Saturday, June 14, 2014

Doubts from INSIDE/OUTSIDE by @JennyHayworth1 #Women #Memoir #Abuse

Imagine that someone you love dies. You no longer can see them, speak to them, or touch them or have any literal experience with them except within your mind and heart. This is what being disfellowshipped or disassociated from the Jehovah’s Witnesses means to those who are cut off. They are treated as if they are dead to those remaining in it.
When I was an active member of the Jehovah’s Witnesses and believed a hundred percent in it, I had always believed what had been taught to us from the platform by the elders and in The Watchtower magazine (published twice a month by The Watchtower Bible and Tract Society).
I believed that when baptised Jehovah’s Witnesses decided (because they had bad hearts) that they no longer wished to be Jehovah’s Witnesses, they would say to the elders that they no longer wished to be known as Jehovah’s Witnesses. It was a totally voluntary process, I was taught, and it occurred because these people wanted to do things that were condemned by Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Bible and so no longer wanted to continue being known as one. It was a voluntary separation on their part from the organisation even though they would realise it would cause enormous pain for their families.
Since these people knew that by choosing a lifestyle contrary to one Jehovah God wanted them to lead (as set forth by The Watchtower Society), they knew their families would have to cut them off in obedience to the scriptural direction given by the Apostle James on how to treat those who left the fold. This was to treat them as if they were “dog[s] returning to [their] vomit” as the scriptures put it.
The families would not be allowed to speak to them, eat with them, or greet them. In fact they were instructed to treat them as if they were no longer living. If their families did associate with them and didn’t repent for it after being given the opportunity to do so by loving elders who would try to turn their hearts back to obedience to God’s way, they also would be disfellowshipped.
The elders saw disassociation as a choice made by a baptised person even though both—disassociation and disfellowshipping—were treated in exactly the same way. Disfellowshipped ones might have just made a mistake and need to be punished for the behaviour in which they had engaged. So they were often seen as not having badhearts but as having been led astray or needing to be shocked into realising the seriousness of their actions. People could, however, commit any disfellowshipping sins, and if they were expressing enough remorse or contrition they might not be disfellowshipped.
Talks were constantly being given from the platform about all the things one could be disfellowshipped for including fornication, adultery, homosexuality, and any sexual conduct considered “Unclean” or classified as “pornea.” Also idolatry and celebrating worldly holidays (birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Halloween) were considered disfellowshipping offences, as they were all pagan in origin.
However, when I asked the elders why witnesses like myself could wear white wedding dresses and wedding rings, both of which were pagan in origin, and asked who picked which historical customs were allowed to be practised and which weren’t, they could not give me an adequate answer.
We just had to be obedient to the direction of The Watchtower, and if they changed their understanding because of a “light” from God in the future, we would be told. But in the meantime, we had to be patient, be obedient, and wait.
My major doubts had surfaced while being reprimanded in New Zealand about going to worldly counsellors for my children when they disclosed their sexual abuse. I had not received counselling from anyone, and this had not helped me. I knew deep inside myself that I had to get help for my children other than just what the elders would provide. I didn’t want my beautiful children to experience the extreme guilt and fear I had experienced because of the abuse by Pop and all that flowed from it.
I could not see how elders who were not trained as counsellors in any way, shape, or form and had no formal education on sexual abuse victims and how to counsel or treat them could have been better than trained professionals. Also I could not see how, if someone broke the law of the land by sexually abusing a child, only the elders and not the judicial system should have dealt with him or her. I had scriptures quoted at me at the time saying God appoints elders, so they are his representatives on earth and not some worldly judging system that does not understand the ways of God’s people.
Again I could not see how, if police were not involved, the guilty person’s just saying sorry to the elders would stop it from happening again or to someone else. Who was accountable? If a member of the congregation murdered someone, he or she had to go to the police and to court. Why not those who committed sexual abuse and rape? Why were these lesser crimes? Why did they not warrant criminal inquires?
When in Wellington, New Zealand, and taking the children to see the counsellor, I had been disturbed by what I had seen happening in our own congregation, where Leonard was involved as one of the elders. A young girl disclosed past sexual abuse that had happened to her, committed by a witness male friend who had worked for her father. She had stated he had come into her room and raped her a few years previously, when she had been about thirteen years old. Now that she was sixteen years old, she had disclosed it.
The accused had previously been married and had two daughters. The daughters had disclosed sexual abuse, but they were still young, only five or six years old. The ex-wife had gone to the police and was taking the children to see the same sexual-abuse counsellor I was taking my children to.
She didn’t know me, but I knew her as the two children had been at the meetings with their abuser on access visits up until the disclosures had been made. His ex-wife had been disfellowshipped, and he had remarried, and his new wife was only seventeen years old and pregnant with their first child. He had apparently written a letter of confession to the elders. The police had requested to interview the head elder, known as the Presiding Overseer of the congregation the accused attended. The Presiding Overseer had come to our house to have an urgent meeting with Leonard, who was then the Secretary of the congregation, and the Treasurer. These were the three main elders in each congregation who dealt with these matters.
As the Presiding Overseer was leaving the house, he said the letter had to be destroyed at all costs, as he had spoken to a solicitor and it was up to the prosecution to prove guilt—he did not have to supply evidence that would incriminate the accused. He also spoke about how he believed that the confidentiality of a confession to elders should be considered the same as the Catholic Church did it, and no elder should therefore have been forced to tell a policeman or court what had been disclosed by a member of the flock to him.
He was saying if the letter was found, the brother would most certainly be found guilty (he had pled not guilty in court) and would spend a long time in prison. As he was very repentant and had promised not to do it again, and had responded to the counselling of the elders, they needed to protect their flock.
It sickened me to listen to them talk. I instinctively thought, but what about protecting his children and his unborn child?  What about the children from the congregation who went to his house? The young girl had been counselled by the elders not to say anything to anyone. She came in distress to see me one day after arguing with her witness mother, with whom she had a volatile relationship, and said he had been made to apologise to her, so it was all meant to be okay now.
I knew from my own experience as an elder’s wife and from visiting other elders and their wives that rarely was anything kept as confidential as the congregation was repeatedly told it was. I knew that within a few days, every one of the elders and their wives would know what had been said and discussed, and all who were close to them as friends would be told. There was no confidentiality, in my experience. I didn’t want what had happened to my children and any disclosures I made to be dinner talk around people’s tables. I couldn’t bear for that to happen. So I just knew I had to go outside the congregation.
The most important reason, though, stemmed back to my childhood fear and memories. Hearing the talk given from the platform when I was a child about the scriptures in the Old Testament that said if a woman was raped in the field and didn’t cry out, she was guilty of adultery and was to be stoned to death, frightened me enormously. I had frozen when Pop abused me. I had been unable to move due to fear at times when I was in the bath, in the cupboard, or under the bed. During what had happened on the tennis court, the leadenness in my legs prevented me from moving, and the fear up tight in my throat and chest meant I was unable to scream or make a sound; I had a total inability to fight back as I was immobilised by fear.
I had spoken to Amy and Ben’s counsellor, and she had been quite forthcoming in explaining that children can fight, flight, or freeze. And abusers often picked those they felt would not fight back but would freeze or comply for many varying reasons, but it certainly did not mean the children wished it to happen.
At the time of Benjamin and Amy’s being abused, there was a case getting media coverage involving a woman in the United States, where a man had been found not guilty of rape due to the fact she had made him use a condom in the middle of raping her. Some of the local elders said this showed willingness and compliance. The woman had awoken to find a man on top of her, who she did not know, with a knife held to her throat. She had condoms in her drawer. When she realised he was going to rape her, she begged him to put on a condom as she was so frightened of getting HIV or another venereal disease. He put it on. Then he left afterward. She went to the police, and it had gone all the way through to trial. He was found not guilty because of the condom use. I was outraged.
I thought, here was a woman having enough wits about her to protect herself in any small way she could, even in the process of being violated by a stranger with a knife, and because she didn’t fight him, as she wished to survive, and he complied and wore a condom, it was taken as consensual? I was horrified. Many Jehovah’s Witnesses I associated with agreed with the court finding as it concurred with the biblical teaching we’d had drummed into us.
Another case was also in the media of a woman who did not scream or resist as the man had broken in and had a knife, but she had a young daughter asleep in the bed next to her. So she lay quietly and did what he said, as she was terrified if her daughter woke up she also would be assaulted or otherwise hurt. The man left, and because the woman had not screamed, the issue of consent arose. I argued vehemently with the elders that surviving was the most important thing, and no one in their right mind could think she gave consent when it was a stranger with a knife held to her. They kept parroting the scripture, though, as if they were unable to think outside the box.
Even when discussing this same issue with my friends, Lisa and Matthew, I would get frustrated. Matthew said if someone broke into his house, and his wife didn’t scream, he would wonder why. Lisa replied instantly that of course she would scream. I put to her that if she were so terrified she couldn’t run or make any noise, would that mean she consented? She couldn’t give an answer except to say she would scream, and it wouldn’t happen that she wouldn’t. And then they said God wouldn’t have put that in the Bible if it were not reasonable.
I was upset and angry, to say the least. I could not believe that, as scientific evidence clearly showed, a person has no control over his or her physical reaction to fear. So why would God punish people for that? I repeatedly said to the elders that I didn’t believe in a God that treated people like that, and that The Watchtower’s interpretation of those scriptures must have been wrong.
One day an elder came to the house and lent me a few books and magazines he had in regard to biblical questions I had raised. I read them, but they gave me no new answers that satisfied me—nothing besides what I had already found out through studying the society’s literature myself. I had them for a while and then one day put them in Leonard’s briefcase for him to give to the elder at the next meeting. I rang the elder to let him know Leonard would be giving them back, as I was not attending many meetings at that stage. I felt like I would be a hypocrite if I continued to go door to door, trying to convert people to a faith with some doctrines I no longer accepted. I also was spending my time trying to cope with my marriage issues and my own emotional state.
The elder asked me if I had found the magazines useful, and when I thanked him for giving them to me but stated they had not answered my queries, he enquired if he would see me at the field service group that Saturday. I said no and said that as I no longer went witnessing, I no longer considered myself to be a witness. He went quiet and asked me to repeat that statement. As we were repeatedly told from the platform, if we did not go door to door then we were not witnesses for Jehovah. I again stated to the elder that as it had been months since I had been in field service, I did not consider myself a witness anymore.
The conversation ended pleasantly enough, and I thought no more of it. At the time I didn’t realise this innocent phone conversation, which had taken only two minutes, would alter the course of my whole life.
If I had known, I might have paid more attention.

***Award winning book (finalist) in 2014 Beverley Hills International Book Awards***
Jenny Hayworth grew up within the construct of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which she describes as a fundamentalist cult-like religion. She devoted her life to it for over thirty years. Then she left it. The church “unfellowshipped” her-rendering her dead to those family and friends still committed to the church.Hayworth is a sexual abuse survivor. The trauma changed her self-perception, emotional development, trust, and every interaction with the world.
Inside/Outside is her exploration of sexual abuse, religious fundamentalism, and recovery. Her childhood circumstances and tragedies forced her to live “inside.” This memoir chronicles her journey from experiencing comfort and emotional satisfaction only within her fantasy world to developing the ability to feel and express real life emotion on the “outside.”
It is a story that begins with tragic multigenerational abuse, within an oppressive society, and ends with hope and rebirth into a life where she experiences real connections and satisfaction with the outside world.
Those who have ever felt trapped by trauma or circumstances will find Inside/Outside a dramatic reassurance that they are not alone in the world, and they have the ability to have a fulfilling life, both inside and out.
Foreward Clarion Review – “What keeps the pages of Hayworth’s life story turning is her honesty, tenacity, and sheer will to survive through an astounding number of setbacks. Inside/Outside proves the resilience of the human spirit and shows that the cycle of abuse can indeed be broken”
Kirkus Review – “A harrowing memoir of one woman’s struggle to cope with sexual abuse and depression while living in – and eventually leaving – the Jehovah’s Witnesses”
Readers Favourite 5 Star Review – “The book is an inspiring story for those who are going through traumatic times…”
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Genre – Memoir
Rating – PG-13
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Friday, June 13, 2014

SUMMONED #Excerpt by Rainy Kaye @rainyofthedark #Paranormal #AmReading #BookClub

I dislike having to murder someone. Kidnapping is worse. At least when I setup a kill, I know what’s coming. No connections, no honesty, no surprises. Everything I say and do are just steps to luring in my victim. Once the victim falls right into the trap, the next move is swift: crushed windpipe, fatal concussion, or a good ol’ fashioned headshot.
Kidnapping, on the other hand, is a little trickier. First, the victim has an opportunity to respond. I don’t like this. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they manage to alert the authorities. And sometimes they escape, usually by inflicting bodily harm on me.
Dead people don’t retaliate.
The second major difference between killing and kidnapping is my conscience. I get in and out with a kill. We have no chance to bond.
Abductees require a little more one-on-one. As much as I try to keep the switch turned off, I can’t help but listen to their pleas and demands. And I usually realize I’m a jerk.
That’s exactly where I find myself one late afternoon in June. I prefer doing this at night, but moreover, I would prefer not doing this at all.
Instead, I have a belligerent nine year old girl sitting in the passenger seat of my Honda Accord, shackles on her wrists and ankles and a small stuffed bunny on her lap. She’s eying me in a way that makes me self-conscious. Like I’m the bad guy.
Probably because I am the bad guy.
“My dad will shoot you!” She glares at me. “He has lots of guns and knows how to use them good. He’ll shoot you.”
Right now, that feels more like a mercy than a threat.

Twenty-three year old Dimitri has to do what he is told—literally. Controlled by a paranormal bond, he is forced to use his wits to fulfill unlimited deadly wishes made by multimillionaire Karl Walker.
Dimitri has no idea how his family line became trapped in the genie bond. He just knows resisting has never ended well. When he meets Syd—assertive, sexy, intelligent Syd—he becomes determined to make her his own. Except Karl has ensured Dimitri can’t tell anyone about the bond, and Syd isn’t the type to tolerate secrets.
Then Karl starts sending him away on back-to-back wishes. Unable to balance love and lies, Dimitri sets out to uncover Karl’s ultimate plan and put it to an end. But doing so forces him to confront the one wish he never saw coming—the wish that will destroy him.
Summoned is represented by Rossano Trentin of TZLA.
Author Bio
Rainy Kaye is an aspiring overlord. In the mean time, she blogs at <a href=http://www.rainyofthedark.com>RainyoftheDark.com</a> and writes paranormal novels from her lair somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona. When not plotting world domination, she enjoys getting lost around the globe, studying music so she can sing along with symphonic metal bands, and becoming distracted by Twitter (<a href=http://www.twitter.com/rainyofthedark>@rainyofthedark</a>).She is represented by Rossano Trentin of TZLA.
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Cover Design: Kris Wagner https://www.facebook.com/digitalgunman
Model: Adam Jakubowski https://www.facebook.com/LadyJakubowsky
Photographer:  Marcin RychÅ‚y https://www.facebook.com/karrdepl

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Host Chronicles: The Devil’s Offspring (Vol. 1) by D L Cox #AmReading #Excerpt #Fantasy

A ring of fire appeared in the air above the stadium’s stage and out stepped Makeda and Eshu, who now had horns sticking out of his head. Makeda eyed the angels and demons that filled the stands and then smiled before she and Eshu squared off and inched towards each other with their swords raised. They touched swords and then Eshu stepped back swinging his sword downward. Makeda swiftly swung her sword counter-clockwise until it met Eshu’s sword at their knees. He responded by heaving his sword above his head and sending it slicing down at her left shoulder. Instead of meeting flesh, his sword smashed against her sword as she swept it upward. Eshu pulled back for another advance, but Makeda kicked him in the stomach, sending him tumbling onto his back. As Eshu hopped back onto his feet, Makeda twirled her sword around her body and then gripped it with both hands.
Makeda inched towards Eshu again until they touched swords, and said, “That’s it, huh? I expected more.”
Eshu responded by launching his sword at Makeda’s face. Makeda leaned back in the nick of time and quickly raised her sword, blocking Eshu’s sword from crashing into her neck. Eshu then thrust his sword at Makeda’s stomach and Makeda swung her sword downward, knocking Eshu’s sword away before it could make contact. Makeda finally went on the offensive and swung her sword at Eshu’s neck. Eshu blocked Makeda’s swing, spun to his left, and sliced the tip of his blade across Makeda’s left arm.
Makeda gasped and shook off the pain as Eshu swung his sword down at the left side of her body. She gracefully weaved out of harm’s way and lowered her sword to her side and leaned right, then left, as Eshu let off a fury of downward swings.

In this Urban Fantasy, the devil’s daughter, SALEENA, and her reaper boyfriend, IZZY, elope to earth and seek to overthrow her estranged brother, SIMON CLASH, as the devil’s heir apparent on earth, but Simon is head of a powerful conglomerate, and he’s not going out without a fight. As the rivalry turns bloody, the warring siblings discover the devil has been manipulating their feud to advance his secret agenda and is using them as decoys to draw out a sword-wielding champion of humanity called the HOST, whom must be slain before the devil can unleash a reign of terror on earth.
Legend says the Host will emerge when humanity plunges into hopelessness and despair, and NATHANIEL BRENNER, the young man responsible for delivering a magic sword to the Host, hopes that is soon. Nathaniel has spent the last six years searching for the Host to no avail and has recently seen a drastic rise in demon activity on earth, which he knows could only mean one thing: humanity is running out of time. Saleena and Simon unite to save their own hides, but it may be too late—not only for the devil’s offspring, but for humanity too! The future of humanity hangs in the balance, and Nathaniel is determined to thwart the devil’s plans and find the Host.
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Genre - Urban Fantasy
Rating - PG-13
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Saturday, June 7, 2014

Beyond Neanderthal by Brian Bloom @BrianB_Aust #Thriller #GoodReads #AmReading

Visit to a Blue Amber Mine
 
As Tara alighted from the vehicle, she found herself facing a ghostly white haze of wispy, low-lying clouds that hung as if suspended in time above the undulating hilltops. The peaks rose from the variegated emerald and olive valley below and stretched into the distance amid a virginal mixture of lush equatorial undergrowth. She drew a deep, involuntary breath.

‘Wow!’ There were no other words to describe the feeling of awe-inspired privilege that washed over her. The vista was about as far removed from Central Park as a New York city skyscraper was from the little pastel coloured huts lining the Carretera Turística.

Aurelio smiled. Intuitively, he seemed to understand that the most appropriate response to this magnificent sight was silence. It was a full two minutes before Tara gathered her thoughts.

‘Let’s get going,’ she said.

They made their way carefully—gingerly climbing over dead logs, negotiating their way around rocky outcrops, and grabbing onto available plant life to steady themselves as they walked and stumbled their way towards the valley below. On either side of the track, a mixture of tall, fronded plants grew in an array of shapes and sizes beside stunted and gnarled old trees with deep green foliage. Tara thought of the trees like friendly bystanders, their leafy branches protectively shading Aurelio and her from much of the glaring sunshine above. They came across a trickling stream, which they followed for a while; Tara ever mindful and vigilant, watching for any sign of wildlife in the undergrowth. Except for the background humming of insects, the occasional noisy squawking of a flock of parrots flying past overhead and, once, the silent imprint of a shoe sole on the muddy banks of the stream, they seemed to be alone.

Then, in a clearing, they came across a group of young men standing seemingly relaxed and chatting. A few feet away, under a lean-to made of branches and palm fronds, one of them squatted while cooking something on a small paraffin or gas stove. Aurelio and Tara had arrived at the mine.

Again, there was a short conversation in Spanish. Again, there was a wrinkling of noses followed by broad smiles of understanding and agreement. There were also some side comments and laughter amongst the men. The word ‘gringa’—foreigner from America—came up a couple of times. Tara thought she also heard the words ‘bonita’, and ‘sexual’, but she couldn’t be sure. She decided to keep a slight distance for the time being. They were in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest civilization.

Aurelio walked back towards her. ‘They will be happy to show you around, but we should remember our time limitations. We cannot spend more that half an hour here if we are to return to Santo Domingo before dark.’

‘Are you trying to protect me from these guys?’ she asked with a smile. Aurelio looked embarrassed.

‘What’s he cooking?’ she asked to change the subject. ‘It smells great.’

‘That is called arroz con abichuelas, a mixture of rice and beans. He is probably cooking some small pieces of beef with it, but it could be any meat.’

‘Can one buy that in a restaurant in Santo Domingo?’

‘Of course, but not exactly the same. This is a local dish for locals. To sell food like this to tourists would be like offering leftovers to your guests. It would not be right. In the restaurants it is much more carefully presented and is usually served with salads.’

The word ‘dignity’ popped into Tara’s mind. Aurelio seemed to have it, and that was what she had seen on the faces of the fruit vendor and the amber polisher and, now, even the miners as she approached them. Other than their initial jocularity, they seemed to consider her as their guest and themselves as hosts who happily welcomed visitors into their world. The men were just being men.

As they approached the entrance to the mine, a happy looking miner wearing a backward facing baseball cap sat with a short-handled pick in one hand, a lump of soft rock in the other.

Hola, señorita,’ he said, grinning broadly.

She smiled back at him, lifted her hand in greeting, but continued to follow Aurelio to the mine entrance. It was like standing at the entrance to the burrow of a large animal.

Beyond Neanderthal
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Genre – Thriller
Rating – MA (15+)
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Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Lights Over Emerald Creek #Excerpt by @ShelleyDavidow #SciFi #YA #AmReading

The Return

‘Is that a light?’ he whispered.
Further down the creek, over the water, she saw a familiar sight: a beautiful, round blue glow hung in the air, and Lucy had no fear. It was hard to play and talk at the same time. She kept playing and the light expanded. She felt Jonathan’s trembling presence. It’s real, she thought. Utterly real.
‘Hold me, if you can,’ she said above her music.
‘What?’
‘My shoulders.’
He scrambled and stood behind her, and placed warm unsteady hands on her shoulders. The music expanded, the notes lengthened so that they played over one another. The air thickened, and the blue light cast giant shadows as it moved closer towards them. Lucy saw herself and her wheelchair as a massive dark caricature on the sand next to the creek. Jonathan’s shadow loomed next to hers — an oblique, strange giant. Her heart sang. Every atom of her body was one with the music, then the light engulfed them, and there was no more division between girl and instrument, between the light and her substance, between her and Jonathan. Weightless and windborne, Lucy closed her eyes, blinded by the light which drew her into itself, aware only of speed and sound as all sense of orientation dissolved. Time warped over her head, and she flowed along with it, losing track of it.
‘Jesus Effing Christ.’
She heard his words, and blinked.
She’d never imagined Jonathan capable of expletives, but life was full of surprises. When Lucy’s eyes finally adjusted, they burned with tears. Her heart expanded with unstoppable joy.
Jonathan lay on his back, bathed in pink light, on a familiar, soft, sea-edge, swearing softly to himself.
Low, dense vapours swept around them.
The wheelchair lay on its side, next to her cello. She was curled up in a foetal position, her hands clasped around her knees, holding the end of her bow. Slowly she unfolded herself and stretched. Bending her legs at the knees, she relished the stretch of her calves, the feelings of pins and needles in her toes. She stretched her legs out in front of her and sat up, crossing them.
‘Did you say something?’ she said. She wiped an errant tear from the corner of one eye. She leaned forward, held her own ankles and felt her hands on them.
‘Holy Shit,’ Jonathan said, and came up on his elbows.
‘Keep it up,’ Lucy said. ‘I like this new talent of yours. Didn’t know you had such a store of foul language.’ She looked into his face, which for the moment, resembled a desperate trout swimming upstream.
‘Christ, Lucy, look at you!’
She got up and stretched her arms over her head, holding her bow as she stood on her tiptoes, an inadvertent ballerina.
‘You’re … standing!’
She ran towards him through the mists and dense fog, trailing her fingers through the strange atmosphere, briefly looking behind her as small eddies swirled up into the mist and spiralled out behind her.

Lucy Wright, sixteen and a paraplegic after a recent car accident that took her mother’s life, lives in Queensland on a 10,000 acre farm with her father. When Lucy investigates strange lights over the creek at the bottom of the property, she discovers a mystery that links the lights to the science of cymatics and Scotland’s ancient Rosslyn Chapel.
But beyond the chapel is an even larger mystery. One that links the music the chapel contains to Norway’s mysterious Hessdalen lights, and beyond that to Saturn and to the stars. Lucy’s discoveries catapult her into a parallel universe connected to our own by means of resonance and sound, where a newly emerging world trembles on the edge of disaster. As realities divide, her mission in this new world is revealed and she finds herself part of a love story that will span the galaxy.

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Genre - Young Adult SF
Rating - PG
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Saturday, May 31, 2014

Heavyweight by MB Mulhall #AmReading #Fiction #YA

“What do you say, Jules? It’s not like we’ve got anything better to do.” She bats her eyes at her brother, who rolls his.
“Well, I could think of worse ways to spend a Friday night than staring at tight ends,” Julian finally says to Clay with a wink. I think my heart stops. Clay looks momentarily taken aback. Others at the table laugh it up, and I watch Julian from the corner of my eye. Is he being serious? Is it possible that the new kid is more like me than I realized? Too bad he hates me already.
My thoughts are interrupted when Clay nudges me.
“What?”
“You’re not eating.” He points at my untouched food. Rolling my eyes—obviously a teenage trend—I pick up the half sandwich and shove it in my mouth.
“Happy?” I snap after I successfully swallow it without choking. He doesn’t deserve the attitude, but I can’t help myself.
“Yes,” he replies as he hands me the apple. I grab it from his hand and bite into it. It makes a loud, satisfying crunch.
Mei-Li and Julian give us matching weird looks.
“Ian doesn’t like to eat,” Clay explains.
“I like eating just fine,” I counter. “I just don’t like eating a lot.” The twins look at each other, puzzled, before looking back at us. It’s kind of creepy to watch their identical movements.
“He has to stay in his weight class,” Clay says, “and he thought he could do that by starving himself.”
A red cloud of anger hovers in front of my eyes as I slam my hand down on the table.
“Enough!” I’m embarrassed that Julian knows one of my secrets now. Gathering my stuff, I stand up to leave.
“Hey, Ian, don’t go!” Clay is grabbing at my bag. I give him what must be a withering look, because he lets go and drops his head.
“I’ve got to see the coach.” It’s an excuse. I nod to Mei-Li but can’t meet Julian’s gaze.
I leave the cafeteria behind, headed for a bathroom. After a quick check to make sure no one else is there, I enter an empty stall where I perform my other dirty little secret. The one no one can ever find out about. The one they make afterschool TV specials about. The one that involves the second coming of my lunch.

Secrets. Their weight can be crushing, but their release can change everything—and not necessarily for the better. Ian is no stranger to secrets. Being a gay teen in a backwater southern town, Ian must keep his orientation under wraps, especially since he spends a lot of time with his hands all over members of the same sex, pinning their sweaty, hard bodies to the wrestling mat.
When he’s trying not to stare at teammates in the locker room, he’s busy hiding another secret—that he starves himself so he doesn’t get bumped to the next weight class.
Enter Julian Yang, an Adonis with mesmerizing looks and punk rocker style. Befriending the flirtatious artist not only raises suspicion among his classmates, but leaves Ian terrified he’ll give in to the desires he’s fought to ignore.
As secrets come to light, Ian’s world crumbles. Disowned, defriended, and deserted by nearly everyone, Ian’s one-way ticket out of town is revoked, leaving him trapped in a world he hates—and one that hates him back.
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Genre - LGBT, YA
Rating – PG-13
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Robert Breeze on the Bible as a #SciFi Novel Ever Written #AmReading #Fiction #GoodReads

Right let’s get the tongue-in-cheek arrogance out of the way, my contention is that it’s the sixth best science fiction novel because The Chronicles of Hope series (now planned to consist of five books) takes the first five spots on that list. I actually think the bible is a great fiction novel, it’s incredibly well written and some of the proverbs in there are original, great and visionary. Also it’s given us so many great ideas and lessons on how to form a society, so we should be grateful for that. The depth of imagination involved in the fiction is also unrivalled I think. Imagining that there’s this invisible man in the sky, an invisible man who watches over us, a man with a list of ten things we shouldn’t do, that if we do any of these ten things we’ll go to hell – this is unbelievably original character ‘making’.
I do think it’s about time now that we moved on though, I think we’re advanced enough now to stop dwelling on the book and referring to it as some kind of life manual. There are some pretty major omissions in it, the biggest that seemingly it just misses out the first hundred years. It doesn’t really seek to explain how god created the universe, which I would’ve thought should have been covered in the first few chapters, maybe it will be rewritten in time and take into account the timeline of evolution which is now know is based on scientific facts. It certainly wouldn’t have got an agent on board nowadays that’s for sure, I mean just imagine if you sent it to an agent. I imagine their first observation would be ‘hold on are you suggesting the protagonist created homosexuals then bans homosexuality, why would he do that?’. And also ‘how could God have possibly been an advocate of free will? It says that he gave us free will but then he seems to tell us exactly how to use it? He says thou shalt not kill, but then this doesn’t seem to apply if you’re talking about witches, homosexuals, heathen enemies, muslims, slaves, the adulterous, rebellious kids, and blasphemers. The book says that God gave us free will then you expect people to swallow that he would then command us to use it exactly as he told us to?’ I don’t think it’d get very far, original, well written but far too many implausible anomalies. There might be a God, you might have hit on something in creating this character who could’ve created the universe, but to think anyone will believe in it is ludicrous. How can you possibly think people will believe in anything for which there’s not one single shred of evidence? That’s probably what the rejection letter would point out.
The first book in The Chronicles Of Hope series, ’2082′, sees an experimental intergalactic project when the government get the chance to colonise a recently discovered planet that’s habitable for human life. Fuelled by overpopulation on Earth making life increasingly unsustainable they offer Frank Noon, a politician, the chance to lead the project, largely because of a stir caused by a speech he does on global warming. Frank finds himself in charge of a cross section of the population at odds with themselves and the situation. As the story develops they discover more and more about the project and start to realise just how far-reaching the consequences for the future of humanity might be.

Frank Noon divides opinion. Whilst some say he’s a philosophical genius, some say he’s a fanciful dreamer who deliberately courts controversy with his anti-establishment views about the failings of modern society.
Seemingly nearing the end of his life in politics, he reluctantly fronts an experimental inter-galactic government project late in the 21st century aimed at making life on an overpopulated Earth more sustainable. As he battles to gain control of a relative asylum, consisting of a cross section of the populous as much at odds with themselves as the situation, he unwittingly embarks on a life-changing journey of self discovery.
As they learn more about the project and its intentions how far-reaching might the consequences be for the future of humanity?
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Genre - Political Fiction
Rating – PG
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