eBooks „cross“
Es wurden 580 eBooks für den Suchbegriff „cross“ gefunden.
Sandra Olsen
Mein schönster Sommerurlaub
Die ältere Nachbarin sollte auf mich aufpassen.
- Erotik
- Deutsch
- 13517 Wörter
- Ab 18 Jahren
- 4
Daniel Merkener war ein junger Mann, den man auch Loser nennen konnte. Er war nicht groß gewachsen und war, so könnte man sagen, ein Nerd, ein sehr intelligenter, aber sozial isolierter junger Mann. Als er auf die High-School ging, schloss er sich einem Cross-Country-Team an, da er dort nicht ausgestoßen war. Zu seinem Abschlussball wollte er nicht gehen, da er kein Mädchen für den Ballabend fand. Er war sozusagen, ein Ausgestoßener. Dann forderte sein Vater ihn auf, mit der Tochter seines Arbeitskollegen, zu deren Abschlussball zu gehen. Es war ein Mädchen mit nicht ganz gutem Ruf, aber er hatte zum ersten Mal richtigen Kontakt mit einem Mädchen. Sie verführte ihn zum Dank und somit hatte er auch jetzt schon einmal, ein solches Erlebnis. Dann begann er ein Studium und wollte in den Sommerferien mit einigen, seiner neu gewonnenen Freunde, zusammen an die Nordsee fahren. Hauptsächlich seine Mutter war dagegen und überredete ihn, zusammen mit ihnen, in ihr Ferienhaus nach Schweden zu fahren, was er ungern machte. Aber es war doch noch besser, als alleine zu Haus zu bleiben. Dort konnte er mit seinem Boot fahren, Angeln, und schwimmen in der Ostsee. Als sein Vater von seiner Firma aus dem Urlaub zurückgerufen wurde, weil ein wichtiger Mitarbeiter an Corona erkrankt war, wehrte sich Daniel, seinen Urlaub abzubrechen und mit seinen Eltern zurückzukehren. Er blieb dann dort und seine Mutter brachte ihn bei ihrer Freundin und Nachbarin Regina Olsson unter. Ihre beiden Kinder waren erwachsen und längst ausgezogen. Regina lebte allein und war froh über diesen Besuch. Daniel und Regina unternahmen viel mit seinem Boot und fuhren täglich hinaus auf eine einsame Insel. Alle änderten sich plötzlich, als Regina feststellte, dass sie die Tasche mit den Badeanzügen zu Hause vergessen hatte. Daniel kam zu der Erkenntnis, dass sie es absichtlich getan hatte. Von nun an änderte sich sein ganzes Leben. Warum Regina die Badesachen absichtlich vergessen hatte, und war sich von nun an, im Leben von Daniel änderte, das können sie hier in dieser Geschichte selbst erlesen.
Viel Spaß beim Lesen
Sandra Olsen [mehr]
Stichwörter: Sex, Erotik, Liebe, Sexgeschichten, Erotikgeschichten, Liebesgeschichten, Ab 18, Volljährig, Sammelband, Lov, Leidenschaft, Partnerschaft, Romantik, Kurzgeschichten, Romantikgeschichte, Erotik-Sammelband, Scheidung, Schwanger, Hingabe, Dreier, Fremdgehen, Unterhaltungsgeschichten, Lesespass, XXL-Geschichte, Leseprobe Sex, Leseprobe [mehr]
2,99 €
Peter Bernhardt
Kiss of the Shaman's Daughter
Revolt, Lost Treasure, and Smugglers (Book 2: Diva Undaunted)
- Krimi
- Englisch
- 96225 Wörter
- Ab 12 Jahren
- 189
Against the backdrop of the rugged Sangre de Cristo Mountains, aspiring diva Sylvia mazzoni hopes to combine her Santa Fe Opera debut and a romantic reunion with her lover, Washington attorney Rolf Keller. But Rolf’s old nemesis from law school, Charles Slater, now an archaeologist, intrudes on their tryst. He is on the run from ruthless antiquities traffickers, who are after his recent find of prehistoric Indian artifacts.
After Slater vanishes under suspicious circumstances, Rolf plunges into the New Mexico wilderness to search for him and his priceless cache. Soon, he finds himself in desperate flight not only from the guns of the murderous smugglers, but from the FBI as well.
When the soprano slated to sing Tosca develops vocal problems, opera management drafts Sylvia as a last-minute replacement. While struggling to convert the daunting challenge into the career triumph she has pursued all her life, she and Rolf are threatened by the smugglers who will stop at nothing to get their hands on Slater’s hoard.
As they unravel the twisted clues Slater left behind, Sylvia and Rolf stumble upon the intriguing legend of a shaman’s young daughter, Teya, who played a crucial role in the Pueblo Indian Revolt of 1680 against the Spanish oppressors and perhaps concealed the treasure of a lost pueblo.
Now, three centuries later, the paths of Teya, Sylvia and Rolf are about to cross in this riveting historical thriller involving archaeological crime, southwestern history and grand opera.
2022 Arizona Authors Association Literary Contest: Second Place
German Edition: Kuss der Schamanentochter - Revolte, Verlorener Schatz und Schmuggler (Buch 2: Diva Unverzagt)
Also by Peter Bernhardt:
Prequel: The Stasi File―Opera and Espionage: A Deadly Combination (Book 1: Diva Undaunted), 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Quarterfinalist; 2022 Arizona Authors Association Literary Contest: First Place
German Edition: Die Stasi-Akte―Oper und Spionage: Eine Tödliche Kombination (Buch 1: Diva Unverzagt)
Red Romeo - Stasi Gigolos and the Spy Hunter of Germany (Inspired by Actual Events)
German Edition: Roter Romeo - Stasi Gigolos und die Spionjägerin von Deutschland (Inspiriert durch Tatsächlich Zugetragene Erignisse)
[mehr]
3,99 €
Rafiq Sandeelvi
It’s A Camel Ride
- Lyrik und Poesie
- Englisch
- 511 Wörter
- Ab 16 Jahren
- 292
It’s a camel ride, and I
In a desolate street
Of a ravaged city
Holding the worn-out leather reins
Drive towards that home
On whose threshold
A sorrowful woman is tethered down
With a cord
Of my promise
A sturdy cord, weaved from heart-strings
Bare-headed, for many centuries
Teary eyes
Eyes with the glint of an ancient star
Anxious to imbibe the smell of my ashen robe
And to hear the distressed grunts
Of my brown camel.
The same soggy corner of the chamber
Where one night
When wooden arrows were raining down
I had abandoned her
Vulnerable and lonely
I still remember every bit
The drizzle had stopped
The moon was seated in the night sky
Like a youthful prince on the throne
The air caressed the cheeks like a silken shawl
The street was fast asleep
The houses, in their cold and wet shells
As if made of soft and thin paper
Or carved out of wax
Standing since eternity
In a big painting
The same soggy corner of the chamber
Where glittering sunbeams were spotlighting
The fresh fig leaf
In her long, unbraid hair
I still remember every bit
The kiss on her wheatish elbow
The same night
When I had laid my sword at her feet
And had pledged:
“My body, and the strength that runs it
Will accompany your passion
Till eternity … beyond eternity
Till the verge of existence and nonexistence
Time listens
I make my witnesses
This moon on the sky
The sword in your feet
And the fig leaf in your hair.”
God, what a moment that was
what a moment this is!
The street, deserted and hushed
What a wretched moment, in which
Neither a tiny bird nor a moth
Or a paltry ant has crossed my way
Much less a human being
It’s a camel ride, and I
Holding the worn-out leather reins
Drive towards that home
… Drive towards a doomsday, a silent doomsday
A doomsday of somebody’s sobs and sighs
A scene
A scene where a street
And a brown camel
And the company of a spineless man
A never-ending journey till eternity
It’s camel ride
Or the ride on the exhausted nerves?
Or a trial by a bizarre dream?
Frozen pupils
Unmoving shadow of the camel
All images have lost in the mirror
I’m in the street for a long time
Where is she, my dearest?
She, of the soggy chamber?
She, of the melodious chimes?
She, of the lands, of oceans, of souls, of heavens?
The eyes strain but the tears don’t roll down
The street never ends
Command the street to end!
I, sitting on the brown, frail camel
Count my last days
How I long for even a bee from her era
To flit through the street
How I beg for pardon at her doorstep
How I crave to bow my head
So that, on account of that bee from her era
I take my withered body
And my frail camel
And cross the last bounds of the street.
Poet:Rafiq Sandeelvi [mehr]
Kostenlos
Stephen Leacock
Literary Lapses (Fiscle Part-Ix)
- Belletristik
- Englisch
- 42574 Wörter
- Ab 18 Jahren
- 2
Stephen P. H Butler Leacock, FRSC (30 December 1869 – 28 March 1944) was a Canadian teacher, political scientist, writer, and humourist. In the early part of the 20th century he was the best-known humourist in the English-speaking world.[1] He is known for his light humour along with criticisms of people's follies.[2] The Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour was named in his honour.Stephen Leacock was born in Swanmore, in the county of Hampshire in Southern England. He was the third of eleven children born to (Walter) Peter Leacock (b.1834), who was born and grew up at Oak Hill on the Isle of Wight, an estate that his grandfather had purchased after returning from Madeira where his family had made a fortune out of plantations and Leacock's Madeira wine, founded in 1760. Stephen's mother, Agnes, was born at Soberton, the youngest daughter by his second wife (Caroline Linton Palmer) of the Rev. Stephen Butler, of Bury Lodge, the Butler estate that overlooked the village of Hambledon, New Hampshire. Stephen Butler (for whom Leacock was named), was the maternal grandson of Admiral James Richard Dacres and a brother of Sir Thomas Dacres Butler, Usher of the Black Rod. Leacock's mother, Agnes, was the half-sister of Major Thomas Adair Butler, who won the Victoria Cross during the Indian Mutiny.[3]
Peter's father, Thomas Murdock Leacock J.P., had already fostered plans to eventually send his son out to the colonies, but when he discovered that at age eighteen Peter had married Agnes Butler without his permission, almost immediately he shipped them out to South Africa where he had bought them a farm. The farm in South Africa failed and Stephen's parents returned to Hampshire, where he was born.[4] When Stephen was six, he came out with his family came to Canada, where they settled on a farm near the village of Sutton, Ontario, and the shores of Lake Simcoe.[5] Their farm in the township of Georgina in York County was also unsuccessful, and the family was kept afloat by money sent from Leacock's paternal grandfather. His father became an alcoholic; in the fall of 1878, he travelled west to Manitoba with his brother E.P. Leacock (the subject of Stephen's book My Remarkable Uncle, published in 1942), leaving behind Agnes and the children.[6]
Stephen Leacock, always of obvious intelligence, was sent by his grandfather to the elite private school of Upper Canada College in Toronto, also attended by his older brothers, where he was top of the class and was chosen as head boy. Leacock graduated in 1887, and returned home to find that his father had returned from Manitoba. Soon after, his father left the family again and never returned.[6] There is some disagreement about what happened to Peter Leacock; some suggest that he went to live in Argentina,[7] while other sources indicate that he moved to Nova Scotia and changed his name to Lewis.[6] [mehr]
Kostenlos
F.St. Mars
The Way Of The Wild
Part I
- Belletristik
- Englisch
- 64882 Wörter
- Ab 18 Jahren
- 2
If His Father Had Been A Brown Bear And His Mother A Badger, The Result
In Outward Appearance Would Have Been Gulo, Or Something Very Much Like
Him. But Not All The Crossing In The World Could Have Accounted For
His Character; That Came Straight From The Devil, His Master. Gulo,
However, Was Not A Cross. He Was Himself, Gulo, The Wolverine, _Alias_
Glutton, _Alias_ Carcajou, _Alias_ Quick-Hatch, _Alias_ Fjeldfras In
The Vernacular, Or, Officially, _Gulo Luscus_. But, By Whatever Name
You Called Him, He Did Not Smell Sweet; And His Character, Too, Was Of
A Bad Odor. A Great Man Once Said That He Was Like A Bear Cub With A
Superadded Tail; But That Great Man Cannot Have Seen His Face. If He
Had, He Would Have Looked For His Double Among The Fiends On The Top Of
Notre Dame. There Was, In Fact, Nothing Like Him On This Earth, Only
In A Very Hot Place Not On The Earth.
He Was, In Short, A Beast With Brains That Only Man, And No Beast,
Ought To Be Trusted With; And He Had No Soul. God Alone Knows If Love,
Which Softens Most Creatures, Had Ever Come To Gulo; His Behavior
Seemed To Show That It Had Not. Perhaps Love Was Afraid Of Him. And,
Upon My Soul, I Don't Wonder.
It Was Not, However, A Hot, But A Very Cold, Place In The Pine-Forest
Where Gulo Stood, And The Unpitying Moon Cast A Dainty Tracery Through
The Tasseled Roof Upon The New And Glistening Snow Around Him--The Snow
That Comes Early To Those Parts--And The North-East Wind Cut Like
Several Razors. But Gulo Did Not Seem To Care. Wrapped Up In His
Ragged, Long, Untidy, Uncleanly-Looking, Brown-Black Cloak--Just His
Gray-Sided, Black Fiend's Face Poking Out--He Seemed Warm Enough. When
He Lifted One Paw To Scratch, One Saw That The Murderous, Scraping,
Long Claws Of Him Were Nearly White; And As He Set His Lips In A
Devilish Grin, His Fangs Glistened White In The Moonlight, Too.
Verily, This Was No Beast--He Would Have Taped Four Feet And A Quarter
From Tip To Tip, If You Had Worn Chain-Mail And Dared To Measure
Him--No Beast, I Say, To Handle With White-Kid Ball Gloves. Things
Were Possible From Him, One Felt, That Were Not Possible Of Any Other
Living Creature--Awful Things.
Suddenly He Looked Up. The Branches Above Him Had Stirred Uneasily, As
If An Army Were Asleep There. And An Army Was--Of Wood-Pigeons.
Thousands Upon Thousands Of Wood-Pigeons Were Asleep Above His Head,
Come From Heaven Knows Where, Going To--Who Could Tell In The End?
All At Once One Fell. Without Apparent Reason Or Cause, It Fell. And
The Wolverine, With His Quick, Intelligent Eyes, Watched It Fall, From
Branch To Branch, Turning Over And Over--Oh! So Softly--To The Ground. [mehr]
Kostenlos
F.St. Mars
The Way Of The Wild
Part II
- Belletristik
- Englisch
- 26912 Wörter
- Ab 18 Jahren
- 2
If His Father Had Been A Brown Bear And His Mother A Badger, The Result
In Outward Appearance Would Have Been Gulo, Or Something Very Much Like
Him. But Not All The Crossing In The World Could Have Accounted For
His Character; That Came Straight From The Devil, His Master. Gulo,
However, Was Not A Cross. He Was Himself, Gulo, The Wolverine, _Alias_
Glutton, _Alias_ Carcajou, _Alias_ Quick-Hatch, _Alias_ Fjeldfras In
The Vernacular, Or, Officially, _Gulo Luscus_. But, By Whatever Name
You Called Him, He Did Not Smell Sweet; And His Character, Too, Was Of
A Bad Odor. A Great Man Once Said That He Was Like A Bear Cub With A
Superadded Tail; But That Great Man Cannot Have Seen His Face. If He
Had, He Would Have Looked For His Double Among The Fiends On The Top Of
Notre Dame. There Was, In Fact, Nothing Like Him On This Earth, Only
In A Very Hot Place Not On The Earth.
He Was, In Short, A Beast With Brains That Only Man, And No Beast,
Ought To Be Trusted With; And He Had No Soul. God Alone Knows If Love,
Which Softens Most Creatures, Had Ever Come To Gulo; His Behavior
Seemed To Show That It Had Not. Perhaps Love Was Afraid Of Him. And,
Upon My Soul, I Don't Wonder.
It Was Not, However, A Hot, But A Very Cold, Place In The Pine-Forest
Where Gulo Stood, And The Unpitying Moon Cast A Dainty Tracery Through
The Tasseled Roof Upon The New And Glistening Snow Around Him--The Snow
That Comes Early To Those Parts--And The North-East Wind Cut Like
Several Razors. But Gulo Did Not Seem To Care. Wrapped Up In His
Ragged, Long, Untidy, Uncleanly-Looking, Brown-Black Cloak--Just His
Gray-Sided, Black Fiend's Face Poking Out--He Seemed Warm Enough. When
He Lifted One Paw To Scratch, One Saw That The Murderous, Scraping,
Long Claws Of Him Were Nearly White; And As He Set His Lips In A
Devilish Grin, His Fangs Glistened White In The Moonlight, Too.
Verily, This Was No Beast--He Would Have Taped Four Feet And A Quarter
From Tip To Tip, If You Had Worn Chain-Mail And Dared To Measure
Him--No Beast, I Say, To Handle With White-Kid Ball Gloves. Things
Were Possible From Him, One Felt, That Were Not Possible Of Any Other
Living Creature--Awful Things.
Suddenly He Looked Up. The Branches Above Him Had Stirred Uneasily, As
If An Army Were Asleep There. And An Army Was--Of Wood-Pigeons.
Thousands Upon Thousands Of Wood-Pigeons Were Asleep Above His Head,
Come From Heaven Knows Where, Going To--Who Could Tell In The End?
All At Once One Fell. Without Apparent Reason Or Cause, It Fell. And
The Wolverine, With His Quick, Intelligent Eyes, Watched It Fall, From
Branch To Branch, Turning Over And Over--Oh! So Softly--To The Ground. [mehr]
Kostenlos
C. Creighton Mandell , Edward Shanks
Hilaire Belloc The Man and His Work
- Belletristik
- Englisch
- 51198 Wörter
- Ab 18 Jahren
- 2
Mandell Creighton
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Right Reverend
Mandell Creighton
Bishop of London
A painting of a gaunt and balding man, with greying hair and a long grey beard, sitting in a wooden chair. He wears a puffy white shirt, a black stole, and a long red robe; he also wears small round glasses, and around his neck is a large gold cross.
Creighton as Bishop of London, by Sir Hubert von Herkomer.
Church Church of England
Diocese Diocese of London
Elected 1896
Installed January 1897
Term ended 1901 (death)
Predecessor Frederick Temple
Successor Arthur Winnington-Ingram
Other posts
Bishop of Peterborough
1891–1896
Dixie Chair of Ecclesiastical History (1884–1891)
Orders
Ordination c. 1866
Consecration April 1891
Personal details
Born 5 July 1843
Carlisle, Cumbria
Died 14 January 1901 (aged 57)
Buried St Paul's Cathedral, London
Nationality British
Denomination Anglican
Parents Robert Creighton & Sarah Mandell
Spouse Louise von Glehn (m. 1872)
Children 7 children
Profession Historian
Alma mater Merton College, Oxford
Mandell Creighton (/ˈmændəl ˈkraɪtən/; 5 July 1843 – 14 January 1901), was a British historian and a bishop of the Church of England. A scholar of the Renaissance papacy, Creighton was the first occupant of the Dixie Chair of Ecclesiastical History at the University of Cambridge, a professorship established around the time that history was emerging as an independent academic discipline. He was also the first editor of the English Historical Review, the oldest English language academic journal in the field of history. Creighton had a second career as a cleric in the Church of England. He served as a parish priest in Embleton, Northumberland and later, successively, as the Bishop of Peterborough and the Bishop of London. His moderation and worldliness drew praise from Queen Victoria and won notice from politicians. It was widely thought at the time that Creighton would have become the Archbishop of Canterbury had his early death, at age 57, not supervened.
Creighton's historical work received mixed reviews. He was praised for scrupulous even-handedness, but criticised for not taking a stand against historical excesses. For his part, he was firm in asserting that public figures be judged for their public acts, not private ones. His preference for the concrete to the abstract diffused through his writings on the Church of England. He believed that the church was uniquely shaped by its particular English circumstances, and advocated that it reflect the views and wishes of the English people.
Creighton was married to the author and future women's suffrage activist Louise Creighton, and the couple had seven children. The Creightons were passionately interested in the education of children and together wrote over a dozen school history primers. A man of complex intelligence and exceptional vigour, Mandell Creighton was emblematic of the Victorian era both in his strengths and in his fail [mehr]
Kostenlos
Edward Connor
The Blue-Glow Fire Unbeatable Marble
- Humor
- Englisch
- 119721 Wörter
- Ab 12 Jahren
- 69
This is a fanciful story as the main character mainly recounts one particularly eventful year of his life as a young boy living in a fictional small town in rural Australia.
Sawtip was a unique hamlet that had strangely attracted a hodgepodge of characters from all over the world. People who never quite felt they belonged anywhere until they found Sawtip.
Among the folk who entered the boy’s life was his teacher, Mr Cramburn; a troubled soul who escaped what he could of life by anchoring himself to his cherished Rules of Life. The somewhat dotty but dear Miss Julia Castalia and Mr Cramburn’s mother whose sad life had turned her into a selfishly possessive parent and drove her son to his excesses, but whose eccentricities revealed a woman of imagination and love.
There were also the O’Nancyitches, an impish family of peplechauns; a cross between leprechauns and people. In particular the daughter of that family, Peggy O’Nancyitch, who kept to herself but was ever present when the young narrator needed rescuing.
The narrator’s family consisted of his nine siblings which included his elder twin brothers whom he had always perceived as the worst of his tormentors. There was his story telling father and his mother, who was always there with tenderness and wise, comforting words. And not to forget the was his walking-stick wielding and cantankerous grandmother who was also always there and always to be avoided.
The narrator’s life revolved around his friends, school, playing marbles, avoiding the bullies and his lifelong infatuation with Charlotte (Prissy-Face) Righteous-Worthington.
Having fun and getting into mischief were prime ingredients in the boy’s life. In pursuit of these he and his companions tormented the valley’s cows into going on a milk strike before getting their revenge.
The young narrator had constantly to be on his toes to cope with the bullies that plagued his life. However although bullies had the brawn he had a reservoir of cunning and imagination and of course Peggy.
Playing marbles was a great attraction to the boys of Sawtip and the narrator was a champion. Unfortunately Simon (the Bulldog from Brooklyn) Jones also fancied himself as a marbles aficionado and worse still he was also enamoured with the beautiful Charlotte. This led to several potentially unpleasant encounters, as she manipulated them both, that culminated in the greatest marbles game in the entire history of all marbles games. It was during that game that the fabled Blue-Glow Fire Unbeatable Marble appeared when utter defeat loomed large.
In adulthood he saw his friends from childhood drifting away and out of his life. His infatuation with Charlotte eventually led to a wedding ceremony, however the enigmatic Peggy O’Nancyitch and another appearance of the mythical Marble saved the young man; this time from a fate of nagging and mundane boredom. [mehr]
Stichwörter: Fantasy, Humor, Whimsical
2,49 US$
Shyamal Bhattacharya
Bukhari
The saga of Glacier war
- Belletristik
- Englisch
- 66263 Wörter
- Keine Altersempfehlung
- 76
‘ Bukhari’ (The Hearth) ‘ written by SHYAMAL BHATTACHARYA, translated by SUBHRASANKAR DAS, is a fiction based on the lives of the Indian soldiers who were performing their duties in the untried icy and treacherous heights of Siachen, where not even a blade of grass grows. The novel subtly reveals the smoldering volcanoes that each soldier carries within himself in the unforgiving icy surroundings. The latent desires, dreams, restlessness and helplessness of the characters find an adroit expression in this novel.More than 25 blustery, shivering years, the Indian and Pakistani armies have been fighting a "No-Win" battle on the 20,000-foot-high Siachen Glacier, the world's highest war-ground. On average, one Pakistani soldier is killed every fourth day, while one Indian soldier is killed every other day. Over 1,300 Pakistani soldiers have died on Siachen between 1984 and 1999. According to Indian estimates, this operation had cost India over Rs. 50 billion and almost 2,000 personnel casualties till 1997. Almost all of the casualties on both sides have been due to extreme weather conditions. In spite of this,The word `Siachen` ironically means the place of wild roses. Arduous to live in, the Siachen area is beautiful to look at from the cockpit. Some of the world's tallest mountains fill the landscape, their snowy tops giving way to rivulets of white that glitter against the black and purple rock. It is a moonscape of mesmerizing pinnacles and ridges and drops. Ice formations rise a mile high. Clouds seem at arm's reach. During storms, the heavy snowfall seems as thick as long, white drapery. The wind does pinwheels, and the basic of a hard life gets that much harder.The roots of the conflict over Siachen lie in the non-demarcations on the western side on the map beyond NJ9842. Prior to 1984 neither India nor Pakistan had any permanent presence in the area. Today, Siachen is more important as a test of diplomacy than of high-altitude battle skills. Over the years, Siachen itself has been the subject of seven major rounds of talks under various Governments ruled by various parties, negotiators have agreed that the conflict is futile -- and some have even called it lunatic. But one side or the other has always been too afr. Presently India holds two-thirds of the glacier and controls a few of the top-most heights aid of a double-cross to complete a deal.But what is the guarantee that in future Pakistani general/president will not re-occupy Siachen with ‘freedom fighters’? And in future Indian government will not ask the armed forces to take back the Soltoro ridge? USA and few western weapon manufacturing countries are only interested in selling more and more Fighter Aircrafts, Canons, other weapons and war machines to both the country. Hence, for their business shake the show must go on. If indeed we wanted to hold on to the heights, then why are we talking with each other for the last two decades to demilitarise the area? What of the four thousand soldiers who have been disabled? The cost is not only what is paid out to them in terms of disability pensions. . What of the suffering of thousands of soldiers who spend several long months at altitudes where basic survival is at stake? And finally, what about the effect on the environment? [mehr]
Stichwörter: Subhrasankar Das, Shyamal Bhattacharya, Shadowkraft Publications, Indian literature
4,49 US$
BAD Agar
The Angaran Chronicles: The Ritual
- Fantasy
- Englisch
- 13509 Wörter
- Ab 14 Jahren
- 200
Much to Alathis' relief, he found the training room empty. He'd thought so; it was six in the evening, so most neophytes were busy with study.Alathis ignored the training dummies lining the left wall and the wooden weapons on the right while attempting to avert his attention from the large mirror in the north. Weapons of every type hung there, from daggers to double-headed two-handed axes. In the first few years, every neophyte was encouraged to practise with all weapons. First, to learn how to wield, so if they fought an enemy who used one, they knew how to fight it. Second to choose which one to specialise. Alathis had fallen in love with the long sword almost straight away. It wasn't too heavy or too short. It could stab and slice. Its hilt and cross-guard could be used as weapons if needs must and wielded with one or two hands. In short, it was adaptable, practical. But above all else, there was certain artistry, freedom to the long sword. It could be wielded like a curved cutting blade or even a specialist stabbing blade such as a rapier.Faster than even his eye could follow, Alathis drew his sword and was in a ready stance. Then he launched into it. His every technique, his every step, every cut, stab and parry were perfect. He'd perform a, a downward vertical strike or any other, then the appropriate dodge, block or dart. Then counter. It was called shadow swordplay. He did it by instinct, with no rhyme or reason. It emptied his mind, forced the fear anyway — the anxiety.They'd been taught meditation from a young age. It'd never worked for Alathis: Sitting and humming couldn't calm his forever busy mind. But swinging a sword or punching and kicking the air, did. Alathis wasn't as naive as most of the other acolytes; he knew Hunters were, for all intents and purposes, assassins. And he knew he had to be a damn good one to live even a year of his apprenticeship. That's if he managed to survive the Ritual somehow.He was so lost in his training he failed to notice the vampire enter the room.'Neophyte Alathis.'Alathis leapt so high he almost hit the ceiling and turned to find Kolmath approaching. The once-elf vampire's face was unreadable, her hands behind her back. She was tall for an elf: around 1.77 metres. Like all her kin, she was long-limbed, graceful. She wore plain white robes like all other teachers. Her skin just as inhumanly stark as her robes. She stared at him with large, dark green eyes and her long grey hair pulled back into a bun. She was beautiful, even for an elf she. It almost made him forget his ingrained instinct at recognising the wrongness vampires exuded.'Teacher,' said Alathis.Kolmath waved dismissal at Alathis' formality and approached the wall of weapons.'Karetil came to me,' she said. 'He's concerned about you.''He is?''Indeed,' she said and reached to touch a broad sword. 'You underestimate him, I think. He may act childish, but he has every bit the same training at reading people like you.'Alathis didn't reply, he just cut the air, first horizontally, then upward diagonally.'You know, when you first came to the coven, I was not sure what to make of you,' said Kolmath, while running her long, slender fingers along the haft of a great axe. 'You were so sullen, sulky you more so than the other survivors of the attack. I understood why, after talking with Telric.'Alathis treated her with his most murderous glare. 'I don't want to talk about that, teacher.'Kolmath turned to him. 'You will have to, Alathis. One day. What you went through, what you had to do, is something even the hardiest of us would find hard to cope with. It might be a good idea to speak of it before going through the Ritual.'Alathis couldn't help flinching at her mention of The Ritual.'Ah. So you are afraid,' said Kolmath as she took a small axe and tested its weight. 'Do not be ashamed; it is only natural.'She swung it a few times, but the swings were so fast Alathis couldn't count them.'Every neophyte in your position is afraid before the Ritual.''Well, except Karetil,' said Alathis.'He, too, is afraid, young Alathis,' said Kolmath. 'Again, you underestimate your friend, he is just far better at hiding it. Or you might be overestimating him, from a certain point of view.'Alathis swallowed. 'I don't want to die.''Everything dies,' said Kolmath. 'Even Hunters, even vampires, even the Jaroai. It is nothing to fear. It is just nothingness.''But-''You can back out,' Kolmath interrupted, but without anger or condescension. 'Stay here a [mehr]
Stichwörter: fantasy, dieselpunk, diesel, punk, lovecraftian, horror, psychological horror, dark fantasy, trauma, memories, novella, death, psycological thriller, teen, teen story, love, teen love, cosmic horror, cult, teenager, diesel punk, action, teenagers, swordsman [mehr]
Kostenlos