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At forty years old, Jessica Martinelli’s life is in a rut. She is in a marriage with no passion and a job she can no longer stomach. She wishes that things were different, but fears the risk involved in upsetting the balance she has managed to strike for so many years. With the support of her family and friends, Jess makes the choice to begin an unorthodox journey to find some meaning in her empty existence – a journey that leads to new opportunities as well as surprising developments around every turn, including an unexpected chance at love.
If you think cats and water don't mix, think again. Plunge into worlds of piratical cats: some selfish, some mischievous, all fond of hitting the catnip stash. From ships on the deep blue sea, to ships flying through the depths of space, and even visiting from beyond the veil, these cats are determined and on a mission. Featuring thirteen "tails" of adventure-loving cats, puns, and fun by: Megan Fennell; S.G. Wong; Rebecca Brae; Grace Bridges; Lizz Donnelly; Blake Liddell; Frances Pauli; JB Riley; Joseph Halden; Leslie Van Zwol; Krista D. Ball; Chadwick Ginther; Rose Strickman; and Beth Cato.
Which street racer really controls the strip? An award-winning YA novel full of fast cars, burn-offs and an unwritten code of loyalty. 'Thunder Road' . You find it in any city after the cops are in bed. It's where street racers go to test their machines - and their nerve. For me it was ... the steep rising pitch of the turbo, the screaming tyres and curtain of white smoke hanging behind me: all the stuff that spells street racing.' Trace is 19 and has grown out of small-town ways. He's hungry for more. In Auckland he hooks up with Devon, a guy with the Midas touch, who introduces Trace to burn-offs, big city style. Soon everything is smoking. There is a code with drivers: you don't criticise and you don't show fear. When Trace falls for a girl even Devon says is out of his league, loyalties are stretched. Then Devon hits on a scheme for hauling in cash. Soon enough he and Trace find out who really controls the strip. As the underworld closes in, it looks like their friendship is heading for burn-out. Menacing and suspenseful - a gripping novel from a remarkable talent which won the of the NZ Post Children's Book Awards Young Adult Fiction category in 2004.
In a flash, the world Ted Callan knew exploded. The fire on the patch had burned everything to the ground, including his marriage. Now he's on the road looking for a fresh start. What he finds is a mysterious young woman named Tilda who tells him he's destined to be a hero or die a quick and painful death.When three stout men break into his hotel room, bind him to the bed and carve his skin with a stylus it appears she was right. The next thing Ted knows, his body is covered in an elaborate norse tattoo, complete with the power of the Gods. As he seeks out the three men who assaulted him, Ted learns that the creatures of Norse mythology walk in the world of humankind and some of them want to see it burn.Accompanied by the trickster Loki and the bequiling Tilda, Ted wants nothing more than to have his old life back. No more tattoos. No more smart-ass Gods. No more mystic powers. The problem is, if he succeeds, it might just be the end of the world.
When Emmy Russo returns to high school in Moncks Corner, South Carolina after summer break, she discovers some changes. First: Mom has a boyfriend. Second: the cute new student, Charlie Fields, is a Rockabilly greaser with a gang who obeys his every command. Third: attractive Keir Harper wants to be more than just her best friend. And fourth: a perplexed Emmy soon finds herself drawn to two extremely different boys. How do you choose between sweet and smoldering? Then tragedy strikes on desolate Thunder Road. Strange things start happening, with Emmy in the middle of it all. Intent on finding the truth, she must fight for her heart, her life, maybe even her soul. Because someone wants to possess all of Emmy. And they will be together, no matter what the cost. For eternity.
From Thunder Road: I don’t know why we stared at that dead pterodactyl chick so long—there wasn’t anything particularly striking or even gross about it; there were no flies, for example, no maggots—just a couple of butterflies, one white and the other burnt orange, which matched the fading sunlight. Maybe it was our nonstop ride all the way from Biggs Junction near the Washington border to Multnomah Falls, which was closer to Portland (I mean, it’s a lot of work, peddling a BMX bicycle some 70-plus miles, even across level terrain). Or maybe it was how paper-thin the creature’s exsanguinous, oyster-white skin was, how almost translucent, or the way its little talons weren’t really talons at all but little hands, like a baby’s hands. All I remember for certain is how contemplative everyone seemed to get while looking down at it—how funereal; even elegiac—like we were saying goodbye to one of our own. All I remember for certain is something akin to holding vigil for a fellow traveler; which, in a very real sense, we were. “For him, the war is over,” I whispered—although I doubt anyone heard me over the crash and roar of the falls. “I wonder where Mom is …” “Not here, that’s for sure,” said Quint. “There are no nests.” I followed his gaze into the treetops and beyond, to the waterfall itself, which dashed and cascaded down the cliffs. “Weird. I mean—where the hell could it have come from?” “Maybe it came from up there,” said Jesse. “From the very top. There’s—there’s a platform up there, a wooden observation deck. We came here on a field trip once and hiked up to it. Be a good place to build a nest—real stable. And defensible.” I looked from one end of the concrete bridge—“Benson Bridge,” the sign had called it—which was closed off with cyclone fencing, to the other. “Speaking of which, this bridge looks pretty defensible—don’t you think?” I peered off the way we had come. “Only one side to protect; we can take turns standing watch … I mean, it may not be the Ritz but—what do you say?” We looked around and then at each other. “Hell, I’m in,” said Quint. “We can even build a fire and maybe eat something—something hot, I mean. It’ll be just like—it’ll be just like Camp Courage!” I couldn’t help but to notice he’d stopped short of saying “home,” and a quick glance at Jesse confirmed he’d noticed it too; although whether he’d done so because his own home life had sucked or because he’d understood—in that moment—that, because of the Flashback, we’d never see home again, I don’t know. “Sure, why not,” said Jesse. “We can heat up that beef stew, the one we were saving for Portland. We’re close enough.” He shrugged off his pack and spear and laid down his bike. “And besides, it’ll lighten my load.” He dug out the can of Dinty Moore stew and paused, looking at it. “Seems … almost wasteful, though … doesn’t it? I mean … you’d like to think, you’d like to think nothing was born … just to lay there and rot, you know?” We all turned to look at the bird. “Yeah,” said Quint. “I mean, it’s like God laid it out there just for us, and here we are wanting to eat something from a can.” I got off my bike and reached for my pocketknife—touched its smooth, imitation-wood handle. “We’re going to have to learn how to hunt eventually, I suppose. I mean—” “I already know how to hunt,” said Quint. “And to clean and dress a—” “I know how to do that, too.” He held out his hand for my knife—which I gave over to him: slowly, reluctantly. “And since both you pussies missed man-school; I guess I’ll be the one to have to show you.” Jesse looked at me and then back to Quint. “Let me guess. Because—attributes.” “Because—attributes,” said Quint, and got off his bike.
The meth war has exploded in East Tennessee, pitting a Mexican drug cartel against the Tennessee mountain men for control of the lucrative drug market. State, local, and federal law enforcement agencies adopt a "hands-off" policy to the carnage and, instead, employ Bradley International Security as their surrogate operative. Blood flows into streets and on the mountainsides as the struggle of cultures culminates to a cataclysmic conclusion. B. J. Quill, former military intelligence officer and combat veteran, heads up the surveillance and counter insurgency operations for Bradley—only to find out he has been set up by his own organization. Curt Townsend, respected businessman and community leader, is in fact the de facto godfather of the mountain men in the drug trade business. Working in conjunction with Leroy McBride, they have fashioned a lethal but loosely knit group of the McBride clan, their kinfolk, and other related mountain men. "Don Richie" Montoto is the acknowledged titular leader of the Mexican interlopers. With his brothers, other relatives, and blindly loyal pistoleros, they represent power, organization, and sophistication. The seesaw battle for territorial dominance grows increasingly violent with deadly reprisals as both groups attempt to destroy the others viability. But the stakes are high and the rewards substantial for the eventual victor.
In a world beyond imagination, they would stand by each other no matter what ... After a devastating time-storm called the Flashback eliminates most the population and recolonizes the world with prehistoric flora and fauna, three boys bearing a powerful talisman set out on an impossible quest. An all-new post-apocalyptic adventure for mature young adults set in the same world as Flashback, A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse, Ank and Williams, A Reign of Thunder and The Lost Country. From Thunder Road: “Jesse! Quint! Long-fuses!” I rolled the 50-pound bag off the Talon. “And remember: Straight for the bikes!” (I was referring, of course, to the special fuses we’d made; which—it was hoped—would provide cover after we left.) “That’s a negative, hombre,” shouted Quint. “I’m fresh out of lighter fluid over here.” He quickly added: “Jesse! Get over here!” “No!” I barked. “Belay that order! Keep up your barrage ...” And I was on my way, bounding for Quint and holding up my lighter, shaking it, impatiently, as he turned and just stared at it—disoriented, shell-shocked. (Some of my rockets had—after ricocheting about wildly—blown up right next to him.) “Take it!” I snapped—even as a ghost-white snout lunged at him through the window, lunged at him and crashed to a halt—snarling, gnashing its teeth; at which Quint spun upon it and clocked it in the nose, hard, and just kept clocking—until it yelped and beat a retreat. “Okay,” I said, “go, go, go!” And he took the lighter. And then I could only return to the Talon and snatch it up off the floor, noting its fading color, its waning strength, before swinging it around my head and barking, “There’s never going to be a better time. How much more?” “Just about,” said Jesse, and continued: “Just—okay! Okay, I’m clear!” I looked at Quint, who was still lighting. “All right, forget it, let ‘em go …” He moved the lighter from one fuse to the next. “Hold on,” he said, “just hold on …” At which we could only watch, rocking on our feet, hopping up and down, until he lit the last fuse and jumped down from the bucket. And then we were hustling—double-timing it, as they say—up the stairs and out of the diner, where not a single predator could be seen. Then we were scrambling for our bikes; our pinto horses of plastic and steel; which gleamed like salvation even as the long-fused rockets began to explode and the Nano-As, active but in hiding, began to whimper and howl. That’s when I knew it; when I could feel it in my bones. That we’d passed our first test; survived our baptism by fire. That’s when I knew that our journey would be complete—as we sat on our bikes with our spears canted at our backs (like the bows of Indian braves, I fancied) and, having returned the Talon to its canister, watched the last of the fireworks as they burst and boomed above. Watched, brooding, as they turned the sky first white then green then blue, and finally, a deep, lingering red, after which, taking a cue from our fellow animals, we began to howl ourselves.
Evoking Stephen King's terrifying novelThe Gunslinger and the epic adventure film Cowboys and Aliens, Tamara Thorne delivers a tantalizing blend of horror and Western SciFi--in an arid, dangerous world from which there is no escape. . . The California desert town of Madelyn boasts all sorts of attractions for visitors. Join the audience at the El Dorado Ranch for a Wild West show. Take a ride through the haunted mine at Madland Amusement Park. Scan the horizon for UFOs. Find religion with the Prophet's Apostles--and be prepared for the coming apocalypse. Because the apocalypse has arrived in Madelyn. People are disappearing. Strange shapes and lights dart across the night sky. And a young man embraces a violent destiny--inspired by a serial killer whose reign of terror was buried years ago. But each of these events is merely setting the stage for the final confrontation. A horror of catastrophic proportions is slouching toward Madelyn in the form of four horsemen--and they're picking up speed. . . "Tamara Thorne has become one of those must-read horror writers. From her strong characters to her unique use of the supernatural, anything she writes entertains as much as it chills." --Horror World "Tamara Thorne is the new wave of horror--her novels are fascinating rides into the heart of terror and mayhem." --Douglas Clegg
Thunder Road by James Axler released on Sep 01, 2008 is available now for purchase.