Underground* *The author of the diary and the diary itself are, of course, imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the writer of these notes not only may, but positively must, exist in our society, when we consider the circumstances in the midst of which our society is formed. I have tried to expose to the view of the public more distinctly than is commonly done, one of the characters of the recent past. He is one of the representatives of a generation still living. In this fragment, entitled "Underground," this person introduces himself and his views, and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owing to which he has made his appearance and was bound to make his appearance in our midst. In the second fragment there are added the actual notes of this person concerning certain events in his life.--AUTHOR'S NOTE. II am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse! I have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!) When petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy. I almost did succeed. For the most part they were all timid people--of course, they were petitioners. But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in my youth, though. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way.

The stories were written when Irish nationalism was at its peak, and a search for a national identity and purpose was raging; at a crossroads of history and culture, Ireland was jolted by various converging ideas and influences. They centre on Joyce's idea of an epiphany: a moment where a character experiences self-understanding or illumination. Many of the characters in Dubliners later appear in minor roles in Joyce's novel Ulysses. The initial stories in the collection are narrated by child protagonists, and as the stories continue, they deal with the lives and concerns of progressively older people. This is in line with Joyce's tripartite division of the collection into childhood, adolescence and maturity. THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said to me: "I am not long for this world," and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to some former remark of his: "No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was something queer... there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion...." He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery. "I have my own theory about it," he said. "I think it was one of those... peculiar cases.... But it's hard to say...." He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My uncle saw me staring and said to me:"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear." "Who?" said I."Father Flynn.""Is he dead?" ? ABOUT AUTHOR: ? James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (1882 – 1941) was an Irish novelist and poet, considered to be one of the most influential writers in the modernist avant-garde of the early 20th century. Joyce is best known for Ulysses (1922), a landmark work in which the episodes of Homer's Odyssey are paralleled in an array of contrasting literary styles, perhaps most prominent among these the stream of consciousness technique he perfected. Other major works are the short-story collection Dubliners (1914), and the novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and Finnegans Wake (1939). His complete oeuvre also includes three books of poetry, a play, occasional journalism, and his published letters.

36 тижн?в у списку бестселер?в The New York Times! Евел?н пережива? глибоку особисту кризу. Вона знайомиться з? старенькою Н?нн?, яка, попри важку долю, не втрача? жаги до життя. Н?нн? розпов?да? Евел?н ?стор?? ?хнього м?стечка: про д?вчину, яка п?сля загибел? брата знаходить сили жити дал?; про розбите серце красун? Рут; про мандр?вного роб?тника, який закохався в Рут; про безроб?тних, яких у кафе ?Зупинка? годували безкоштовно... Ц? ?стор?? мають таку силу, що зм?нюють на краще життя тих, хто ?х чита?. 36 tizhn?v u spisku bestseler?v The New York Times! Evel?n perezhiva? gliboku osobistu krizu. Vona znajomit'sja z? staren'koju N?nn?, jaka, popri vazhku dolju, ne vtracha? zhagi do zhittja. N?nn? rozpov?da? Evel?n ?stor?? ?hn'ogo m?stechka: pro d?vchinu, jaka p?slja zagibel? brata znahodit' sili zhiti dal?; pro rozbite serce krasun? Rut; pro mandr?vnogo rob?tnika, jakij zakohavsja v Rut; pro bezrob?tnih, jakih u kafe ?Zupinka? goduvali bezkoshtovno... C? ?stor?? majut' taku silu, shho zm?njujut' na krashhe zhittja tih, hto ?h chita?.

Minden bonyodalom azzal kezd?dik, hogy Ríviai Geralt kardjainak rejtélyes módon lába kél. Ezt k?veti egy démonidéz? rejtélye, egy furcsa hajóút és egy meglehet?sen fordulatos királyi esküv?. A régi barát, K?k?rcsin szokás szerint most is Geralt ?segítségére siet”, akár akarja a vaják, akár nem. Felbukkan egy varázslón? is, aki megpróbálja irányítani Geraltot, szokás szerint. ?s ismét akadnak olyanok, akik a vaják útjába állnak, szokás szerint. Ez a k?tet Sapkowski utolsó regénye a Vaják-világban, és a sagához csak k?nny? szállal kapcsolódik, de a szerz? nem okoz csalódást: ismét egyszerre szembesülünk népek sorsával és az egyes ember drámájával, de mindezt ismét olyan gazdag képzeletvilággal ?tv?zve és olyan humorral tálalva, ami letehetetlenné teszi a k?tetet. Szokás szerint.

In these times of ours, though concerning the exact year there is no need to be precise, a boat of dirty and disreputable appearance, with two figures in it, floated on the Thames, between Southwark bridge which is of iron, and London Bridge which is of stone, as an autumn evening was closing in. The figures in this boat were those of a strong man with ragged grizzled hair and a sun-browned face, and a dark girl of nineteen or twenty, sufficiently like him to be recognizable as his daughter. The girl rowed, pulling a pair of sculls very easily; the man, with the rudder-lines slack in his hands, and his hands loose in his waistband, kept an eager look out. He had no net, hook, or line, and he could not be a fisherman; his boat had no cushion for a sitter, no paint, no inscription, no appliance beyond a rusty boathook and a coil of rope, and he could not be a waterman; his boat was too crazy and too small to take in cargo for delivery, and he could not be a lighterman or river-carrier; there was no clue to what he looked for, but he looked for something, with a most intent and searching gaze. The tide, which had turned an hour before, was running down, and his eyes watched every little race and eddy in its broad sweep, as the boat made slight head-way against it, or drove stern foremost before it, according as he directed his daughter by a movement of his head. She watched his face as earnestly as he watched the river. But, in the intensity of her look there was a touch of dread or horror. Allied to the bottom of the river rather than the surface, by reason of the slime and ooze with which it was covered, and its sodden state, this boat and the two figures in it obviously were doing something that they often did, and were seeking what they often sought. Half savage as the man showed, with no covering on his matted head, with his brown arms bare to between the elbow and the shoulder, with the loose knot of a looser kerchief lying low on his bare breast in a wilderness of beard and whisker, with such dress as he wore seeming to be made out of the mud that begrimed his boat, still there was a business-like usage in his steady gaze. So with every lithe action of the girl, with every turn of her wrist, perhaps most of all with her look of dread or horror; they were things of usage. 'Keep her out, Lizzie. Tide runs strong here. Keep her well afore the sweep of it.' Trusting to the girl's skill and making no use of the rudder, he eyed the coming tide with an absorbed attention. So the girl eyed him. But, it happened now, that a slant of light from the setting sun glanced into the bottom of the boat, and, touching a rotten stain there which bore some resemblance to the outline of a muffled human form, coloured it as though with diluted blood. This caught the girl's eye, and she shivered. 'What ails you?' said the man, immediately aware of it, though so intent on the advancing waters; 'I see nothing afloat.' The red light was gone, the shudder was gone, and his gaze, which had come back to the boat for a moment, travelled away again. Wheresoever the strong tide met with an impediment, his gaze paused for an instant. At every mooring-chain and rope, at every stationery boat or barge that split the current into a broad-arrowhead, at the offsets from the piers of Southwark Bridge, at the paddles of the river steamboats as they beat the filthy water, at the floating logs of timber lashed together lying off certain wharves, his shining eyes darted a hungry look. After a darkening hour or so, suddenly the rudder-lines tightened in his hold, and he steered hard towards the Surrey shore. Always watching his face, the girl instantly answered to the action in her sculling; presently the boat swung round, quivered as from a sudden jerk, and the upper half of the man was stretched out over the stern.

In 1861 Captain Grant succeeded Captain Burgess on Matinicus, taking his son with him as assistant. The old keeper left Abby on the rock to instruct the newcomers in their duties, and she performed the task so well that young Grant fell in love with her, and asked her to become his wife. Soon after their marriage she was appointed an assistant keeper. A few years later the husband was made keeper and the wife assistant keeper of White Head, another light on the Maine coast. There they remained until the spring of 1890, when they removed to Middleborough, Mass., intending to pass the balance of their days beyond sight and hearing of the rocks and the waves. But the hunger which the sea breeds in its adopted children was still strong within them, and the fall of 1892 found them again on the coast of Maine, this time at Portland, where the husband again entered the lighthouse establishment, working in the engineers' department of the first lighthouse district. With them until his death lived Captain Grant, who in the closing months of 1890, being then aged eighty-five, retired from the position of keeper of Matinicus light, which he had held for nearly thirty years. Not less lonely, but far more perilous than the life of the keepers of a light like that on Matinicus is the lot of the crew of the South Shoal lightship, whose position twenty-six miles off Sankaty Head, Nantucket Island, makes it the most exposed light-station in the world. Anchored so far out at sea, it is only during the months of summer and autumn that the lighthouse tender ventures to visit it, and its crew from December to May of each year are wholly cut off from communication with the land. It is this, however, that makes the South Shoal lightship a veritable protecting angel of the deep, for it stands guard not only over the treacherous New South Shoal, near which it is anchored, but over twenty-six miles of rips and reefs between it and the Nantucket shore—a wide-reaching ocean graveyard, where bleach the bones of more than a half thousand wrecked and forgotten vessels. The lightship is a stanchly built two-hulled schooner of 275 tons burden, 103 feet long over all, equipped with fore-and-aft lantern masts 71 feet high, and with two masts for sails, each 42 feet high. The lanterns are octagons of glass in copper frames, so arranged that they can be lowered into houses built around the masts. In the forward part of the ship is a huge fog bell, swung ten feet above the deck, which, when foggy weather prevails, as it frequently does for weeks at a time, is kept tolling day and night. A two-inch chain fastened to a "mushroom" anchor weighing upward of three tons holds the vessel in eighteen fathoms of water, but this, so fiercely do the waves beat against it in winter, has not prevented her from going adrift many times. She was two weeks at sea on one of these occasions, and on another she came to anchor in New York Harbor. Life on the South Shoal lightship is at all times a hard and trying one, and, as a matter of fact, the crew are instructed not to expose themselves to danger outside their special line of duty. This, however, does not deter them from frequently risking their lives in rescuing others, and when, several years ago, the City of Newcastle went ashore on one of the shoals near the lightship, all hands, twenty-seven in number, were saved by the South Shoal crew and kept aboard of her over two weeks, until the story of the wreck was signalled to a passing vessel. Isaac H. Grant holds a silver medal given him by the Government for rescuing two men from drowning while he was keeper at White Head; while Frederick Hatch, keeper of the Breakwater station at Cleveland was awarded the gold bar. The last mentioned badge of honor is granted only to one who has twice distinguished himself by a special act of bravery. It was given Hatch in the winter of 1898.

Жасмин, двадцатичетырехлетняя красавица-американка, приезжает в Англию на Рождество погостить у родственников. Герцог Харли подарил ей жеребца, и она решает прокатится верхом. Но из-за разыгравшейся метели ее едва не сбивает машина, за рулем которой сидел граф Сомертон. Через некоторое время, волею судьбы, Жасмин опять встретится с графом, который приютит ее в своем замке после падения с лошади… Эта встреча навсегда изменит их жизнь и подарит им настоящую любовь… Zhasmin, dvadcatichetyrehletnjaja krasavica-amerikanka, priezzhaet v Angliju na Rozhdestvo pogostit' u rodstvennikov. Gercog Harli podaril ej zherebca, i ona reshaet prokatitsja verhom. No iz-za razygravshejsja meteli ee edva ne sbivaet mashina, za rulem kotoroj sidel graf Somerton. Cherez nekotoroe vremja, voleju sud'by, Zhasmin opjat' vstretitsja s grafom, kotoryj prijutit ee v svoem zamke posle padenija s loshadi… Jeta vstrecha navsegda izmenit ih zhizn' i podarit im nastojashhuju ljubov'…

нод дитяч мр збуваються. Дан Таарт керу найбльшою в кран залзницею. Генк Рарден запроваджу революцйну технологю в металург. Еллс Ваятт перетворю Богом забуту землю на промисловий рай. У хнх руках — наймогутнш корпорац, що вд них залежить доля крани. Вони — сучасн атланти. хня релгя — економка, хня вдповдальнсть — тягар усього свту. Колись вони мряли змнити життя суспльства, а тепер м доводиться чути, що вся хня праця лише помножу несправедливсть. Що всм людям потрбн однаков права можливост. Спершу атланти лише знизували плечима. Але настане той день, коли м остаточно набридне тримати цей свт на свох плечах. вони пдуть.

Soman Chainani els? regénye, a New York Times bestseller Jók és Rosszak Iskolája folytatásában Sophie és Agatha visszatér Gavaldonba, és boldogan élnek saját világukban, ám az élet nem olyan tündérmese, amilyennek képzelték… Agatha már úgy érzi, bárcsak más boldog befejezést kívánt volna a mesének, ám ekkor véletlenül megtalálja és kinyitja a Jók és Rosszak Iskolájának kapuját. A lányok azzal szembesülnek, hogy az a világ, amit az els? tanévben tapasztaltak, megváltozott. A boszorkányok és a hercegn?k a Lányok Iskolájában laknak. Elhatározták, hogy kirekesztik életükb?l a hercegeket. Tedros és a fiúk a Rossz Iskolája régi tornyainak lakói lettek. A két iskola k?z?tt háború van kit?r?ben. Vajon Agatha és Sophie helyre tudják állítani a békét? Vajon Sophie jó tud maradni úgy, hogy Tedros állandóan üld?zi? ?s kihez húz Agatha szíve? A barátn?jéhez vagy a hercegéhez? Soman Chainani kül?nleges világot teremtett. A Newbery-díj legutóbbi jutalmazottja, Ann M. Martin ?páratlan mesének” nevezi, amely ?csupa romantika, varázslat, humor és rejtvény. Legszívesebben egyhuzamban olvasnánk végig.”

When does life begin?... A well-known book says "forty". A well-known radio program says "eighty". Some folks say it's mental, others say it's physical. But take the strange case of Mel Carlson who gave a lot of thought to the matter. Mel felt as if he were floating on clouds in the deepest, most intense dark he had ever experienced. He tried opening his eyes but nothing happened, only a sharp pain. Little bits of memory flashed back and he tried to figure out what could have happened, where he was. The last thing he could remember was the little lab hidden back in the mountains in an old mine tunnel. Remote, but only an hour's drive from the city. What had he been doing? Oh yes, arguing with Neil again. He even recalled the exact words."Damn it, Mel," his partner had said. "We've gone about as far as possible working with animal brains. We've got to get a human one." "We can't," Mel had disagreed. "There'd be enough of an uproar if the papers got hold of what we've been doing with animals. If we did get someone in a hospital to agree to let us use his brain on death, they would close us up tighter than a drum.""But our lab's too well hidden, they'd never know." "It wouldn't work anyway. The brain might be damaged for lack of oxygen and all of our work would go for nothing. Worse, it might indicate failure where a fresh, healthy brain would mean success.""We'll never know unless we try," said Neil almost violently, dark eyes glittering. "Our funds aren't going to last forever."

To the irreverent—and which of us will claim entire exemption from that comfortable classification—there is something very amusing in the attitude of the orthodox criticism toward Bernard Shaw. He so obviously disregards all the canons and unities and other things which every well-bred dramatist is bound to respect that his work is really unworthy of serious criticism (orthodox). Indeed he knows no more about the dramatic art than, according to his own story in "The Man of Destiny," Napoleon at Tavazzano knew of the Art of War. But both men were successes each in his way—the latter won victories and the former gained audiences, in the very teeth of the accepted theories of war and the theatre. Shaw does not know that it is unpardonable sin to have his characters make long speeches at one another, apparently thinking that this embargo applies only to long speeches which consist mainly of bombast and rhetoric. There never was an author who showed less predilection for a specific medium by which to accomplish his results. He recognized, early in his days, many things awry in the world and he assumed the task of mundane reformation with a confident spirit. It seems such a small job at twenty to set the times aright. He began as an Essayist, but who reads essays now-a-days—he then turned novelist with no better success, for no one would read such preposterous stuff as he chose to emit. He only succeeded in proving that absolutely rational men and women—although he has created few of the latter—can be most extremely disagreeable to our conventional way of thinking. As a last resort, he turned to the stage, not that he cared for the dramatic art, for no man seems to care less about "Art for Art's sake," being in this a perfect foil to his brilliant compatriot and contemporary, Wilde. He cast his theories in dramatic forms merely because no other course except silence or physical revolt was open to him. For a long time it seemed as if this resource too was doomed to fail him. But finally he has attained a hearing and now attempts at suppression merely serve to advertise their victim. It will repay those who seek analogies in literature to compare Shaw with Cervantes. After a life of heroic endeavor, disappointment, slavery, and poverty, the author of "Don Quixote" gave the world a serious work which caused to be laughed off the world's stage forever the final vestiges of decadent chivalry. The institution had long been outgrown, but its vernacular continued to be the speech and to express the thought "of the world and among the vulgar," as the quaint, old novelist puts it, just as to-day the novel intended for the consumption of the unenlightened must deal with peers and millionaires and be dressed in stilted language. Marvellously he succeeded, but in a way he least intended. We have not yet, after so many years, determined whether it is a work to laugh or cry over. "It is our joyfullest modern book," says Carlyle, while Landor thinks that "readers who see nothing more than a burlesque in 'Don Quixote' have but shallow appreciation of the work." Shaw in like manner comes upon the scene when many of our social usages are outworn. He sees the fact, announces it, and we burst into guffaws. The continuous laughter which greets Shaw's plays arises from a real contrast in the point of view of the dramatist and his audiences. When Pinero or Jones describes a whimsical situation we never doubt for a moment that the author's point of view is our own and that the abnormal predicament of his characters appeals to him in the same light as to his audience. With Shaw this sense of community of feeling is wholly lacking. He describes things as he sees them, and the house is in a roar. Who is right If we were really using our own senses and not gazing through the glasses of convention and romance and make-believe, should we see things as Shaw does Must it not cause Shaw to doubt his own or the public's sanity to hear audiences laughing boisterously over tragic situations And yet, if they did not come to laugh, they would not come at all. Mockery is the price he must pay for a hearing. Or has he calculated to a nicety the power of reaction Does he seek to drive us to aspiration by the portrayal of sordidness, to disinterestedness by the picture of selfishness, to illusion by disillusionment It is impossible to believe that he is unconscious of the humor of his dramatic situations, yet he stoically gives no sign. He even dares the charge, terrible in proportion to its truth, which the most serious of us shrinks from—the lack of a sense of humor. Men would rather have their integrity impugned. In "Arms and the Man" the subject which occupies the dramatist's attention is that survival of barbarity—militarism—which raises its horrid head from time to time to cast a doubt on the reality of our civilization. No more hoary superstition survives than that the donning of a uniform changes the nature of the wearer. This

A velencei bába népszer? szerz?je új k?nyvében a 16. századi Konstantinápolyba repíti az olvasót. Hanna és Izsák sok-sok akadályt küzdenek le, hogy új életet kezdjenek az oszmán birodalomban. Izsák selyemkészítésbe kezd, Hanna pedig, aki hamar elnyeri a f?város legjobb bábája elismerést, a szultán fény?z? háremében kap megbízatást. Egy éjszaka Hannát a szultán palotájába hívatják. Ekkor találkozik el?sz?r a gy?ny?r? Leával, akit elraboltak, hogy a szultán ágyasa legyen. ?m a lány súlyos titkot cipel magával. Ha fény derül rá, Leára sz?rny? sors vár. Hanna mindent elk?vet, hogy segítsen a lánynak, ám ezzel nem csak a saját, de a családja életét is kockára teszi. Mindennek tetejébe házukba egy elb?v?l? idegen n? állít be váratlanul, és kis híján romba d?nti Hanna családi boldogságát. Nem kevesebbet akar, mint a férjét és a szemük fényét, a kis Matteót.

A k?tet Poe fantasztikus elbeszéléseit-novelláit gy?jti egybe, olyan klasszikus és ?r?k darabokat, mint A kút és az inga, a Metzengerstein, vagy a T?rténet a Rongyos Hegyekb?l. Valamennyit Babits Mihály m?gonddal és szép magyar nyelvre ültetett értelmezésében adjuk k?zre.

Iubire ?n singur?tate. Care va fi pedeapsa unei mame care, urm?ndu-?i pasiunile nebune, ??i neglijeaz? fiul? Jon ?i mama sa, Vibeke, tr?iesc ?ntr-o mic? localitate norvegian?, cu nop?i lungi ?i reci, care-i aduc copilului groaznice co?maruri ?i-i alimenteaz? femeii fantasmele erotice. Urm?ndu-?i setea de iubire, Vibeke ignor? dragostea propriului fiu, care va ajunge s? r?t?ceasc?, la propriu ?i la figurat prin gerurile Norvegiei. O poveste cu suspans, despre compromis, singur?tate ?i nevoia puternic? de iubire.

Atanar a civilizációtól távol, egy gyors folyású, hegyi patak partján tér magához. Megd?bbenve tapasztalja, hogy emlékeit elvesztette, eddigi életéb?l semmire nem emlékszik. Ki ?? Honnan j?tt? Hová tart? A múlt felderítésére egyetlen esélye egy r?vid levél, mely átázva kerül el? mellénye zsebéb?l. Ennek nyomán elindul, hogy felderítse múltját, ám hamarosan megtapasztalja, hogy ez nem olyan egyszer? dolog. ?tja során számtalan ellenséget, akadályt kell leküzdenie, mert ez a világ veszélyes, és a gyengék nem sokáig élnek. Azonban értékes barátokra is szert tesz kalandozásai során. ?s k?zben egy percre sem felejti el célját: felkutatni elveszett múltját. A nyomok végül egy távoli grófságba vezetnek, ahol furcsa dolgok t?rténnek…

Plays for Today by Women A wide-ranging collection of plays by women dealing with contemporary subjects such as sexual abuse, recession, war, poverty and the complexity of modern women’s lives. Many roles for women and girls provided. Suitable for study or for performance or as part of courses in Women’s Studies or Feminist Theatre Studies. All the plays have been produced and performed in the UK to acclaim and are written by commissioned playwrights. ? “The expanse of subjects this short collection covers shows that women are not just writing about the kitchen sink, the claim so often levelled. This collection (provides) a snapshot of an exciting time for female writers” ? @17percent ? The Plays For A Button ?by Rachel Barnett: comic two hander about two friends and the lengths one will go to, to remain best friends. Yours Abundantly, From Zimbabwe ?by Gillian Plowman: a middle-aged woman decides to leave her comfy life in the UK and work in a school in Zimbabwe. Welcome To Ramallah ?by Sonja Linden and Adah Kay: two Jewish sisters are forced to confront the reality of what their forefathers have done to the Palestinians. From The Mouths Of Mothers ?by Amanda Stuart Fisher: a verbatim drama detailing the distressing stories of mothers who learned that their child has been abused. The Awkward Squad ?by Karen Young: a three-generational drama involving Northern women who are trying to live and work in recessionary Britain. Sweet Cider ?by Emteaz Hussain: In a rundown park, two teenage runaways Tazeem and Nosheen hang out, chatting to the boys and an old bag lady, trying to reconcile being British with their Pakistani cultural traditions. ? About the editors Cheryl Robson ?is an award-winning playwright and publisher who founded Aurora Metro Books over 20 years ago to develop and publish new writers in drama and fiction. She also established The Virginia Prize for Fiction in 2009 to promote emerging women novelists. Previously, she worked for the BBC, ran a theatre company and taught in higher education. Rebecca Gillieron ?is an editor and musician with various releases on independent labels in the US and UK. Keen to raise the profile of women and the arts, she has worked in publishing for fifteen years moving from Virgin and Penguin Books into independent publishing via The Womens Press, Marion Boyars and now Aurora Metro Books.? ? ? ?

When Mandy’s car is stolen with her two young daughters inside, the police think it’s a car-jacking gone wrong, but she can’t forget the determined look in the man’s eyes as he drove away. Mandy and her husband, Nick, are on the verge of divorce and the kidnapping is a wake-up call. All of their differences and problems can’t stand in the way of a parent’s love. In order to find their children, they’ll have to forgive each other and learn to work together. But they don’t have years or even months to make this happen . . . according to the kidnapper, time is running out.? The first novella in the Silver Cascade Suspense series, Silver Cascade Secrets, is available when you sign up for Rachelle's VIP news. If you're interested, copy and paste this link into your browser http://rachellechristensen.com/free-book/

Cook delicious meals quickly! With Air Fryer You have ?more possibilities than ever to cook amazing healthy meals which everybody will love! Just download our new Air Fryer Cookbook. In? Air Fryer Cookbook , you'll get all the essentials you will need to cook great breakfast, lunch or dinner. Linda Croll has?tried more than 500 recipes and ?choose her favorite ?so now you don’t need to spend your time to find a new recipe, because best recipes are now in our Air Fryer Cookbook! You can use them every day or for special events because every recipe in ?this book is simple and healthy!

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said 'Bother!' and 'O blow!' and also 'Hang spring-cleaning!' and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gavelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, 'Up we go! Up we go!' till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow. 'This is fine!' he said to himself. 'This is better than whitewashing!' The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side. 'Hold up!' said an elderly rabbit at the gap. 'Sixpence for the privilege of passing by the private road!' He was bowled over in an instant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly from their holes to see what the row was about. 'Onion-sauce! Onion-sauce!' he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started grumbling at each other. 'How STUPID you are! Why didn't you tell him——' 'Well, why didn't YOU say——' 'You might have reminded him——' and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late, as is always the case. It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses, finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting—everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering 'whitewash!' he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog among all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.

After Beth’s car accident, the truth came out about why she pushed Jacob out of her life and she realized she made a terrible mistake. Jacob declared his love, Beth agreed to date, but this relationship has to be on her terms.? Beth witnessed Jacob’s bad side first-hand while working for him and trust needs to be rebuilt. Add to that the pressure of paparazzi, and she’s understandably gun-shy.? Jacob told Beth he loves her, but her feelings are still a mystery. Building a relationship requires something he’s never been good at—patience. Can he give her the time she needs to see he has changed, or will he push too hard for those three little words and drive her away? Loved is the fourth and last book in the My Once and Future Love Revisited series exploring Beth and Jacob’s relationship with all its joys, flaws, and heartache.? Contemporary Romance saga. This story is intended for readers over the age of 18 due to adult language, sexual content, and adult situations.

Strumming a harp while floating on a white cloud might be Paradise for some people, but it would bore others stiff. Given an unlimited chance to choose your ideal world, what would you specify—palaces or log cabins? I'll take beer, son, and thanks again for the offer. As you can see, I'm kinda down on my luck. I know what you're thinking, but I'm not really on the bum. I usually make out all right—nothing fancy, mind you, but it's a living. Odd jobs in the winter and spring, follow the harvests in the summer and fall. Things are slack right now.You? Electronics, huh? Used to know a fellow in electronics.... His name was Joe Shannon, used to work for Stellar Electric up in Fremont. Young fellow, not more'n twenty-five or so. Rail thin, wispy hair, serious look—you know, the one suit, absent-minded type. Joe was a brain. A triple-A, gold-plated, genuine genius. Had a wife named Marge. Not beautiful but pretty and a nice figure and a cook you never saw the likes of. Like I say, she was married to Joe but Joe was married to his work and after you'd been around a while, you could tell there was friction. But that ain't the beginning.