Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Stephanie Meyer's Does is again


apparently Stephanie Meyers is working on telling the story of Bree Tanner. Her story will be released in June 5th. Link to Original Article.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies Dawn of the Dreadfuls

Chapter 1
by Steve Hockensmith,
Author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls
Walking out in the middle of a funeral would be, of course, bad form. So attempting to walk out on one's own was beyond the pale.
When the service began, Mr. Ford was as well behaved as any corpse could be expected to be. In fact, he lay stretched out on the bier looking almost as stiff and expressionless in death as he had in life, and Oscar Bennet, gazing upon his not-so-dearly departed neighbor, could but think to himself, You lucky sod.
It was Mr. Bennet who longed to escape the church then, and the black oblivion of death seemed infinitely preferable to the torments he was suffering. At the pulpit, the Reverend Mr. Cummings was reading (and reading and reading and reading) from the Book of Common Prayer with all the verve and passion of a man mumbling in his sleep, while the pews were filled with statues -- the good people of Meryton, Hertfordshire, competing to see who could remain motionless the longest while wearing the most somber look of solemnity.
This contest had long since been forfeited by one party in particular: Mr. Bennet's. Mrs. Bennet couldn't resist sharing her (insufficiently) whispered appraisal of the casket's handles and plaque. ("Brass? For shame! Why, Mrs. Morrison had gold last week, and her people don't have two guineas to rub together.") Lydia and Kitty, the youngest of the Bennets' five daughters, were ever erupting into titters for reasons known only to themselves. Meanwhile, the middle daughter, fourteen-year-old Mary, insisted on loudly shushing her giggling sisters no matter how many times her reproaches were ignored, for she considered herself second only to the Reverend Mr. Cummings -- and perhaps Christ Himself -- as Meryton's foremost arbiter of virtue.
At least the Bennets' eldest, Jane, was as serene and sweet countenanced as ever, even if her dress was a trifle heavy on d├ęcolletage for a funeral. ("Display, my dear, display!" Mrs. Bennet had harped at her that morning. "Lord Lumpley might be there!") And, of course, Mr. Bennet knew he need fear no embarrassment from Elizabeth, second to Jane in age and beauty but first in spirit and wit. He leaned forward to look down the pew at her, his favorite -- and found her gaping at the front of the church, a look of horror on her face.
Mr. Bennet followed her line of sight. What he saw was a luxury, hard won and now so easily taken for granted: a man about to be buried with his head still on his shoulders.
That head, though -- wasn't there more of a loll to the left to it now? Weren't the lips drawn more taut, and the eyelids less so? In fact, weren't those eyes even now beginning to --
Yes. Yes, they were.
Mr. Bennet felt an icy cold inside him where there should have been fire, and his tingling fingers fumbled for the hilt of a sword that wasn't there.
Mr. Ford sat up and opened his eyes.
The first person to leap into action was Mrs. Bennet. Unfortunately, the action she leapt to was shrieking loud enough to wake the dead (presuming any in the vicinity were still sleeping) and wrapping herself around her husband with force sufficient to snap a man with less back-bone in two.
"Get a hold of yourself, woman!" Mr. Bennet said.
She merely maintained her hold on him, though, her redoubled howls sparking Kitty and Lydia to similar hysterics.
At the front of the church, Mrs. Ford staggered to her feet and started toward the bier.
"Martin!" she cried. "Martin, my beloved, you're alive!"
"I think not, Madam!" Mr. Bennet called out (while placing a firm hand over his wife's mouth)."If someone would restrain the lady, please!" Most of the congregation was busy screeching or fleeing or both at once, yet a few hardy souls managed to grab Mrs. Ford before she could shower her newly returned husband with kisses.
"Thank you!" Mr. Bennet said. He spent the next moments trying to disentangle himself from his wife's clutches. When he found he couldn't, he simply stepped sideways into the aisle, dragging her with him.
"I will be walking that way, Mrs. Bennet." He jerked his head at Mr. Ford, who was struggling to haul himself out of his casket. "If you choose to join me, so be it."
Mrs. Bennet let go and, after carefully checking to make sure Jane was still behind her, swooned backward into her eldest daughter's arms.
"Get her out of here," Mr. Bennet told Jane. "Lydia and Kitty, as well."
He turned his attention then to the next two girls down the pew: Elizabeth and Mary. The latter was deep in conversation with her younger sisters.
"The dreadfuls have returned!" Kitty screamed.
"Calm yourself, sister," Mary said, her voice dead. She was either keeping a cool head or had retreated into catatonia, it was hard to tell which. "We should not be hasty in our judgments."
"Hasty? Hasty?" Lydia pointed at the very undead Mr. Ford. "He's sitting up in his coffin!"
Mary stared back at her blankly. "We don't know he's a dreadful, though.
But Elizabeth did know. Mr. Bennet could see it in her eyes -- because now she was staring at him.
She didn't grasp the whole truth of it. How could she, when he'd been forced to keep it from her for so long? Yet this much would be obvious to a clear-thinking, level-headed girl like her: The dreadfuls had returned, and there was more to be done about it than scream. More her father intended to do.
What she couldn't have guessed -- couldn't have possibly dreamed -- was that she herself would be part of the doing.
"Elizabeth," Mr. Bennet said. "Mary. If you would come with me, please."
And he turned away and started toward the altar. Toward the zombie.
The above is an excerpt from the book Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls by Steve Hockensmith. The above excerpt is a digitally scanned reproduction of text from print. Although this excerpt has been proofread, occasional errors may appear due to the scanning process. Please refer to the finished book for accuracy.
Copyright © 2010 Steve Hockensmith, author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls
Author Bio
Steve Hockensmith is an award-winning novelist and reporter. His debut mystery, Holmes on the Range, was a finalist for the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony awards. Critics have hailed the novel and its sequels as "hilarious" (Entertainment Weekly), "dazzling" (The Boston Globe), "clever" (The New York Times), "uproarious" (Publisher's Weekly), "wonderfully entertaining" (Booklist), and "quirky and original" (The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette). He lives in Alameda, California, with his wife and two children.
For more information, please visit www.QuirkClassics.com .

Monday, March 22, 2010

It's Monday what are you reading?




I'm reading:
Practical Magic
Pale Kings and Princes
Between Two Kingdoms
When the Wind Blows

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Pride and Prejuidice and Zombies


Do you approve of the story being added with Zombies?  Would you find yourself reading this book?  

I got the book not that long ago while I know many struggle through Pride and Prejudice, they aren't fond of Jane Austen's writing style I wonder if people will tolerate a book that throws zombies into the mix? 
I myself have found that this book isn't too bad when Zombies are thrown in.  I definitely give the writers of this an applause as it must be hard to go through Ms. Austen's book to add things without stripping away the classic story.
So share your thoughts on the subject.  I am very curious if others are interested in this type of book or not.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman


So you spoke and I opened the book and am glad I did I like how you learn more about the Childhood of the Owens sisters as opposed to the movie where it seemed to skim over it.  I am definitely seeing that I will love this book.  I have always been a fan of Alice Hoffman her books just read so well like a good friend when your together.

Friday, March 12, 2010

New Moon Winner


Well with the night winding down I am ending the New Moon giveaway.  We want to take this time to thank everyone who joined and entered the contest and to remind people to check out Wicked Giveaway and Spring Giveaway 2 as well.  We will have more contests and giveaways.  And without further adieu, our winner is E. J. Stevens I will be contacting you so I can send you this great book

Review The Sun and The Moon by: Brian D. McClure


 Title: The Sun and The Moon
Author: Brian D. McClure
Publisher: Universal Flag Publishing
Pages: 36
Format: Hardcover
Source: The Cadence Group

Description:

Though the uplifting rhymes and profound messages of acceptance, respect and understanding, author Brian D. McClure educates and entertains children, parents and grandparents in the story of The Sun and the Moon whom one day walk out on their responsibilities as they argue like humans. This action causes unseen harm to the Earth and all inhabitants. Eventually the Sun and the Moon remember some deep hidden truths that allow them to once again share their gifts. This entertaining story reveals the unseen effects of fear and anger on others. It encourages children and adults to take a closer look at their behavior in each new day. The Sun and the Moon like the other seven books in The Brian D. McClure Children's book series offer universal life lessons that empower, teach and educate the whole family.

My Thoughts:

This was a cute book about how anger and harsh words can impact everyone even the sun and the moon. It also showed that when people fight they have a global affect. Things are impacted whenever two people fight and that is never more true then when the sun and moon fight and the sun quits. With this happening the earth gets impacted as do the people on Earth which creates an ice age. The pictures in this book are beautiful and breathtaking. I would definitely recommend this story for grade school aged children as there are hard words, Parents of preschoolers could read this to them but I found with my four year old daughter that it would have to be done in parts as she looses patience and wants to do other things. But it is a great story. Worth the purchase.

Monday, March 1, 2010

It's Monday what are you reading?

I am reading Club Dead by Charlaine Harris, Wednesday Letters by Jason F. Wright.


Thaw by Fiona Robyn


Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.
Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.
*
These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.
The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.
I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.
So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?
Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat; books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.
Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about; princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.
I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say; ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for’, before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.