When you're a janitor, life can get a little routine. When you are a janitor at Area 51, life can be a bit more interesting. When you're a janitor at Area 51 and everything goes wrong, life can get downright terrifying.
Join Jose as he attempts to be the last line of defense for Earth as this lowly janitor and his friends take on aliens and killer houseplants in Janitor 51.
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The Last Flight of the Phoenix is the sequel to the Novel - The Warrior's Stone. In the first book the T.S.S. Phoenix is lost behind enemy lines. In this new novel we discover what became ofthe Phoenix and its crew, while Roy and Katreena face a new evil that threatens their world.
The war was over except for the crew of the T.S.S. Phoenix. Lost deep in enemy space, crippled, but not dead. The odds of survival were stacked against them, but they were still determined to fight their way back towards allied space.
On New Terra, Roy O’Hara had discovered peace for his spirit and joy in a simple life. Yet he had only fulfilled a portion of the Commander’s Prophecy. It told of a darkness that would fall on his new home from the stars and he would be called upon once again to save them all.
The Alliance turned a blind eye to the sudden growth of the Sa’larie Empire just beyond their borders, but some in the intelligent community could see the clues of a new threat. A covert team is sent to discover the truth of the alien’s goals and they discover much more than they could have ever imagined.
Different paths of unlikely allies and new foes will intersect in the skies and on the ground of New Terra once again, where everything will change and destinies will collide.
If you wrong us, shall we not revenge? Rick Bailey is living a nice, quiet life on the planet where he retired, enjoying the money he found in the Treasure of the Black Hole. Without warning, he is arrested for helping his former lover, Jil, break out of prison where she was serving a 20-year term for murdering an alien. Hoping to clear his name, Bailey goes after Jil. But the slime-bed mate of Jil's victim is also after her. Now, Bailey's only hope for saving Jil is to find a treasure buried on a planet over ran with cannibalistic pirates. He teams up with a Core Empire Intelligence Corps officer, but she might have motives of her own. Can Rick save Jil and keep himself out of the clutches of the Core Empire that wants to vivisection him, the police who want to jail him, and the alien who wants vengeance for his brother's murder?
Charles Willoughby’s youth was an ordeal of beatings by his God-fearing father and seductions by his grossly obese mother. A warped and cruel man, he marries a woman who is willing to submit to his jaded sexual demands. However, when she bears a child not of his loin, he holds her and the child captive on his isolated farm and severs all ties with the nearby town. Then when his wife is killed, he is left with the girl. Although his religious beliefs preclude him from killing her, he doesn’t feel obligated to treat her humanely.
The girl, Taffeta Moonrose, is treated like a dog under Charles’ care. But one day, she finds herself free when Charles has a heart attack. Now, weak with hunger and on her own, she ventures forth into an unknown, hostile world in a desperate search for food. After stealing from the towns people all summer, she becomes known as the wild girl of Ashville.
When Matt and Toby Claybourne arrive at a nearby cabin on vacation, they learn of the “wild girl” and become determined to find and adopt her. When they finally do find her, their relationship with her becomes one that will change each of their lives in ways unforeseen.
This is a story that will grab your attention right from the prologue and won’t let you go until you’ve finished the very last page. It will take you on a rocket ride of emotions that will allow you to hate, entice you to love, tease you with hope, and leave you crying with a smile on your lips.
What Charles Willoughby does to his wife and her bastard child begins you on a journey filled with fear and humor, suffering and joy, sorrow and redemption.
803 AD, ANGLO-SAXON ENGLAND
A cheer roared into the storm from those waiting on the jetty as the dark silhouette of a vessel appeared through the driving rain. The ship had a fierce black-painted carving of a bird high on the prow, and it went by the name of Raven. With a great swell running, it took skilful seamanship to manoeuvre the ship to the landing stage beneath a sky black enough for the end of the world.
A passenger who had changed his name to Eadmund Wigstaning was leaning over the gunwales. He was thickset, of tall stature, with black hair and a beard. Although his complexion was swarthy, there was a green pallor about him. Wigstaning clutched a leather bag under his arm to keep the top out of sight. It was an unusual bag for the time since its closure was by means of a zip fastener. The bag contained gold coins stolen from a Frisian trader, and during the theft, Wigstaning had narrowly escaped with his life.
Two brothers owned the first of a waiting line of wagons. Soaked to the skin and miserable they nudged their horse forward, hoping to pick up freight for transport to the middle shires. Wigstaning hailed them. In a few halting words, he explained that he had to get to Heanton in the Arden. They discussed money, and he showed them three gold coins, which sealed the bargain.
As they made their way along the track heading north below the overhanging trees of the Forest of Anderida the brothers whispered about their passenger. They had attempted to make conversation with him but lapsed into silence because of the lack of response. When Wigstaning did choose to speak they recognised only a few of his words, and he spoke them with a peculiar accent from the front of his mouth.
To the brothers the passenger was like the forest, quiet and menacing, but Wigstaning was going to pay them well so his moodiness was worth tolerating. During the whole journey, he gave them no reason to suspect that his real name was Theodore Uberatu, or that he had travelled much further than anyone who encountered him could possibly have imagined.
After lodging for the night, Wigstaning directed the brothers to take him onward to Heanton in the Arden, a village near his destination in the Kingdom of Mercia. Taking the north western route out of London, they made their way along the street called Watling, heading toward a track that would take them through the Forest of Arden.
As they neared Heanton, the sky showing through the canopy of leaves became black and threatening. The brothers thought it was odd how, with the onset of a fierce thunderstorm, the mood of the passenger lightened. He pointed to his destination in the distance, a hilly part of the forest known as Leofwin’s Hundred, where the House of the West Wind lay.
The brothers became nervous as they drew near to Leofwin's Hundred because of the superstition associated with it. They whipped their horse into a brisk trot as they guided the wagon along a track by Shadow Brook. The turgid water was almost overflowing its banks and carried debris with it from the forest. Uberatu stood unsteadily in the swaying wagon, flicked straw off his clothes and said some words the brothers found unintelligible. He laughed for no apparent reason, and out of habit he pulled up his sleeve and checked the time pulsing by on his digital watch.
Uberatu stepped down from the wagon and handed the brothers their payment. He pulled up a hood to shield himself from the driving rain and after crossing the stream on stepping-stones he headed off through the trees.
The brothers turned the wagon and urged the horse into a gallop. When they were approaching the wayside inn in Heanton where they intended to stop for the night they could see a bluish glow reflecting off the rain-soaked wall. They peered back through the rain in the direction of the House of the West Wind and saw vague blue lines of light rising into the darkening sky.
There was fierce lightning that night and thunder echoed over the forest. Seven people in Heanton in the Arden claimed to have seen the blue lines rising into the sky that they said were similar to lightning, but rather than a jagged downward flash, the lines curved gracefully up into the heavens from the depths of the forest. When they told the innkeeper what they had seen, word spread quickly. The priest, grasping a holy relic and glancing nervously into the forest, lost no time in going to see them.
The centuries passed. Leofwin's Hundred remained a place of superstition and a haunt of wild creatures. Only a few individuals who had the extra courage and an enquiring mind went to the House of the West Wind, and sometimes whilst there, they caught sight of beings who looked only vaguely human . . . .
Traffic was thick even this early in the day. A line of cars snaked down San Marcos Pass as impatient drivers frequently passed four or five cars at a time in a vain effort to gain a few minutes over the rest.
Suddenly I felt a hard jolt as a car rammed my truck from the rear. My pulse raced. All I could see was a blur of white in my mirror before he hit me again. I heard Zorro barking in the camper and wondered how soon we could get off this horrible road.
Anger replaced fear as I saw the white car fall back and then gain speed for another onslaught. I remembered watching stunt drivers play out this scene in movies. Mike always said the driver should slam on the brakes and let the ramming car take the brunt of the crash—like cars in a demolition derby. He claimed the rear end of a car could absorb more abuse than the front end.
I braced myself and jammed the brake pedal to the floor. The crunching jolt was almost satisfying, but my head whipped back into the headrest. My neck felt sore. I glanced in the mirror and saw that the white hood looked crumpled and black smoke poured from the engine.
I stomped on the gas and gained distance while fumbling in my purse for my cell phone. I really needed to clean out the junk in that mammoth purse! Flipping open the lid, I saw a blank screen and a “searching for signal” message. I threw the useless instrument back into the black hole of my purse and glanced into the rear view mirror.
A knot formed in my stomach as Zorro barked in the camper.
The white car crept closer, like a tiger stalking its prey. Suddenly the car veered sharply into the passing lane, and I realized he planned to push me over the edge by hitting me from the side. I slammed on the brakes again hard, skidding to a stop as the white car shot past. He barely missed an oncoming car and veered back into our lane before screeching to a halt ahead of me.
In the future, the only solution to mass overcrowding and dwindling resources is the lottery. A game where people are paid to play but, if they win, they legally become food. Two such lottery-winners, a suicidal teenager named Sammie and an impoverished middle-aged woman named Kim, find themselves 'purchased' by the upscale Bistro Viande which is run by celebrity Chef Nick Delano and his jaded sous-chef, Anne. In the few remaining days of their lives, Kim decides to make the best of her life in enjoying what few pleasures remain for her, while Sammie decides to make the best of her death in ensuring she is at her tastiest. Little does anyone else know, however, that Sammie hides a dark secret, one that could both save her life and destroy the Bistro.
Anne stalked in and shouted “What the hell are you doing!?” Sammie and Kim looked at each other. Sammie stammered and Kim said “What do you mean? We just did as you told us. We weren’t trying to escape or anything like that. Just sitting here.” Anne pointed at them and said “You took that shower and then put your grungy, dirty clothing back on!?”
Sammie nodded quietly “Yes ma’am.” Kim squinted at first, but then smiled. Kim said “Wait, you’re so pissed, that you’re going to send us back into that hot shower.” Kim chuckled and said “We should piss you off more often.”
Anne stared at her coldly and replied “It’s not cheap!” Sammie pulled off her shirt and said “…or legal.” Anne shot her a look and Sammie held up a hand “Not that I’m complaining at all. We really enjoy and appreciate it.” Anne smiled wryly “It’s a perk of being food. The law says using hot water to wash a person is an illegally wasteful practice.” Anne cocked her head to the side lightly and continued “But… you aren’t people anymore and the use of hot water in cleansing of food in its preparation is legally allowed.” Sammie’s jaw dropped “That’s freaking genius!” Kim started to unbutton her pants and said “But, you’re not allowed in, Anne, are you?” Anne shrugged “The only time I’m ever in there is when I’m force-shaving a runner chained to the wall. Trust me, I’m not enjoying the water during those times.”
Sammie said “But, you never, you know… when no one is looking, or maybe between shipments ever want to hop inside this thing and get an actual, nice shower as opposed to those two-minute ice-bucket pieces of crap we’re allowed to have?” Anne shook her head “Never.” Sammie cocked her head to the side and said “Really? I mean, aren’t you even tempted.” Anne replied darkly “It’s an instrument for cleaning food. All the women who shower in there, they die.”
Kim pursed her lips and asked “Is it because of too many bad memories?” Anne’s gaze softened, but only for a second. She shook her head and it was gone “Just rinse off and get ready.”
They both disappeared in while Anne waited outside. In a few minutes, giggles and splashing could be heard coming from the shower. Anne shouted “Hurry up!” Sammie called back, laughing, “I suddenly feel like running, Anne. Maybe you should take off your clothes and come in here to hold me down. Why don’t you bring a bar of soap in for yourself while you’re at it?”
Anne threw a hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter that yearned to raise from her mouth. She clenched her jaw tight and squinted her eyes hard. She whispered to herself “They’re food, not friends. Food, not friends.” She leaned her head back against the wall and whispered to herself “Come on, Anne. Don’t make the Mary Jenson mistake again.”
Anne closed her eyes and remembered Mary. Over Mary’s short stay at Bistro Viande, her and Anne had grown incredibly close. She had a hard time remembering, between Mary and herself, who cried harder when she eventually loaded Mary into the oven. But, the end result lay seared in Anne’s mind…
Anne had to live on knowing herself to be Mary’s killer.
Anne took a deep breath to force the growing emotions away. Anne whispered “Die inside. Live outside.” She closed her eyes and pictured herself dead until the waves of memories and emotions passed. She reopened her eyes once more…
She remembered who she was. A consummate professional fully capable of a job that required her to kill two people per week.
Her face returned to its normal cold stare.
The Stuff that Dreams are Made Of . . .
When private detective Rick Bailey is hired by the exotically beautiful and outrageously wealthy Princess Nora, he thinks it'll be easy money. Escaping from her rebellion-torn kingdom, the princess has lost her handmaiden, Lores: the only person who knows how to find the hidden royal jewels.
But when his search for the equally lovely Lores turns deadly, Bailey realizes that there is more to this case than it first seemed. When someone tries to kill him, he discovers that the roots of evil run deep.
With his own set of values and sense of honor, Bailey must keep one step ahead of murderous mobsters, secret government operatives, and a genetically enhanced Lores as he races across the galaxy in search of the truth. The only things he knows he can trust are his eight-foot-tall ladybug-like girl Friday and a powerful weapon that responds to his thoughts.
Will Bailey find the treasure of the black hole in time and will he survive long enough to discover why it is something worth killing for?
They live among us. We know they are there. No government can control them; no authority can stop them. Some are evil. Some are good. All are powerful. They inhabit our myths and fairy tales. But what if they were real, the witches, wizards, and fairy godmothers? What if they were called "adepts" and an ancient evil stalks them? An assassination attempt on the head of the American Meta Association guild sends adept Peter Branton looking for who wants him and his leader dead. Finding the beautiful, shape-shifting assassin leads him to his real enemy, an enemy that is much worse and much more dangerous: living gods of Atlantis. Branton must team with up with his would-be killer and a mysterious warrior to defeat the gods of strife that are intent on starting a war that could devastate all mankind.
Stowaway to the Stars tells the story of Larry, an undercover agent for the Interstellar Exploration Programme, who stumbles on a covert operation by Zilon, a ruthless member of the Galactic Union. He finds himself framed by the Ziloni and a fugitive from the Union.
Karen is seeking the man responsible for the death of her sister. But one simple case of mistaken identity and a reckless decision suddenly sees her life in turmoil. She discovers that she is a stowaway on Larry’s spacecraft and her future is now irrevocably linked to his.
Larry’s future looks bleak. His only chance of finding evidence that will clear his name entails a near-suicidal invasion of a Ziloni military base. Karen has no choice but to accompany Larry on his mission, where she is thrown into the strange environment of the Union. Together they face the ultimate test as they battle with the collective might of the Ziloni and the Galactic Union.
Larry eased the thrust stick most of the way forward and the speed began to build. The arc of the Earth moved backward across the canopy, slowly at first but progressively faster until it was out of view, the cabin lights brightening to compensate for the loss of Earthlight. He trimmed the stick to maintain the thrust and settled back for the ride out to the hyperspace boundary.
A few minutes passed peacefully, then a voice behind him shattered the silence. ‘Hello, Grant. I bet you didn’t expect to meet me again.’
He leapt up and spun round. It was the girl from the bar, now sitting in his rear seat and pointing a gun at his head.
Her face was expressionless as her eyes bored into his. ‘I’m going to make you pay for what you did to Rachel. I know you’re responsible for what happened.’
Larry’s jaw sagged as he stared back at her, dumbfounded. How in the name of the seven saints had this strange girl managed to get aboard his ship, why was she mightily pissed off, and why did she seem to think his name was Grant? Before he could frame a suitable reply, a siren on the control console blared.
His world turned upside down for the second time. One glance at the viewscreen told him the worst. He had an incoming missile! And no guard missiles deployed. Shit, he was in deep trouble.
Larry made a rapid decision. A girl waving a pistol at his head or the absolute certainty of death in a couple of seconds from the missile - it wasn’t a contest. He spun back to the controls and located the red trace warning of the incoming missile approaching from the right. He’d have seen it seconds earlier but for the distraction of the damned girl.
‘Hey, arsehole, I’m not finished with you. Listen –’
How could this be happening to him? It was like a nightmare. And the stupid Earth girl who was distracting him hadn’t the faintest concept of what was going on. ‘Lady, shut up and let me concentrate, or you’ll get us both killed.’
He slammed the stick hard left and back. The ship’s gravity compensator had masked the earlier manoeuvring and bone-crunching thrust of the fifty gee drive out toward the hyperspace boundary. But it whined as it struggled to cope with the rapid changes of direction, and the slight lag made him clutch the top of the instrument panel to avoid being thrown about. He was vaguely aware of clattering behind him as the girl was thrown off balance by the same uncompensated forces.
The missile overshot, but a second red trace appeared on the display and an instant later the siren went off again. He slammed the stick the other way, bracing himself again. That missile passed by on the left, but even closer. The girl shouted something else. Forget about her, she probably wouldn’t kill him, but those damned missiles would if he didn’t get his defence missiles deployed fast.
“Who’s there?” Carl muttered, his eyes slowly opening to narrow slits. The squeal in his head subsided, as did the song. The sound was replaced by distant howling that hung in the cool air the same way that his breath rolled out from his lips.
The mattress felt stiffer than a slab of concrete. With a grunt, Carl tried to roll to his side. Every muscle in his body lit ablaze with a fire that grew hotter, no matter how he positioned himself. Every joint swelled, making it impossible to form even a loose fist. He gave up and flopped flat on his back.
Carl looked up to the ceiling; in the center of the stained canopy, a drop of water clung to a dark patch of mold, clawing its way towards the corner. The damp scent of rot caught in his nose, causing him to cough, sending sharp pains through his abdomen. When the coughing stopped, he wanted to clutch at his sides, but it was easier to stay still.
Carl tilted his head. His eyes trailed towards the room’s barred entrance, which was framed with crumbling plaster. Pieces of stucco remained on the concrete floor, reminding Carl of his vision during lunch at Informacorp. He let out a sigh, watching his breath condense in the cold air, slowly floating away and dissipating into obscurity.
He tried to move his leaden arm, but the weight was too difficult to overcome. When is this going to stop? he wondered. He had no desire to stay in this ugly world with its bland gray palette. All of it so real. Carl wondered if he was crazy, if he would ever be able to escape this delusion. If I am crazy, he wondered, would I be able to recognize it? The idea sent his mind reeling, unable to discern an answer that didn’t lead back to the beginning of a cruel paradox. A stabbing sensation in his intestines abruptly took him away from his internalized argument. There was no question about the reality of pain. That much was certain.
Eventually, the agony in his belly dulled, giving Carl a chance to scan the room for clues. He wasn’t sure what to look for. Or even what questions needed to be answered. Those questions, he decided, were too numerous to sort out. Some hint, any hint about his location would suffice for the time being. But from within the gray confine, there were no indicators as to his whereabouts. Carl closed his eyes and continued to lay still.
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Welcome to this edition of Words For Thought , the blog on wordrefiner.com . Like many of the previous blogs we are looking at homophones.
https://www.gofundme.com/teamfistbump Note: All underlined words are links to the sites I am currently discussing. Team Fist Bump (#teamfistbump) is on a mission: These journals are
Periodically, ForeignCorrespondent participates in virtual book tours that allow authors to showcase their books to a broader audience. Today I am hosting fellow RRBC/RWISA author