||Take Charge of Your Aviation Career
This is the second edition of the first edition, “Take Charge Of Your Aviation Career.” This book will discuss talk about some of various opportunities in the aviation field, but more so, how to position yourself to seize those moments in your career that may only come once. The aviation industry is changing and if you are an AMT (Aircraft Maintenance Technicians) you are going to have to adjust as well if you’re going to achieve the very best from your aviation career.
I have written this book with the following readers in mind:
The first reader is someone who is new to the aviation industry. Perhaps he or she is considering an aviation career or are about to finish A&P School. Maybe he or she is leaving the military. In any case, they have a bright future ahead of them and are curious about what awaits them in the aviation business.
The second reader has been in the business for three years or more and is wondering how to advance their career in their current work environment.
The third reader has a good idea where he or she is going and wants to see whether or not they’re on track.
The last reader is someone who has perhaps been laid off or is currently looking for work.
I also discuss the proper way to interact with your co-workers and your team. I talk about management, how we in the industry as blown it and how we can achieve better results in the coming age. I discuss many tips and tools concerning: your resume, interview preparation, phone interviews, and closing the deal. The numbers of ways that you can instantly make yourself stand out above other job candidates.
I also discuss other options for a trained and certificated AMT that may want to transition from aviation to a related field that can use your unique skills. I talk about contracting and overseas contracting. As my method of writing many of my other books, this book may seem small, but it is easy to read and is packed with valuable information that you may not see anywhere else.
||Tale of the Murderous Southern Belle
Step into the fictional town of Bucksdale Mississippi, where you'll meet the riveting character of ELLANECE MOSLEY, a woman who fronts as a home and property flipping realtor, but in reality, is a psychotic serial killer, who stalks men and lures them to their death, with her beguiling methods. Throughout this TALE OF THE MURDEROUS SOUTHERN BELLE, along with Ellanece's victims, you'll also meet the town's detectives, JASPER LEWIS and TRACI HARMON. After seemingly getting away with her first murder, of one DENNIS HENDERSON, she knows that time is running out for her, in the small town. So she employs the help of various other contractors, to help her complete her real estate investment. One of the helpers being a young man by the name of, JUSTIN HOWARD, winds up falling head over heels for his deadly but charming employer, ELLANECE, who decides to set him up, to take the blame for another murder that she plans on committing. Will ELLANECE get away with it all? Or will the combined forces of JUSTIN HOWARD, and the detectives of Bucksdale, be able to stop her, and deliver the justice that is long over due for this Murderous Southern Belle.
||Tales from the Mind Field
The hot water felt good on her skin. She closed her eyes and imagined what she and Tim had just been doing. It made her tingle a bit as she could still feel his hands on her. She looked around as though to be sure no one was watching as she continued lathering her body. As she did, the lights suddenly flickered off and on and then off again. Suzy looked around and then up at the darkened light. “Oh crap!, just what I need” she muttered. She wasn't looking forward to a power failure right in the middle of her shower. She turned and reached for her shampoo on the ledge of the shower stall. As she did she seemed to see an unmistakable shadow on the wall of the next shower over. At first she felt a little frightened as she called out “Who’s there?”
Then her fear melted away and a wry smile came across her face as she called out quietly, “Tim? Is that you? Come on in, the waters fine” She waited for a moment for him to respond. When he didn’t, she smiled and figured he probably wanted to slip in beside her after turning off the lights and surprise her.
“Come on over Tim, you and I can make this water even hotter eh?” she cooed. She looked up as the shadowy figure moved towards the front of the adjacent shower stall. Suzy felt a little shiver of excitement come over her, as she thought about the two of them in the shower together....
||Temple of Love
Her fingers touched the pages and held the quill
Lightly they pressed; a panoply of enumerations
Not mere whimsy, but tethered in grit
Fingers and palms held fast the measure of them,
The weight, infinite, She balanced these:
Her virtue, reputation, and devotion to the Divine
Juxtaposed to the demands,
Could she follow them?
Did she dare?
Her nib grazed the page
Ink blotting and boring through porous threads
Seeping down the fluted mahogany leg.
||That Deadly Space
Saying goodbye to the company commanders was difficult. Saying goodbye to First Sergeant Tanneyhill was especially difficult. Conor promised Chaplain Yancey that he would attend as many of his services as possible, as he had been doing, and Conor thanked him for his support and friendship. The brigade commander, Colonel Baker, agreed that Captain Willingham would be the best choice as Conor’s replacement, and the three of them met for two hours to transition the regiment.
In the late evening, Conor was walking the regimental line with Captain Willingham when three soldiers called out from their trench.
“We hear you’re leaving us, sir. Before you get away, we’d like for you to join us down here.”
Willingham and Conor jumped down into the trench with the three young soldiers. One man reached into his coat pocket and brought out a handful of shelled, roasted peanuts. He passed three of the peanuts to Conor, three to the others, and they toasted each other by tapping the shells together. “To the Thirty-eighth Georgia,” they all repeated.
The peanuts were damp and stale, but Conor didn’t care. It was the purest, most unselfish, most cherished gift he could remember.
“We’ll miss you, sir. We walked a lot of miles together, didn’t we?”
“We did. And I appreciate what you men have meant to this regiment, and to me personally. I’ll ask you to give Captain Willingham the same great support you gave me.”
“We will, sir. Good luck to you.”
Conor mentioned to Willingham as they finished the inspection of the line, “Where did we get such men as these? How could I have been so blessed to command them? To have gone into battle with them, and bled with them, and watched so many of them die? These men have carried me from the field after being wounded. I have seen them march for days on dusty roads, wade fast-flowing, rain-swollen rivers, trudge through hard rain and thick mud, and lie down on the grass and be asleep in a matter of seconds. I have looked into their eyes just before we faced an enemy of superior strength and seen their determination, and knew they would be right there with me as we moved forward each time, every time. I have watched them freezing in the cold, half-starved, homesick, lovesick, physically sick, and yet they manned their posts. I have written to their mothers of their astonishing bravery and of how proud they should be of their dead heroic sons. I have listened to their ribald humor, their cursing, their sarcasm, and their prayers. I know that no matter how long I live, no matter what else I do in this life, I will never see their equal again. Just where did we get such men as these?”
Afterwards, when he got back to his hut and thought about those young, undernourished, loyal soldiers so eagerly sharing their few remaining peanuts with him, an act of extraordinary generosity matched only by their magnificent valor, Conor sat on the ground and wept.
||That Moment When
We’ve gathered a handful of thrilling stories from all of your favorite genres and put them together into an epic anthology of young adult fiction. Some of them are just the beginning of a unique adventure, while others are complete stories that will spark your imagination.
With over 200,000 words (about three full-length novels) That Moment When will provide weeks of reading pleasure.
Have you ever reached a moment in your life when everything changed? A crossroads of sorts… a point of no return. An event or realization so enormous you knew it would impact you forever in ways you couldn’t begin to understand? Discoveries so momentous they changed everything you thought you knew about the world, and yourself?
That Moment When is filled with exactly these kinds of moments.
If you read the stories in this anthology, I guarantee you’ll find at least a few that thrill and excite you. Make sure to follow the authors if you want to read more - most of us have at least one free book on our sites.
||The Adventures of Froblicious the Frog
The Adventures of Froblicious the Frog is the first book of the series Let’s Learn While Playing.
Froblicious is a one-of-a-kind frog. He sings, dances, exercises, and has a good time with his friends. He usually sleeps during the day, and during the evening he has fun doing his colorful activities.
One day he was bored, and after waking up, he set foot on another adventure. He tripped on a seesaw and sailed through the window of a little girl’s bathroom. But then, what happened to Froblicious? Find out after reading this sweet story.
This is a fun rhyme geared towards 2- to 6-year-olds, where children will enjoy the beginning of a friendship between a little girl and silly frog. And it comes with bonus coloring pages.
||The Adventures of Nick and Billy
Billy feels the log he’s resting against shift slightly, and hears the loud crack of a branch being broken off. He watches Lufroy’s shadow above the surface as it moves on the other side of the log, all the while hoping that Lufroy doesn’t use the branch he just broke off as a club to pound him and Nick. Suddenly he feels a weight land on his lap, knowing instantly that it’s the snake he saw resting above him just before he laid back in the water. Billy can feel the wiggling movement as the snake swims up his body, and he stares up, wide-eyed, as its lower jaw stops right above his eyes! Using the same strategy as the boys’ to conceal itself, the snake is submerged and, obviously, it thinks it’s resting on a log. But, the problem is that the snake’s body is resting on Billy’s chin, neck, and chest and it takes every bit of his self-control to remain motionless and not gulp in a lung full of water. All he can do is watch as the snake scrutinizes the strange creature above that has disturbed its rest. Fortunately for Billy, the snake is more cautious than curious and it decides to make a slow retreat deeper into the safety of the swamp. As he watches the snake slither over his face, Billy breathes a deep sigh of relief through the stem of the water lily and once again counts his blessings.
||The Aftermath of Battle
Mr. Ellsworth sat, waiting. The telegraph whirred and clicked throughout the early morning, then one of the operators suddenly gasped and burst into tears. He looked up at Mr. Ellsworth, rose, and walked to him, holding a piece of paper. The operator's hand shook as he handed the Western Union onionskin to the waiting father. Mr. Ellsworth looked at the words, not trusting himself to read or understand their message. By the second reading, however, the communication was clear: their son, Elmer, was dead.
Shocken and shaken, Ephraim Ellsworth walked slowly back to the low-browed cottage. Now what? First h must tell Phebe that their handsome, charismatic 24-year-old son was gone--forever gone--from their lives. His merry hazel eyes and authoritative voice were stilled, his idealistic letters silenced. His highflown dreams of a career commanding men would never be a reality. A shotgun shell extinguished much of the happiness of their lives. How? Where? Why?
||The Alienation of Courtney Hoffman
Lightning ripped across the northern California sky, then splintered down through the rain and disappeared behind our neighbor’s house. Letting the door slam shut behind me, I ran away from the warmth of our porch light into the darkness of our backyard. My mom would’ve killed me if she’d caught me outside that late at night. Especially in a thunderstorm, and on the night before my fifteenth birthday, with the big party she had planned for tomorrow. But I had to get out of the house before I fell asleep and they came for me. And they were coming!
A gust of wind blew my hair against my face. I swiped it out of my eyes just in time to see a plastic lawn chair tumbling through the air. I covered my head with both arms, but a leg of the chair smashed against my elbow. Ouch!
I dropped onto the wet grass, pulled my knees into my chest, and rocked nervously back and forth. Water soaked up through my nightgown and my underwear, making me shiver.
None of these things mattered, though. Because something far worse was happening inside my head. A memory of me as a little girl, on the night my grandpa Dahlen disappeared from his cottage, was trying to claw its way into my consciousness. And I didn’t want to think about that night. Ever.
Still, I couldn’t stop it, which didn’t make sense. I was awake, and outside, where I was supposed to be safe, yet the aliens from my dreams were somehow messing with my thoughts, rearranging things, trying to make me think about that night! But how?
And why? It happened eight years ago, and my grandpa was dead now.
Although, before he disappeared, he’d—
No! Stop, Courtney! I yelled at myself.
I bit my fingernail and took a deep breath, hoping to calm down.
No luck. I was remembering the musty old-books smell from my grandpa’s bookcase. Butterflies rushed into my stomach and I sprang to my feet.
“All right. Is that what you want me to do?” I shouted into the rainy darkness. “Remember my grandpa? What happened that night? If I do that, then will you leave me alone?”
I wiped the rain from my eyes, and suddenly it was like I was right there, in the cottage. His notebook sat on the plaid couch, opened to a map he’d drawn of the ancient wormholes linking the alien world to our own.
I stumbled backward over a tree root and my butt hit the ground; my head clunked against an even bigger root. Oww! I started to sit up. But suddenly the memory I’d been running from took over the screen in my mind. I fell back into the wet grass and watched the scene unfold as if I were seven years old again, right there in the cottage.
It was raining outside, and the air smelled like old, musty books and burnt hamburgers. I glanced over at my grandpa Dahlen. He was busy in the kitchen, forking ears of corn out of a pot of boiling water. Standing tiptoe on the comfy reading chair, I reached up to the bookcase and ran my fingers along the dials of what he called his ham-radio/alien-transport machine.
“Courtney!” Grandpa stared at me over his steamed-up glasses.
“Fine.” I plopped down on the reading chair and crossed my arms over my chest. Then I lowered my eyes. Blood was seeping through my shirt again from earlier in the day, when my grandpa’s nun friend had stopped by with a guy with a tattoo gun. They’d come to give me a tattoo. I hadn’t wanted a tattoo! But my grandpa had told me it was important, and the way he’d said it, I’d believed him. So now I had a blue mark on my rib cage that looked like four dead bugs arranged in a square.
“So tell me this, Grandpa,” I said. “If these aliens who visit you are really your friends, then why do they make you keep everything secret?”
He turned away from the steaming pot and eyed me with suspicion. “Because people are frightened of what they don’t understand. And frightened people can be dangerous, Courtney,” he said. “Now come sit down for dinner.”
I slipped into a wobbly kitchen chair, rested my elbows on the wooden table, and stared down at my burnt ham- burger. “Mom doesn’t believe in aliens, so does that make her dangerous?” I asked.
Grandpa chuckled. “Your mother is only interested in facts and evidence. Even when she was a child, she had no tolerance for intangibles. Or even comic books, for that matter. Can you imagine?” He set a plate of corn on the cob in the center of the table, then sat down across from me. “But dangerous? No. I think we’re safe from her.” He flashed me a wink.
I winked back. People always told me that I shared his silvery-blue eyes. Hearing someone say it would make my mom cringe, though, because she thought Grandpa was crazy. And the last thing she wanted was for me to turn out like him. But she and my dad were spending the weekend with their old law school friends on Lake Tahoe, so they’d dropped me off with Grandpa on their way.
“Well, if these alien things are real living creatures, then did God make them?” I asked. “Or are they just imaginary?”
I smiled proudly. I was about to finally get the truth from him.
“How’s your burger?” he asked.
“But you didn’t answer—”I started to protest, when a bang on the front door made me jump.
My grandpa ran over and covered his ham-radio/alien-transport machine with an afghan.
More quick pounding! Grandpa shoved his notebook under the couch.
I tried to read his expression, to see if he was frightened or just cleaning up, but he wouldn’t look at me. He rushed to the door and glanced through the peephole, and I held my breath.
When he unlocked the door, three men barged into the cottage.
I immediately recognized them as professor friends of my grandpa’s from when he’d taught at Berkeley. But what were they doing out here at night? I mean, hadn’t they heard of cellphones?
They stared over at me. “Hello, Courtney,” said one, a tall man with a thick beard and black suitcoat.
I shot my grandpa a pleading look, like Make them go away. But he quickly shook his head. I stomped into the guest bedroom and slammed the door.
“They’re coming,” one of the men whispered, loud enough for me to hear. He sounded worried. Which made me worry. About what, though, I wasn’t quite sure.
I bit my thumbnail, and it tasted like wormy dirt from the woodpile. Gross! I wiped my mouth with the bottom of my shirt.
“She’s not safe,” another man said.
Not safe? I froze. “She”? As in me? My heart started racing, and suddenly I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs.
I grabbed the black metal latch of the window next to me and opened it. The chirr-chirr of crickets filled the bedroom, and I breathed in the smell of wet leaves. Pressing my face against the screen, I glanced up at my grandpa’s ham radio tower, standing tall along the side of the house. The siren on top of it glistened with rain under the silvery moon. It would sound off if any bad guys snuck into the backyard and tried to mess with my grandpa’s things. Or that’s what he’d told me, anyway.
Suddenly a familiar shiver trickled down my neck. Oh wow!
I turned away from the window and locked eyes with Astra. “Nice of you to show up,” I said.
She was a few years older than me. Like eleven, maybe. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the closet; her eyes shone bright green against her pale skin and black hair. She bit into her plump bottom lip, which meant she was worried about me. “You think I’m going to climb out the window and run away?” I asked her.
She didn’t answer. For an imaginary friend, she wasn’t very talkative. But she seemed to show up whenever I was in trouble. And there was no getting rid of her; our minds were connected. My grandpa said she was probably a real person somewhere, and that we shared consciousness because we came from the same bloodline. As crazy as the idea seemed, I liked to think that there might be someone real out there who would understand me if we ever crossed paths. Most people just thought I was weird like my grandpa.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I told Astra.
Outside my door, I could hear the men pacing around on the creaky wooden floor boards.
“When?” my grandpa asked.
“We don’t know,” another man said.
I didn’t like the sound of that. My stomach tightened with nerves. I sat down on my bed and rocked back and forth, staring at Astra.
“You’re crying,” she said. Or I could hear her voice in my head, anyway.
“No I’m not.” I swiped my cheek. Then I looked down at the spot of blood on my shirt. “I got a tattoo,” I said, trying to change the subject.
A siren wailed outside. The alarm! I jumped up, turned toward the window. But the bedroom door burst open behind me. I spun back around, and my grandpa stood in the doorway.
“Grandpa! What’s happening?” I started toward him. He quickly shook his head and then pressed his finger to his lips: Stay quiet.
Grandpa looked scared. And he was never scared. My heart pounded against my rib cage. Astra was gone. This was bad.
Bright light lit up my grandpa’s face. It was coming through the window behind me. Oh no! I whipped around to see who was there, and someone grabbed me from inside the room.
I started to scream, but a hand covered my mouth. My feet lifted off the floor. Frantically I twisted my head around to see who it was, but I was being dragged backward, down the hall, into the bathroom. Kicking at the bathroom wall, I bit into the hand covering my mouth, and for a second my head was free. I whirled around to see my grandpa, his finger gushing blood from where my teeth had cut into his skin.
“Grandpa? What are you doing?”
He whispered something in my ear. Then he lifted me up, ignoring my flailing legs.
The next thing I knew, I was underwater. Screaming!
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.
||The Artimus Box
“One night in February 1932, they saw a boy leaving the shop late after the other workers had left. They had noticed that the lights in the shop had not been turned off by the last man they saw leave before the boy came out, and had decided to keep watch on the place. When they spotted the boy with a box, the boy saw them, and ducked behind a corner of the street. When they fired a warning shot to stop him, the boy ran through an alleyway and they gave chase. They lost sight of him for a while and then one of the men saw the boy with the box under his arm. The moon silhouetted him crouching by a corner beam on a first story platform in a building site. They moved to a position that would afford them a shot at the boy and fired several shots. They all saw the boy fall with the box.”
“As they ran to the lot where the boy fell, they saw people were already coming out of some of the neighboring buildings to see what the noise was.
The man with the rifle hid it and the rest of the men split up to search the dark lot. They found the boy but, before they could take the box, the neighborhood men were coming into the building site. They pulled the boy’s body out of view to a dirt berm built up around a hole dug by a support beam.
One of the men grabbed the box from the boy’s grasp. A policeman approached them, the beam of his flashlight moving back and forth scanning the lot. The leader of the killers quickly moved toward the cop to distract him. He stepped around the cop to make him turn away from the other men. Hidden from the cop’s view the other men dropped the box and pushed it along with the body into the hole. One of the men kicked dirt from the pile around the hole to cover the body. The policeman asked what they were doing. The leader of the men said, in a thick German accent, that they had heard shots and were looking to see what was going on.
The policeman turned and ran the beam of his flashlight over the other men. He wanted to know why the man was kicking the dirt. The leader replied that one of the men had just taken a leak there. The policeman walked over and looked at the men, glanced at the dark hole and then told them to go home. He said he would do the investigating.
When they cautiously returned to the site the next night, they discovered the whole area around where they had left the boy, covered in concrete. A policeman also stood guard at the entrance gate.”
“It seems that not only justice is blind.”