then you’ll know he’s won.
Publish or perish, they say. We plan to do both, though we’re not sure in which order.
So when I begin at the beginning, I’ll skip the part where Mother bled between her legs and Daddy was sitting on the couch with a bottle of Jack as I squirted into Ottaqua, Iowa, like a bloody watermelon seed.
Ray Bradbury claims to remember being born. He’s a great writer, but that’s total bullshit. Nobody remembers, but people treat it like it’s a big deal. You carry your birth date around all your life and it nails you to Social Security cards, party invitations, and all those forms you fill out in school. Then, on your tombstone, where you only get a little bit of space to sum up your life, some wax-faced creep chisels in a set of meaningless numbers instead of poetry or a secret love or the name of your favorite candy.
In the end, all you get is a few words.
This is all the proof I can offer:
I was on my hands and knees when memory cursed me, awareness laughed in my face, and ego slipped into my head like an ice cream ghost. Light streamed through the window, golden and warm. Light was good. Light was safe, even though it tasted like dust.
The brown thing was in the shadows. It was soft and smelled like Mother, all cigarettes and Ivory soap and things beyond my vocabulary like “senescence.” My arms and legs wriggled toward the brown thing, my belly skinning across the floor. I reached the shadow. My fingers closed on the fur and I was pulling it closer when the boot came down on my hand.
My hand was on fire and my eyes were sparks and my chest was a Play-Doh volcano. The boot stretched out and up into the dark, taller than a tree. It was a man built of midnight and stitches and thunder. He bent down and picked up the brown thing. His boots shook the floor as he stomped into the light but all I could see was the scuffed leather, worn laces, and cracked tongue of the boot near my face.
Then the boots danced. They licked me and painted me with bright strips of color. The thunder waltzed me away from my room to a land that light never reached.
But I wasn’t alone.
“Hello,” the boy said. Like the midnight man, the boy clung to the shadows. He might have been there the whole time and I hadn’t seen him.
“Who are you?”
“A friend.”
“I don’t like friends.” I put my hand in my mouth and tried to suck the sore away.
“Chin up, pup. He’s gone now.”
The boy sounded brave, plus I had nowhere else to run. “Did you send him away?”
“No, I dragged you in here where it’s safe.”
“Where are we?”
“I call it the Bone House.”
“It’s dark.”
“Here’s your teddy bear.” He held it out to me.
I grabbed it and brushed its soft fabric against my cheek until my tears were cold.
“Do you trust me?” my friend said.
I nodded, not sure if he could see me.
“Okay,” he said. “You have to leave the Bone House now, but I’ll be here to help whenever you need me.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
And he kept his promise, except that “hoping to die” part. The boy learned how to hide me when we heard the boots in the hallway. Into the closet, buried under broken toys and dirty blankets and a Big Bird poster. Under the bed, cuddling dust bunnies with my nose as the boots walked across the floor, inches from my face. Behind the desk, chewing my lip, afraid to breathe until the midnight man gave up and shambled off to find Mother instead.
When I heard the boots in the kitchen, the King Kong roar and shattering of glass, Mother’s high squeaking Godzilla cries, I knew I had escaped again. The boots stomped until they grew tired, until the thunder spent its fury. Then my friend and I would share a smile. We had lived to hide another day.
My friend taught me a simple game.
Dodge the boots.
Run and hide.
Become invisible when you could, hold your breath when you couldn’t.
But nobody wins the game every time. And the odds favored the midnight man. He seemed to grow taller and stronger and darker the better we got at hiding. When he found me, plucked me out of my corners and nooks, held me up with a thick trembling arm, then I knew it was time to let my friend have this body. My friend would take the punishment while I went away to the Bone House. I hate to say it, but I think he even liked it a little.
I’d watch from the window as the boots did their dance, crushed a minuet across my friend’s legs, waltzed over his kidneys, and jitterbugged up his spine. I knew it was me being beaten, my bruised flesh that I would eventually revisit, but at least I didn’t have to suffer. My friend did that for me. That’s how much my friend loved me.
We would talk, after. He would give me back my body, with its red welts and pink scrapes, and go into his hidden room in the Bone House. Since it hurt to move, I would huddle in my squeaky bed with my teddy bear. I tasted salt and sometimes blood. My friend would whisper soothing words inside my head.
“You’re okay now, Richard. Midnight is over.”
I trembled. For both of us.
“Did you hear the front door slam?” he said.
I nodded, hugging the raw meat of my legs to my chest as the plains wind banged against the windows. Any storm was welcome as long as it hid the sound of boots.
“He’s gone. You can breathe again.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
My friend didn’t have a name back then. There was only us. He didn’t need a name until later, when things got more complicated and the Bone House became crowded. But I can tell you the teddy bear was named Wee Willie Winky because one of his eyes was stitched too tightly. And my name was Richard. I forgot to tell you that, but you can see it on the cover of the book, unless that other guy changed it.
“Did he hurt you bad?” Secretly, I was glad it was him instead of me.
“Not so bad, this time. Not like the time when the two teeth got loose and I bit my tongue. That time, even your mother got scared.”
“Yeah, remember how she pushed the midnight man away and picked you up?” I said. “With your arm bent out at that funny angle, like you had an extra elbow? That was the only time she ever tried to stop him.”
“They were nice to me at the hospital. They gave me a lollipop, and that pretty nurse said she’d never seen such a brave young man.”
I wished I’d been around for that lollipop. Maybe he’d tricked me so he could have the lollipop instead of me. “What does ‘brave’ mean?”
“It’s when bad things happen and you don’t cry.” He’d probably learned that from a book in school, or maybe church, or that one time we went to a Boy Scout meeting.
“Are you brave?”
“I don’t know. But when they asked me how it happened, I said it just the way Mother told me. She made me keep saying it over and over in the car. ‘I fell down the steps, and put out my arm to stop.'”
“Why did she want you to make up a story like that?” I didn’t care why, but this was my friend and I liked the way he talked. Plus he was sharing a very important lesson in how to lie, and what boy could resist such a thing?
“It wasn’t a story. You know how she says if you believe something hard enough, you can make it true? Well, she wanted that story to be true. She believed it more.”
I pulled the blankets tight under my chin. The fabric was scratchy, like Father’s cheeks. “Do you remember what really happened?”
“I didn’t hide good enough, that’s all.”
“Sometimes, just before he goes to sleep, or when he’s on the couch watching TV, he makes me take the boots off his feet. They’re not so scary when they’re off.”
“Tongues hanging out. Tired dogs. But they sure are stinky. Wee willie stinky.”
I looked up at the ceiling, at the shadows of trees dancing in front of the streetlights. The room smelled of purple Kool-Aid and old socks and rats behind the walls, and sometimes I prayed to Jesus for clean laundry. If my friend wasn’t around, I’d sometimes throw in a prayer for candy or a Matchbox car. But the ceiling was in the way, so I couldn’t see the sky or heaven. “Maybe one night we could hide the boots after he’s asleep.”
“Then he’d really be mad,” the voice said. Sometimes my friend spoke out loud instead of just thinking it, and that was a little scary until I got used to it. I’m glad it didn’t happen when other people were around. Not often, anyway.
“Maybe it’s the boots that make him mad.”
“Maybe,” he said. “It’s stupid to be brave.”
“Does Mother hate the boots?” I asked questions I was afraid to answer. He never minded when I tricked him into telling the truth once in a while.
“I don’t know. She keeps telling the midnight man ‘I love you.'”
“Maybe there are different kinds of love. She likes to hold me and sing to me. She says she loves me and kisses me on the forehead and tucks me under the blankets even when she knows the midnight man is coming. Even when she knows he’s got his boots on.”
“Maybe he would hurt her more if she didn’t love him, so she’s afraid to stop.”
I swallowed hard. Darkness crawled in from the corners, its edges sharp. I put my head under the pillow. Love was easy when it was just some invisible person in your head, but when you had to pretend to love in the real world, who wouldn’t be a little crazy and afraid? “Love means you have to be brave?”
“Sometimes your mother cries when she says she loves you. That means she’s either lying or she’s not brave.”
My friend was clever but I usually came up with a comeback, because in your own autobiography you don’t want anybody to think you’re playing second fiddle or fifth harmonica or ninth penny whistle. “But how can she love me and the midnight man at the same time?”
“Maybe she only loves the midnight man when his boots are off. Maybe they’re sole mates. Get it, s-o-l-e?”
“Funny, ha ha. Love shouldn’t go on and off like that. I love you all the time. And I don’t want to die like Jesus had to before He could get people to love Him,” I said to the person in my head. Throwing in the Jesus bit was a little melodramatic, seeing as how we’d only been to church three times, and only one of them didn’t involve food. You can sure get the best coconut cakes at church.
“I love you, Richard,” he said. “I’ll never leave you. I won’t let you get hurt.”
I tucked Wee under my bruised arm. Wads of cotton spilled from the rips in its neck and leg. The midnight man had done that, but Wee didn’t have an invisible friend to hide him, and I wasn’t sharing mine. “It’s not so bad hiding. Inside, where it’s dark. I wish we could stay there all the time.”
“We can’t both go into the Bone House.”
“Why not?”
“Who would watch Wee? Wee can never be alone.”
My friend loved double meanings and playing with words. It helped pass the time when he was stuck in the Bone House. And maybe he wanted to be a writer when he grew up, just like everybody else. But first he’d have to live long enough to grow up.
Thump thump.
Our eyes opened, our shared heart boomed like the storm rolling down the hallway, but only one of us got to flee for the hidden room inside my skull.
Me first. Always me.
“Up the stairs, away, away, away,” whispered my friend. “Sounds like someone’s putting his foot down.”
And off I’d go.
CHAPTER TWO
Later I learned that the midnight man was only my father. The boots visited less often as I got older, and the friend inside my head didn’t come out much. Rather, I didn’t go inside the Bone House to see him.
I found other playmates at school, ones you could see and who talked with real voices. I learned the world was much bigger than the nightmares trapped between the walls of my bedroom. Life smelled of chalk and Hope Hill’s perfume and burning leaves and strawberry milkshake. My childish fears seemed silly out under the sunshine, where boys and girls played kick ball and pain was farther away than Jesus or the clouds in the blue sky or other insubstantial, amorphous objects.
Father preserved his boot leather but discovered other ways to torture. He attacked with words, and maybe that’s where I get my literary talent. Not that I want to give that bastard any credit at all for this book, since the byline is up for debate. But he could really pour it on.
He invented a dozen fresh insults, doused acid on my psyche, and dubbed me “Dumbbell.” This seemed to give him more pleasure than the physical abuse. Mother had begun her descent from youth into old age without slowing down for the middle years. She was weary from lifting her forearms to fend off the blows, beaten down by the sight of her own emaciated and battered flesh, worn from clinging to the spidery threads of black hope. Father, however, seemed to grow younger, as if he’d tapped a perverted fountain of youth, Narcissus at a whiskey vat.
Father worked at the John Deere plant, spot welding harrow joints and tractor wheels. He helped make the machines for the slaves of the soil, those who turned the dark drift and loess of the Iowa tableland. He was chained to the dirt without even the pleasure of holding it in his hand, kicking at it with his scuffed boots, or checking the sky for portents. He had wanted to be a crop duster, but never had the time and money to get his pilot’s license.
Perhaps the air could have stolen his anger. Perhaps his frustration was in being earthbound, because he was particularly venomous after returning from weekend air shows in Cedar Falls or Des Moines. On the Christmas I was nine, he gave me a model kit for a Northrop P-61 Black Widow fighter, and we spent the snowy afternoon carefully putting it together. He let me glue the fuselage myself and guided my hands as I joined the propeller and engine parts.
His mouth watered as he concentrated on the more tedious attachments, and he sucked in his drool with a whistling sound before it could dribble down his chin. He had not even been drinking that day, or at least his breath didn’t smell like vinegar and shoe polish yet. He made engine noises with his mouth, as if he were imagining a scale model of himself at the controls. We applied the decals just as Mother pulled the steaming golden turkey from the oven.
Never had so much laughter filled that usually sullen apartment. My stocking was bloated with peppermints, walnuts, and lemon drops, and I shared the bounty with my parents. We huddled around the skeleton of the turkey, its alabaster bones a silent centerpiece to the gathering. We even sang “White Christmas” together, at least the few lines we knew. Father sang in a bassy parody of Bing Crosby, Mother bleated half-heartedly, and I croaked in an atonal barrage of sound that was more percussion than harmony.
The model plane crash-landed under the heel of Father’s boot two days later, after his first day back at the plant. It was my fault, I admit. I just didn’t hide it good enough. Christmas was over, and none of us were making any resolutions for the new year. Father renewed his verbal assaults, calling me “Little bastard” and “Fuckwit,” stringing together seventeen dirty words in fits of misplaced poetic genius, but his pet name for me was “Shit For Brains.”
One day I brought home my report card, and he looked down the neat rows of A’s until he found my C in citizenship.
“Hey, Shit For Brains, what’s this C for?” he bellowed, spittle and bourbon mist spraying out of his mouth. The cruel muscles of his forearms bulged under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt, the toes of his boots flexing. “Your teacher says here, ‘Richard doesn’t get along well with the other students. He fails to participate in class activities.’ Now what kind of horseshit is that?”
I mumbled something, afraid to meet his fiery eyes. I didn’t know he could read that well. I’d never heard him use the word “participate.” He was clearly far more dangerous than I’d ever considered. I sensed my friend fluttering uneasily in the Bone House like a bat at an Alaskan sundown.
“It figures I’d turn out a problem child. A fucking bad seed. Your asshole Granddad can rest in peace now that the Coldiron curse has been safely passed on to the next generation.”
My only memory of Granddad had been seeing him laid out in that coffin the year before. I had taken my place in line and walked past him, the way Mother told me. She held my hand. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, but my friend in the Bone House said I should pretend to be sad.
I recognized Granddad’s face from some of the blurry photographs that had fallen out of one of Father’s airplane books. He had mean eyes, like he was mad at the camera, but his skin was smooth. He was wearing a blue uniform with medals pinned on his chest. But in the coffin he was all wrinkled and his skin was as dull as wax fruit and, of course, his eyes were closed. The cloth on the inside of the coffin was purple, the color of a king’s robe. He smelled like chemicals and bad bacon.
Mother said, “Doesn’t he look so good? Like he’s sleeping and he could just sit up and talk.”
I didn’t want that to happen. I stared at the little wires of white hair that stuck out of his ear. Some people in the back of the room were crying, and I looked at Father’s face. It was red, maybe because his necktie was choking him. That was the only time I ever saw him wear a tie, at least until he was in a coffin himself.
Father looked a little like the man in the coffin. They both had the same sharp nose and round chin, just like me. But unlike Granddad, Father was smiling a little bit, a tiny smile that barely turned up at the corners of his mouth, the kind you get when you’re doing something fun that you know is wrong. The man in the coffin, his mouth had fallen in a little, as if he had swallowed his teeth. He didn’t look like a man who carried secret curses, at least not anymore. Unless they were in one of his pockets that I couldn’t see. You know how people get when they’re hiding something good.
I wondered what kind of curse Granddad had passed down. I had heard about the Mummy’s Curse from peeking into the living room at late-night movies. I pictured Granddad coming back wrapped in rotted rags, reaching out with hands like mittens to get Father, to squeeze that little smile off his face. Was it hope or fear that rattled in my chest at the thought, and why did laughter echo from the Bone House?
Maybe that’s why Father was so angry, because he couldn’t escape the curse, and it would someday track him down. But then, Father didn’t need an excuse to be angry. A barking dog could set him off, or a flat tire in the rain, or that time the blow torch didn’t get hot enough. But I don’t like to remember any of that, so let’s get back to the report card.
Always good to know that we aren’t alone in asking the above-linked question a few days ago with regard to the several publishers’ latest adventure in the retail pricing of ebooks. Kindle Nation UK citizens have our back, and we have yours.
Many UK readers are doing more than just asking. They are protesting the imposition of agency model price-fixing schemes on the UK Kindle Store.
How? They are giving bad reviews to books whose prices are doubling or, in some cases, tripling.
From the U.K. Guardian’snewsdesk: “Authors found themselves in the firing line this week as fans furious at sudden rises in Amazon’sKindle prices protested by giving their books one-star reviews on the retailer’s website.”
Iain Banks, Stephen King, Maeve Binchy, Elizabeth Buchan and Michael McIntyre are among the “victims.”
“The Kindle price for this book is absurd. I suggest people do not buy any version of this book until the publisher stops this farce,” wrote one reviewer of a Stephen King title.
Kindle customers are loyal, but they are also angry, and they are entitled to be frustrated with Amazon discounts that are disappearing from the Kindle storefront.
“Many digital editions now cost the same as printed books, with some costing more. Readers responded angrily. Among more than 600 comments on theKindle forum at Amazon.co.uk were many accusing the publishers of greed,” the Guardian reports.
Wow, the genius of this desicion is simply staggering. They have devised a way to dig their graves even faster! Impressive. But what is really impressive is that they have now given the consumer greater power to speak with their book-buying dollar or pound. Hmmm…Do I want to spend $20 on an ebook from Penguin or buy 2-6 equally enjoyable ebooks from other publishers? Tough decision.
And those poor author “victims” who are reaping the reward of 1-star reviews and lower royalties as a result of their publishers’ greed might do well to study the wisdom of authors like Jennifer Becton, J.A. Konrath and even the Ian Fleming estate who have taken steps to build positive relationships with readers — while earning higher royalties and far more positive review ratings — by dropping the intermediation of traditional publishers altogether. Becton’s novel Charlotte Collins: A Continuation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice has a 5-star rating and a nice price in the Kindle Store, and she makes more for each copy sold than many bestselling traditionally published novelists.
If you loved our past Free Book Alerts for Alan Jacobson’s Velocity and/or The 7th Victim, you’ll be as pleased as I am about today’s latest addition to our Free Book Alert listings….
But first, a word from … Today’s Sponsor
(Ed. Note: I’ve read a lot of gritty, stunningly realistic first-person narratives of the seamy, seedy side of urban life, and even lived some. Usually, if the material is great, I lower the bar a bit with regard to literary expectations and still enjoy and am enriched by what I am reading. But every now and then we come across someone with an amazing story to tell, and real gifts as a writer. Here’s a case in point: Daniel B. Silver. Don’t get me wrong: he’s not Jane Austen or Henry James. But he can flat out write. If this was 1956 and someone smart put Cop – A Novel into the hands of Lawrence Ferlinghetti or Gregory Corso and they read it, the inevitable result would be that they’d be calling him the Kop Kerouac and they’d be getting him to read at City Lights Bookstore and Allen Ginsburg would be trying to…. Never mind, and please pardon my lapse into time travel, but this is just a great piece of writing and a brilliant, funny, dark look into the realities of a cop’s life. Check out the FREE sample, but don’t be surprised if you end up buying the book. And reading it. And loving it. –S.W.)
Six straight 5-star reviews from Amazon reviewers!
Author and law enforcement officer Daniel Silver tells the story of a tattooed punk rocker turned rookie San Francisco policeman, Dougie Cohen…. In his first year on the job, the stresses, horrors and frustrations, Dougie encounters take their toll on his patience, health, sanity and love life. Dougie struggles with night terrors, addiction, disease and the loss of his former self to his new police persona. Dougie is on a collision course with the reality of urban law enforcement. He’ll either break, or accept the fundamentals of what it means to be a real cop.
Click here to download Cop – A Novelor a free sample to your Kindle, iPad, iPhone, iPod Touch, BlackBerry, Android-compatible, PC or Mac and start reading within 60 seconds!
Just use the slider at right of your screen below to scroll through a complete, updated list of free contemporary Kindle titles, and click on an icon like this one (at right) to read a free sample right here in your browser! Titles are sorted in reverse chronological order so you can easily see new freebies!