View allAll Photos Tagged bookwriting
It took a year, but we finally finished a book to share with our children, grandchildren, and generations to come.
Very often Doc and I would wonder how and where our parents had met - how did they get through the depression years and then through WW2. What kind of interesting jobs did they have from their youth to retirement - etc . . .
One year ago, we were given a gift of "Story Worth". It guides you through the story writing process with over 400 questions to pick from - or you may write your own question. Each week Doc and I took the time to write our own chapters, adding photos to accompany each story. We didn't embellish - we simply wrote the truth of our life's happenings.
On our coffee table you see our first copy - and we have already ordered additional copies for our adult children. I'm pretty sure they'll get a kick out of receiving them.
Part 7: From Kavarna to Balchik
3rd of May 2004•13:02 hours
Crossing the border went quite successful yesterday . Walking for a couple kilometres and passing four checkpoints. There was even a money exchange office, where I exploited the waiting time. As I walked further I had luck: already pretty soon a minibus basses by with destination Kavarna. The little bus is already pretty full with the local elderly and young people and the bus passes through picturesque villages with on the background the scenery of nature reserves along the coast. In Kavarna I end up on an empty dead bus station, no centre to be seen anywhere and no information with timetables of leaving buses. Also nobody speaks another language than Bulgarian and I still have to get used to the Cyrillic bookwriting and have no dictionary with me. I decide will hitch hike to Balchik. If nobody would want to pick me up, then the trip would be approximately two hours of walking, I value.
First of all itseems that I might end up walking: there is little car traffic on the main road, expensive cars tear beyond whereas the other cars are all full of people. After half an hour of walking neverthelessa car stops with a pleasantly looking older man. He brings me to the road exit of Balchik. From there it is still half an hour walking to the centre, firstly passing suburbs and then over a hillock with a breathtaking view on the black sea and white red ochre rocks. Underway I felt myself a curiosity again, as if I was walking nude. Everyone looks at to me as if they have never seen a foreigner and start talking to me. A nice man tells me that he just came back from the Netherlands to buy a second hand car. I make use of the occasion by asking him for a place to sleep. He rings right-away to friend, who lets small houses near the sea. Within some minutes I am picked up by car of a woman whom I pay 10 euro for the overnight in such a little beachhouse.
The town is pretty picturesque with its red ochre rocks, an old mosque and typical Bulgarian houses. But especially the port is really something for me, with dozens of little wooden fisher boats. The fishermen sell their freshly caught where directly on marktje to the port: small and larger glowing examples. A little further away several sea bridges are to be seen with more fishermen. On the other direction is a yacht-basin and promenade with some lost tourists like me. It is still nicely warm outside when I decide to eat some fish hours in the open air at half past 6, but I forget that the lady still has my passport and that she would bring it back at 7 o' clock. When I return to the maisonnette there is no passport, but I am sleepy from the seabreeze and the short nights in Vama Veche, so I fall directly into a deep sleep. The next morning I wait the whole time for the owner of the maisonettes, but she does not come. I use the time with writing picture postcards. At 11 o'clock are my patience is finished and I decide to visit the 'Quiet Nest' castle with botanic garden, but I leave behind a note for the lady. This Dvoreca is quite impressing and I can't stop making pictures of the scenery. When I get back return my passport is kindly dropped on my backpack so it is possible for me to delete all the emergency plans with embassies et cetera out of my head. Let's put my backpack on the back and leave to Varna!
Part 7: From Kavarna to Balchik
3rd of May 2004•13:02 hours
Crossing the border went quite successful yesterday . Walking for a couple kilometres and passing four checkpoints. There was even a money exchange office, where I exploited the waiting time. As I walked further I had luck: already pretty soon a minibus basses by with destination Kavarna. The little bus is already pretty full with the local elderly and young people and the bus passes through picturesque villages with on the background the scenery of nature reserves along the coast. In Kavarna I end up on an empty dead bus station, no centre to be seen anywhere and no information with timetables of leaving buses. Also nobody speaks another language than Bulgarian and I still have to get used to the Cyrillic bookwriting and have no dictionary with me. I decide will hitch hike to Balchik. If nobody would want to pick me up, then the trip would be approximately two hours of walking, I value.
First of all itseems that I might end up walking: there is little car traffic on the main road, expensive cars tear beyond whereas the other cars are all full of people. After half an hour of walking neverthelessa car stops with a pleasantly looking older man. He brings me to the road exit of Balchik. From there it is still half an hour walking to the centre, firstly passing suburbs and then over a hillock with a breathtaking view on the black sea and white red ochre rocks. Underway I felt myself a curiosity again, as if I was walking nude. Everyone looks at to me as if they have never seen a foreigner and start talking to me. A nice man tells me that he just came back from the Netherlands to buy a second hand car. I make use of the occasion by asking him for a place to sleep. He rings right-away to friend, who lets small houses near the sea. Within some minutes I am picked up by car of a woman whom I pay 10 euro for the overnight in such a little beachhouse.
The town is pretty picturesque with its red ochre rocks, an old mosque and typical Bulgarian houses. But especially the port is really something for me, with dozens of little wooden fisher boats. The fishermen sell their freshly caught where directly on marktje to the port: small and larger glowing examples. A little further away several sea bridges are to be seen with more fishermen. On the other direction is a yacht-basin and promenade with some lost tourists like me. It is still nicely warm outside when I decide to eat some fish hours in the open air at half past 6, but I forget that the lady still has my passport and that she would bring it back at 7 o' clock. When I return to the maisonnette there is no passport, but I am sleepy from the seabreeze and the short nights in Vama Veche, so I fall directly into a deep sleep. The next morning I wait the whole time for the owner of the maisonettes, but she does not come. I use the time with writing picture postcards. At 11 o'clock are my patience is finished and I decide to visit the 'Quiet Nest' castle with botanic garden, but I leave behind a note for the lady. This Dvoreca is quite impressing and I can't stop making pictures of the scenery. When I get back return my passport is kindly dropped on my backpack so it is possible for me to delete all the emergency plans with embassies et cetera out of my head. Let's put my backpack on the back and leave to Varna!
Part 7: From Kavarna to Balchik
3rd of May 2004•13:02 hours
Crossing the border went quite successful yesterday . Walking for a couple kilometres and passing four checkpoints. There was even a money exchange office, where I exploited the waiting time. As I walked further I had luck: already pretty soon a minibus basses by with destination Kavarna. The little bus is already pretty full with the local elderly and young people and the bus passes through picturesque villages with on the background the scenery of nature reserves along the coast. In Kavarna I end up on an empty dead bus station, no centre to be seen anywhere and no information with timetables of leaving buses. Also nobody speaks another language than Bulgarian and I still have to get used to the Cyrillic bookwriting and have no dictionary with me. I decide will hitch hike to Balchik. If nobody would want to pick me up, then the trip would be approximately two hours of walking, I value.
First of all itseems that I might end up walking: there is little car traffic on the main road, expensive cars tear beyond whereas the other cars are all full of people. After half an hour of walking neverthelessa car stops with a pleasantly looking older man. He brings me to the road exit of Balchik. From there it is still half an hour walking to the centre, firstly passing suburbs and then over a hillock with a breathtaking view on the black sea and white red ochre rocks. Underway I felt myself a curiosity again, as if I was walking nude. Everyone looks at to me as if they have never seen a foreigner and start talking to me. A nice man tells me that he just came back from the Netherlands to buy a second hand car. I make use of the occasion by asking him for a place to sleep. He rings right-away to friend, who lets small houses near the sea. Within some minutes I am picked up by car of a woman whom I pay 10 euro for the overnight in such a little beachhouse.
The town is pretty picturesque with its red ochre rocks, an old mosque and typical Bulgarian houses. But especially the port is really something for me, with dozens of little wooden fisher boats. The fishermen sell their freshly caught where directly on marktje to the port: small and larger glowing examples. A little further away several sea bridges are to be seen with more fishermen. On the other direction is a yacht-basin and promenade with some lost tourists like me. It is still nicely warm outside when I decide to eat some fish hours in the open air at half past 6, but I forget that the lady still has my passport and that she would bring it back at 7 o' clock. When I return to the maisonnette there is no passport, but I am sleepy from the seabreeze and the short nights in Vama Veche, so I fall directly into a deep sleep. The next morning I wait the whole time for the owner of the maisonettes, but she does not come. I use the time with writing picture postcards. At 11 o'clock are my patience is finished and I decide to visit the 'Quiet Nest' castle with botanic garden, but I leave behind a note for the lady. This Dvoreca is quite impressing and I can't stop making pictures of the scenery. When I get back return my passport is kindly dropped on my backpack so it is possible for me to delete all the emergency plans with embassies et cetera out of my head. Let's put my backpack on the back and leave to Varna!
Part 7: From Kavarna to Balchik
3rd of May 2004•13:02 hours
Crossing the border went quite successful yesterday . Walking for a couple kilometres and passing four checkpoints. There was even a money exchange office, where I exploited the waiting time. As I walked further I had luck: already pretty soon a minibus basses by with destination Kavarna. The little bus is already pretty full with the local elderly and young people and the bus passes through picturesque villages with on the background the scenery of nature reserves along the coast. In Kavarna I end up on an empty dead bus station, no centre to be seen anywhere and no information with timetables of leaving buses. Also nobody speaks another language than Bulgarian and I still have to get used to the Cyrillic bookwriting and have no dictionary with me. I decide will hitch hike to Balchik. If nobody would want to pick me up, then the trip would be approximately two hours of walking, I value.
First of all itseems that I might end up walking: there is little car traffic on the main road, expensive cars tear beyond whereas the other cars are all full of people. After half an hour of walking neverthelessa car stops with a pleasantly looking older man. He brings me to the road exit of Balchik. From there it is still half an hour walking to the centre, firstly passing suburbs and then over a hillock with a breathtaking view on the black sea and white red ochre rocks. Underway I felt myself a curiosity again, as if I was walking nude. Everyone looks at to me as if they have never seen a foreigner and start talking to me. A nice man tells me that he just came back from the Netherlands to buy a second hand car. I make use of the occasion by asking him for a place to sleep. He rings right-away to friend, who lets small houses near the sea. Within some minutes I am picked up by car of a woman whom I pay 10 euro for the overnight in such a little beachhouse.
The town is pretty picturesque with its red ochre rocks, an old mosque and typical Bulgarian houses. But especially the port is really something for me, with dozens of little wooden fisher boats. The fishermen sell their freshly caught where directly on marktje to the port: small and larger glowing examples. A little further away several sea bridges are to be seen with more fishermen. On the other direction is a yacht-basin and promenade with some lost tourists like me. It is still nicely warm outside when I decide to eat some fish hours in the open air at half past 6, but I forget that the lady still has my passport and that she would bring it back at 7 o' clock. When I return to the maisonnette there is no passport, but I am sleepy from the seabreeze and the short nights in Vama Veche, so I fall directly into a deep sleep. The next morning I wait the whole time for the owner of the maisonettes, but she does not come. I use the time with writing picture postcards. At 11 o'clock are my patience is finished and I decide to visit the 'Quiet Nest' castle with botanic garden, but I leave behind a note for the lady. This Dvoreca is quite impressing and I can't stop making pictures of the scenery. When I get back return my passport is kindly dropped on my backpack so it is possible for me to delete all the emergency plans with embassies et cetera out of my head. Let's put my backpack on the back and leave to Varna!
Part 7: From Kavarna to Balchik
3rd of May 2004•13:02 hours
Crossing the border went quite successful yesterday . Walking for a couple kilometres and passing four checkpoints. There was even a money exchange office, where I exploited the waiting time. As I walked further I had luck: already pretty soon a minibus basses by with destination Kavarna. The little bus is already pretty full with the local elderly and young people and the bus passes through picturesque villages with on the background the scenery of nature reserves along the coast. In Kavarna I end up on an empty dead bus station, no centre to be seen anywhere and no information with timetables of leaving buses. Also nobody speaks another language than Bulgarian and I still have to get used to the Cyrillic bookwriting and have no dictionary with me. I decide will hitch hike to Balchik. If nobody would want to pick me up, then the trip would be approximately two hours of walking, I value.
First of all itseems that I might end up walking: there is little car traffic on the main road, expensive cars tear beyond whereas the other cars are all full of people. After half an hour of walking neverthelessa car stops with a pleasantly looking older man. He brings me to the road exit of Balchik. From there it is still half an hour walking to the centre, firstly passing suburbs and then over a hillock with a breathtaking view on the black sea and white red ochre rocks. Underway I felt myself a curiosity again, as if I was walking nude. Everyone looks at to me as if they have never seen a foreigner and start talking to me. A nice man tells me that he just came back from the Netherlands to buy a second hand car. I make use of the occasion by asking him for a place to sleep. He rings right-away to friend, who lets small houses near the sea. Within some minutes I am picked up by car of a woman whom I pay 10 euro for the overnight in such a little beachhouse.
The town is pretty picturesque with its red ochre rocks, an old mosque and typical Bulgarian houses. But especially the port is really something for me, with dozens of little wooden fisher boats. The fishermen sell their freshly caught where directly on marktje to the port: small and larger glowing examples. A little further away several sea bridges are to be seen with more fishermen. On the other direction is a yacht-basin and promenade with some lost tourists like me. It is still nicely warm outside when I decide to eat some fish hours in the open air at half past 6, but I forget that the lady still has my passport and that she would bring it back at 7 o' clock. When I return to the maisonnette there is no passport, but I am sleepy from the seabreeze and the short nights in Vama Veche, so I fall directly into a deep sleep. The next morning I wait the whole time for the owner of the maisonettes, but she does not come. I use the time with writing picture postcards. At 11 o'clock are my patience is finished and I decide to visit the 'Quiet Nest' castle with botanic garden, but I leave behind a note for the lady. This Dvoreca is quite impressing and I can't stop making pictures of the scenery. When I get back return my passport is kindly dropped on my backpack so it is possible for me to delete all the emergency plans with embassies et cetera out of my head. Let's put my backpack on the back and leave to Varna!
Part 7: From Kavarna to Balchik
3rd of May 2004•13:02 hours
Crossing the border went quite successful yesterday . Walking for a couple kilometres and passing four checkpoints. There was even a money exchange office, where I exploited the waiting time. As I walked further I had luck: already pretty soon a minibus basses by with destination Kavarna. The little bus is already pretty full with the local elderly and young people and the bus passes through picturesque villages with on the background the scenery of nature reserves along the coast. In Kavarna I end up on an empty dead bus station, no centre to be seen anywhere and no information with timetables of leaving buses. Also nobody speaks another language than Bulgarian and I still have to get used to the Cyrillic bookwriting and have no dictionary with me. I decide will hitch hike to Balchik. If nobody would want to pick me up, then the trip would be approximately two hours of walking, I value.
First of all itseems that I might end up walking: there is little car traffic on the main road, expensive cars tear beyond whereas the other cars are all full of people. After half an hour of walking neverthelessa car stops with a pleasantly looking older man. He brings me to the road exit of Balchik. From there it is still half an hour walking to the centre, firstly passing suburbs and then over a hillock with a breathtaking view on the black sea and white red ochre rocks. Underway I felt myself a curiosity again, as if I was walking nude. Everyone looks at to me as if they have never seen a foreigner and start talking to me. A nice man tells me that he just came back from the Netherlands to buy a second hand car. I make use of the occasion by asking him for a place to sleep. He rings right-away to friend, who lets small houses near the sea. Within some minutes I am picked up by car of a woman whom I pay 10 euro for the overnight in such a little beachhouse.
The town is pretty picturesque with its red ochre rocks, an old mosque and typical Bulgarian houses. But especially the port is really something for me, with dozens of little wooden fisher boats. The fishermen sell their freshly caught where directly on marktje to the port: small and larger glowing examples. A little further away several sea bridges are to be seen with more fishermen. On the other direction is a yacht-basin and promenade with some lost tourists like me. It is still nicely warm outside when I decide to eat some fish hours in the open air at half past 6, but I forget that the lady still has my passport and that she would bring it back at 7 o' clock. When I return to the maisonnette there is no passport, but I am sleepy from the seabreeze and the short nights in Vama Veche, so I fall directly into a deep sleep. The next morning I wait the whole time for the owner of the maisonettes, but she does not come. I use the time with writing picture postcards. At 11 o'clock are my patience is finished and I decide to visit the 'Quiet Nest' castle with botanic garden, but I leave behind a note for the lady. This Dvoreca is quite impressing and I can't stop making pictures of the scenery. When I get back return my passport is kindly dropped on my backpack so it is possible for me to delete all the emergency plans with embassies et cetera out of my head. Let's put my backpack on the back and leave to Varna!
Part 7: From Kavarna to Balchik
3rd of May 2004•13:02 hours
Crossing the border went quite successful yesterday . Walking for a couple kilometres and passing four checkpoints. There was even a money exchange office, where I exploited the waiting time. As I walked further I had luck: already pretty soon a minibus basses by with destination Kavarna. The little bus is already pretty full with the local elderly and young people and the bus passes through picturesque villages with on the background the scenery of nature reserves along the coast. In Kavarna I end up on an empty dead bus station, no centre to be seen anywhere and no information with timetables of leaving buses. Also nobody speaks another language than Bulgarian and I still have to get used to the Cyrillic bookwriting and have no dictionary with me. I decide will hitch hike to Balchik. If nobody would want to pick me up, then the trip would be approximately two hours of walking, I value.
First of all itseems that I might end up walking: there is little car traffic on the main road, expensive cars tear beyond whereas the other cars are all full of people. After half an hour of walking neverthelessa car stops with a pleasantly looking older man. He brings me to the road exit of Balchik. From there it is still half an hour walking to the centre, firstly passing suburbs and then over a hillock with a breathtaking view on the black sea and white red ochre rocks. Underway I felt myself a curiosity again, as if I was walking nude. Everyone looks at to me as if they have never seen a foreigner and start talking to me. A nice man tells me that he just came back from the Netherlands to buy a second hand car. I make use of the occasion by asking him for a place to sleep. He rings right-away to friend, who lets small houses near the sea. Within some minutes I am picked up by car of a woman whom I pay 10 euro for the overnight in such a little beachhouse.
The town is pretty picturesque with its red ochre rocks, an old mosque and typical Bulgarian houses. But especially the port is really something for me, with dozens of little wooden fisher boats. The fishermen sell their freshly caught where directly on marktje to the port: small and larger glowing examples. A little further away several sea bridges are to be seen with more fishermen. On the other direction is a yacht-basin and promenade with some lost tourists like me. It is still nicely warm outside when I decide to eat some fish hours in the open air at half past 6, but I forget that the lady still has my passport and that she would bring it back at 7 o' clock. When I return to the maisonnette there is no passport, but I am sleepy from the seabreeze and the short nights in Vama Veche, so I fall directly into a deep sleep. The next morning I wait the whole time for the owner of the maisonettes, but she does not come. I use the time with writing picture postcards. At 11 o'clock are my patience is finished and I decide to visit the 'Quiet Nest' castle with botanic garden, but I leave behind a note for the lady. This Dvoreca is quite impressing and I can't stop making pictures of the scenery. When I get back return my passport is kindly dropped on my backpack so it is possible for me to delete all the emergency plans with embassies et cetera out of my head. Let's put my backpack on the back and leave to Varna!
Write Your Book Now -- for Increased Visibility and Create an Income Stream!
Because I’ve had so many people tell me they want to learn about writing a book, I’m offering a FREE “Write Your Book Now” 7-part e-course to help them and you, get started.
I’m glad to offer my expertise to help other aspiring authors with their book projects.
For more program details:
2600 x 2600 pixel image designed to work as wallpaper on most iOS devices.
Image source: www.pexels.com/photo/books-bookshop-magazines-5377/
Typeface: Mrs Eaves
A MacBook, a 23" Cinema Display, a one-button Mouse, a Wacom Graphite 4... and some old-fashioned paper.
Part of a post on the Asian Tofu cookbook publishing process:
www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2011/09/asian-tofu-update-s...
Part of a post on the Asian Tofu cookbook publishing process:
www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2011/09/asian-tofu-update-s...
Part of a post on the Asian Tofu cookbook publishing process:
www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2011/09/asian-tofu-update-s...
Part of a post on the Asian Tofu cookbook publishing process:
www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2011/09/asian-tofu-update-s...
Part of a post on the Asian Tofu cookbook publishing process:
www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2011/09/asian-tofu-update-s...
Part of a post on the Asian Tofu cookbook publishing process:
www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2011/09/asian-tofu-update-s...
Part of a post on the Asian Tofu cookbook publishing process:
www.vietworldkitchen.com/blog/2011/09/asian-tofu-update-s...
Just a HOT SPOT for the Internet in ATLANTA.
ATlanta changed so much since my last time, when I was in Atlanta in 1997-1998.
Martin Gillott, better known in the wrestling world as Jackie 'Glitterboy' Evans, knew early in his career that life in the ring would be no walk in the park. Posing as a blond, Lurex-clad gayboy who liked to fight dirty was great for ticket sales, but not so good for his health. He was knocked out five times in his career - always by a furious fan, never by his opponent. Yet Martin loved the game, and wouldn't change a day of his 12-year professional wrestling career. Now he tells all, including hilarious accounts of adventures in and out of the ring, fans violent and amorous, landladies who were scarier than Giant Haystacks and girls who were faster than Mick McManus. And then there were the many well-known names he rubbed shoulders with along the way, from Brian Glover to John Le Mesurier. Confessions Of A Wrestler will have you in stitches - just like 'Glitterboy'.
Middle-aged Jennifer Green is living a life of quiet despair following her husband’s confession of an affair – until she encounters a half-crazed hobo who appears to know more about her than she does herself. Thanks to the tramp’s strange powers, Jennifer suddenly finds herself 25 years younger, with the figure and face of a goddess and every millionaire in New York trying to date her. When Jennifer moves in with her own unsuspecting daughter she takes up ‘honey trapping’ to catch cheating husbands, even checking out her daughter’s dodgy fiancé. But then her killer combination of stunning beauty and mature wisdom makes her a star on prime-time TV, and she begins to realise that there is an astonishing connection between the hobo, the handsome stranger who once nearly hijacked her wedding and the rich, successful and impossibly handsome media tycoon who now sweeps her off her feet. It Starts With A Kiss is a magical, funny, sexy story of glamour and romance, of lost youth and found love. “On my wedding day, I committed myself to a truly wondrous man. If only he’d been my husband…”
I wrote a book. It took more time than you can imagine!
After the thinking, the writing and the paintings, its ready. It is called: Hotel Brinta and other true happened stories
It is only avalable in Dutch..
The things that happened, stayed in my head as stories, for a whlle. Now, I wrote them down.
On the cover you see a spot of an old garden. On the shelf are some artefacts we found there in the ground.
I used to live there in an old house, so called : Hotel Brinta.
Since Henry James there have been many impressions of an American abroad and we have become used to seeing the world ‘under western eyes’. But what about seeing the world from a very different perspective - not from the standpoint of an affluent westerner, or even an anglicised foreigner like Conrad, but through the eyes of an Iranian who has not had the privilege of taking freedom for granted. Iran itself comes under close scrutiny as the author tries to come to terms with daily life in a country where freedom of speech, freedom of movement, and freedom to wear the clothing of one’s choice does not exist. Imagine, for instance, visiting a tourist town for a holiday break and being picked up by the police because you are not a local, and then inadvertently finding yourself with a rope around your neck in a public execution? The book is a real page-turner as one follows the author’s frequent bids for freedom, finding himself repeatedly in a prison cell, punting across a turbulent river to enter Greece without a visa, finding temporary solace and comfort in the arms of a young prostitute in Bulgaria, suffering the indignity of being treated as a slave by the high-minded bosses in Japan, and running away from the regular police raids in Cyprus. But not all is doom and gloom - by no means, for apart from the author’s downright honesty, sharing and confiding his innermost thoughts, there is his irresistible humour that never fails to see the funny side in the events and the people that he describes. With its unique perspective of what it is like to be down and out, and sometimes affluent too, in Iran and the countries the author visits, this book provides an unforgettable experience.
One freezing February night in 1940, fifteen-year-old Alicja Radomski, her parents and younger sister and brother were dragged from their home and forced to board a cattle train to be transported over a thousand miles to the wastes of Siberia. They were just one of many thousands of Polish families sent to labour camps by Stalin and his thugs after the Soviets seized their country at the outbreak of World War II. They became ‘non-persons’, forced to work from dawn to dusk in freezing conditions on rations scarcely fit for a rat. Ultimately, the Radomskis were among the lucky ones – they managed to survive their ordeal, to return to Europe and find new homes eventually in post-war England, where Alicja married a British serviceman and the family found peace and security. Alicja, now 89, has now told her shocking, heart-rending story with the help of her daughter Teresa.
Mohamud Ege grew up in the heat and dust of northern Somalia, the son of a family of nomads who were kept constantly on the move by the need to find water and grazing for the camels and sheep which were their only possessions. When Mohamud was five, his father was killed by a snake. A wise uncle then suggested that Mohamud, alone of his family, should go to school - a rare privilege in their culture. To attend school, Mohamud had to sleep on a rush mat, survive for long periods on nothing but pancakes and do his homework by moonlight. The hardships did not prevent him from discovering the joy of reading books and developing a keen appetite for learning. By the time he was in his teens he was determined to break free of the poverty of the nomad life and become a doctor in the West. Thanks to hard work and help from his friends he managed to qualify as one of Somalia's first doctors, but he had to battle the strife and unrest of his native land, as well as prejudice and red tape from those in authority, for more than twenty years before he finally managed to qualify as a doctor in the UK. This is his story.
The courageous few Zimbabweans who dared to stand up to President Robert Mugabe and his Zanu PF party in the election campaigns of 2008 were persecuted, assaulted and in many cases brutally murdered. Should I Forgive? is based on the experiences of a young wife and mother, Nyasha Gapa, who was raped and beaten for daring to campaign for Morgan Tsvangirai’s opposition party MDC (Movement for Democratic Change). While many of the details of the story have been changed to protect Nyasha’s family and friends from further violence, all the events related in this tragic story, from the sadistic beating of Nyasha’s husband to their flight to South Africa, their exploitation by a white farmer, the racist persecution the refugees experienced there and the catastrophic fire, actually happened. Should I Forgive? is a heartbreaking story of staggering courage, endurance and love.
From Huddersfield to war-torn Holland, this is the true story of one English boy serving with the Black Watch during World War II. When he was only seventeen, James Watson signed up to serve the nation in the fight against Nazi invasion. Knowing the legacy of their bravery and honour, he expressed a desire to serve in the Black Watch Highland Regiment, and it would only be a few months later when he began his training and the road to war. Written from the perspective of a close comrade, the true-story of James ‘Jim’ Watson’s wartime exploits follow him from his first day of training to the very last battle he would ever fight. Poignantly and emotionally-written, it is a story that conveys the day-to-day suffering of young soldiers as they fought for the liberation of Europe and for the safety of their friends and family back home. Alongside the stalwart men of the 5th Black Watch, James Watson’s actions from his role in the storming of the beaches on D-Day to being amongst the first to cross the border into Germany in 1945 are recollected in vivid detail. Friends dead and innocence shattered, the true cost of war on the young souls forced into violence is powerfully preserved in this account of James’ war. However the question still remains as to whether he will make it home at all. Written by James Watson’s nephew, A Teenager’s War is an inspiring but down-to-earth record of the lives of young soldiers and the war that defined their generation.
Mac is back! Following on from Bryan Marlowe’s thrilling Recalled to Arms and Leaving Mercy to Heaven, Eli (Mac) Murray, an embittered ex-SAS captain and his wife Sarah Shahar, a former Israeli Army captain attached to Mossad (Israel’s Secret Service), who first joined forces to fight a fanatical terrorist group in North Africa and the Middle East, are thrust back into the world of international intrigue, abduction and murder, when actors and technicians from the Omega Film Company are abducted and held for ransom in Colombia by junta overlord, Diego Contrero Moretta. With the deadline for payment fast approaching and Moretta not known for showing mercy, the race is on for Mac and Sarah to save the innocent abductees. Bryan Marlowe’s novels are fiction, but he makes no bones about drawing on his experiences with the Royal Air Force, the Diplomatic Service, the Police, his work as a newspaper columnist, his voluntary service with Victim and Witness Support and his travels to some very unlikely places to take a holiday.
The defeated are not always destroyed. In the immense science-fiction-fantasy universe of trolls, elves, humans, dinosaurs, gnomes and goblins, Molock’s Wand is the epic sequel to The Elf War. When a sudden rebellion by the slaves under her command destroys her Dark Elf stronghold and forces Eloen, the Halfling daughter of the cruel Molock, to flee into the wasteland of Aifheimr she vows vengeance on the Light Elf-led alliance… Leaving a bloody trail of death and destruction across the realm and eventually stowing away on the worldcrossing vessel known as the Spellbinder, Eloen escapes to the peaceful Light Elf homeland of Haven in search of a formidable weapon buried alongside her brother. If claimed, this weapon will allow Eloen to perfect the crude race known as the Dokka’lfar and continue the reign of terror that her father started. It once again falls to the High King Peterkin to renew old alliances and form new ones, as well as enlist the help of some unexpected old friends, to rebuff the onslaught of Eloen’s tyranny. But as the pursuit begins he finds that Eloen is always one step ahead and she is getting ever closer to plunging the world into her own breed of darkness…
Selling their London home and buying a decaying rural pile in the wilds of the English countryside seems to Bill and Alison Cavendish the perfect way to swap the stresses and strains of the city for a peaceful new life in the country, with the added bonus of cash in the bank. Unfortunately the manor house which captures their interest in the picturesque village of Little Daunting has problems far older, deeper and nastier than rats and dry rot. The cellars conceal a terrible, shocking secret; one which dates all the way back to the witch hunts of the 17th century and to those who would steal living bodies in the quest for eternal life. As Bill and Alison soon discover, at least one of the villagers knows far more than he is admitting about the gruesome events that have been taking place in the ancient, walled-off catacombs, which lie concealed under the neighboring churchyard. When Bill and Alison and their new gypsy allies investigate, they find themselves lifting the lid on an unimagined horror... Catacombs of the Damned, is a sexy, shocking horror story for adults from P J Cadavori.
When Alan Higgins joined the Royal Navy at the outbreak of World War II in 1939, he was not yet sixteen years old. His youth did not save him from the horrors of war, and he went on to survive the sinking of his ship, HMS Edinburgh, in the Barents Sea, and the bombing of a station in Russia before more peaceful spells in North America and Bermuda. Much of Alan’s war took place in the Mediterranean, and he found himself in the thick of it at the battle of Anzio, surviving repeated bombing attacks. As a member of the crew of one of the landing craft at the D-Day landings, he had to saw off a mate’s shattered leg with a bread knife. Yet despite the horrors and terrors, You’re in the Navy now is rich in gentle humour.
Donna, the elegant and beautiful wife of a wealthy businessman, thought she had escaped her violent childhood through her marriage. But despite the five-star hotels and expensive clothes, Donna feels increasingly unsatisfied by her safe and uneventful life. Johnny Ricci's teenage years were filled with crime, sex and violence. So when he gets involved with some ruthless drug dealers, Johnny has no choice but to flee his home town and attempt a fresh start in London. When Donna and Johnny meet at a Christmas party, they quickly find themselves at the mercy of an unquenchable attraction and begin a rollercoaster affair which drags them both back into the sordid world of their past. Ultimate Ride is a passion filled story of two unlikely lovers set in the rough and raunchy reality of urban England.
I don't need time, I need a deadline.
— Duke Ellington
Typeface: Bellatiez Regular
Merchandise available: www.redbubble.com/people/x1brett/works/78189892-i-dont-ne...
Nick Holloway’s nursing career was spent working in care homes in South Wales. His many experiences, sad, shocking, harrowing, uplifting, depressing and amusing, inspired him to write Autumn’s Colours, his first novel. This lighthearted story is set in an imaginary care home in the Dorset town of Dorchester, the town in which Nick trained as a nurse. The people and events in the book are based closely on real care homes, real people and real towns. They squabble, chat, fall out, banter, make friends and attempt to seduce each other – just like people in the outside world. The events described in the book will be familiar to anyone who works in a care home, or who visits somebody in one.
I don't need time, I need a deadline.
— Duke Ellington
Typeface: Bellatiez Regular
Merchandise available: www.redbubble.com/people/x1brett/works/78189666-i-dont-ne...
I don't need time, I need a deadline.
— Duke Ellington
Typeface: Bellatiez Regular
Merchandise available: www.redbubble.com/people/x1brett/works/78189892-i-dont-ne...
"Arvor is a dragon. He is actually a very nice dragon who would much rather play on his guitar or work on his science project than fly around breathing out fireballs. You see Arvor is a pupil at Caderbrith – the well-known school for dragons on Cader Idris in Wales. Arvor is also a little clumsy and quite small compared to the other dragons so they don’t want him on their team when they play Egger. This means Arvor has a bit of time to do other things, like stay out of trouble. It’s just that sometimes he’s in the wrong place at the right time…
Join Arvor and his friends Will, Percy and Cedric on their adventures at Caderbrith, the boarding school for dragons.
"
Wherever you’re travelling from, you can use this guide to make sure your holiday in the Las Vegas area is memorable, for all the right reasons. It just takes some inside knowledge and a little planning. This book will supply the first – it’s up to you to do the rest. If this is going to be your first visit, then you may not want to go too far, as you will probably be exploring the Strip (the main resort area of Las Vegas) and taking a few day trips to see the main sights of the region, such as the Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon. If you’ve been to the area before, then maybe you’re aiming to see a little less of the bright lights and the noisy casinos and a little more of the fascinating states of Nevada, Arizona, Utah and California. Everything you’ll read in these pages has been gathered from personal experience over 15 years of visits to the Las Vegas area.
Early one morning in October 1940, on a quiet farm on the Isle of Wight, 61- year-old farmer Frank Cave was found dead, killed with his own shotgun. After a police investigation, the woman who raised the alarm, Frank’s young housekeeper, Mabel Attrill, was charged with his murder. There followed a notorious criminal trial at Winchester Assizes, featuring the most prominent pathologist of the day and one of the country’s most brilliant lawyers. After many twists and turns, the trial reached an unexpected conclusion. Peter Cave, Frank’s great nephew, who was born on the Isle of Wight, has now researched the story in detail. In Death in Godshill, he presents the first published account of the Mabel Attrill case. Peter Cave was born on the Isle of Wight and brought up in the village of Chale. His grandparents ran a pub at nearby Blackgang. He left the Island in 1968 having qualified as a Trading Standards Officer, and spent most of his working life enforcing consumer protection law. He has a law degree from London University and is a Member of The Chartered Institute of Arbitrators.
George Raven served as a police officer in Essex for thirty years, rising to the rank of Detective Superintendent. In this autobiography he looks back on a colourful career, recounting stories of fascinating manhunts, gruesome murders, violent encounters and heartrending tragedies – as well as plenty of amusing and not-so-amusing incidents as he worked alongside officers who ranged from the excellent to the incompetent. Raven’s conclusion in retirement is that police recruitment standards and performance have deteriorated alarmingly over the years, while public perception and trust now stands at its lowest since the British police force was founded. In this entertaining account of his life in the force, he examines the reasons and challenges politicians to address the serious problems facing the police in the 21st century. ‘Politicians pass more and more laws, dream up more and more regulations and issue more and more directives to the police, to tie their hands and make enforcing both the good and the ridiculous laws they pass an almost impossible task.’
I don't need time, I need a deadline.
— Duke Ellington
Typeface: Bellatiez Regular
Merchandise available: www.redbubble.com/people/x1brett/works/78184180-i-dont-ne...