Smart and unflinching, this #OwnVoices debut contemporary novel stars an ambitious college student who refuses to be defined by her central auditory processing disorder. Edie Kits has a learning disability. Well, not a learning disability exactly, but a disability that impacts her learning. It isn't visible, it isn't obvious, and it isn't something she likes to advertise. And for three semesters of college, her hard work and perseverance have carried her through. Edie thinks she has her disability under control until she meets her match with a French 102 course and a professor unwilling to help her out. Edie finds herself caught between getting the help she needs and convincing her professor that she isn't looking for an easy out. Luckily for Edie, she has an amazing best friend, Serena, who is willing to stitch together a plan to ensure Edie's success. And then there's Hudson, the badly dressed but undoubtedly adorable TA in her French class who finds himself pulled into her orbit... Chosen by readers like you for Macmillan's young adult imprint Swoon Reads, Meet Me in Outer Space is a sweet, heartachingly real story of love and college life by debut author Melinda Grace. Praise for Meet Me in Outer Space from the Swoon Reads community: "Edie’s resolve not to give up her lifelong dream for a guy is heartening ... This #ownvoices debut tackles the stigma of a hidden disability." —Booklist "A sweet college romance that features a disability experience not often represented in teen fiction." —School Library Journal “I can relate to Edie. I don't have CAPD but I have ADHD and that makes everything study related/ everyday functioning super hard. Reading on because this hit so close home.” —Tara Olivia, reader on SwoonReads.com
Now Jersey has more than one lady solving crimes! Angie Welsh and her best friend Lynn had journeyed to Horizon Beach to check out Vinnie Romano's new club, Crossbones - beckoned by a mysterious package. What she finds on her arrival is the aftermath of a bloody murder and the sister of mob boss Carmine Cabrini swinging by the neck from a ceiling fan. The New Jersey journalist can see the front page headline that just might save her job at the Jersey Times. In a bizarre twist, the journalist-turned-suspect must discover the truth buried somewhere between Captain Kidd's famous treasure, the Jersey cops and the mob. SHEREE PUCCIO is a Jersey girl, born just off exit 10. She's spent her life as a journalist in the state, winning two New Jersey Press awards. Her idea of fun is riding off into the sunset with her husband Mic, on his Harley.
“I didn’t ask her if it had been Walt Whitman and his declaration that he was vast and contained multitudes that she’d read as she lay on the bed in the boarding house at Dover, but it would have been appropriate, because: She was an anti-Zionist who went to Israel for her holidays. She read the Telegraph and voted Labour. She ate bacon for breakfast and then cooked kosher lunches at the club for other Jewish pensioners. She said she was disappointed in me when I explained how to jiggle coins out of public phones, yet she stole small plants from Tel-Aviv airport and smuggled them back to England in her handbag.” Pippa Goldschmidt’s protagonists have a special way of observing the world: intelligent as they undoubtedly are, they all suffer from a weird and warped lack of understanding certain parts of life. It is science that helps them regulate the world they live in. It is science that brings chaos upon them. Goldschmidt connects realism, hyperrealism, surrealism, satire, subtle political statements, anti-Semitic tendencies, and the gender gap in a unique and surprising way. Pippa Goldschmidt is an important new voice in contemporary fiction. Pippa Goldschmidt grew up in London, and now lives in Edinburgh. She is a graduate of the renowned Masters course in creative writing at the University of Glasgow. She has a PhD in astronomy and worked as an astronomer for several years at Imperial College, followed by posts in the civil service including working in outer space policy. In 2012 Pippa was awarded a prestigious Scottish Book Trust/Creative Scotland New Writers Award. From 2008 to 2012 she was writer in residence at the ESRC Genomics Policy and Research Forum, based at the University of Edinburgh. The Falling Sky is her first novel and was runner-up in the Dundee International Book Prize.
Enjoy this humorous outer space mystery adventure with uniform lieutenant Sylvia Stryker and a supporting cast of quirky aliens by national bestselling author Diane Vallere… Veronica Mars meets Star Trek! Amateur space sleuth Sylvia Stryker is at it again as she confronts corruption, greed, and space spiders on a new space trek. It's not easy being purple... All space sleuth Sylvia Stryker ever wanted was gainful employment in the space travel sector, but job security is the least of her concerns now that mentor-and-maybe-more, Neptune, is serving time for a crime he didn’t commit. Between her full time Moon Unit work and her side gig selling uniforms, Sylvia goes all in on getting Neptune out. But when a space pirate is murdered behind bars and Neptune is assumed guilty, Sylvia stands to lose him for more than the duration of his sentence. Proving Neptune’s innocence is more challenging than Sylvia expects thanks to his lifetime of accruing enemies. With the clock ticking down on Neptune’s freedom, Sylvia shifts decides to find the real killer. Faced with a corrupt galactic government and an overly-demanding boss, she turns to a shady team of freelancers for help, but the truth she unearths is a threat to the whole galaxy. With her faith in the system shaken to its core, Sylvia’s on her own for her most dangerous moon trek yet. Framed on a Moon Trek is the fourth quirky adventure in the Outer Space mystery series. If you like resourceful characters, unique settings, and outer space fun or read favorites like Charlaine Harris or Dakota Cassidy, then you’ll love Diane Vallere’s entertaining interstellar series. FRAMED ON A MOON TREK is a gripping fusion of cosmic mystery, thrilling adventure, and a touch of otherworldly romance. Don't miss your chance to join Sylvia Stryker on her most perilous and captivating mission yet. With breathtaking settings, heart-stopping action, and a cast of unforgettable characters, this page-turner will transport you to the farthest reaches of the up for a cosmic adventure that will ignite your imagination and leave you craving the next Outer Space mystery! Previously published as SPIDERS FROM MARS. “The book's mystery is well done with many twists and turns, and it succeeds at keeping the reader guessing.” – Reader “I raced to the end and loved every minute of the book. Now I'm going to read the whole series again! So much fun!” – Reader CHAPTER ONE EXCERPT: The first thing I did was have Neptune declared legally dead. It was an unlikely start to a rescue mission, but it was my first one, and Neptune’s incarceration made it difficult to ask him for advice. Neptune, of course, wasn’t dead. He was serving time in a minimum-security prison on Colony 1 after helping me hijack a privately owned spaceship. It was all in a day’s work for high-level security agents like us, but to the Federation Council, it was a violation of law, and somebody had to pay. Okay, fine, Neptune is a high-level security agent. I’m a lieutenant for an outer-space cruise ship. But I trained to be a security agent before a whole lot of crap changed the course of my life, and when Neptune gets out, I’m going to hit him up with a proposal he won’t be able to turn down. Partners. The best-dressed security team in the galaxy. (Not that Neptune cares all that much about uniforms, but I figure I should play to my strengths.) But that’s later, and this is now. Neptune’s been in prison for the past four months, and no doubt anything I say now you’ll miss because you’ll be comparing “the first thing I did” with “four months” and asking yourself, “Geez, Sylvia. The man is in prison. What took you so long?” I’ll tell you what took me so long. No matter how many intergalactic libraries you hack into, you’ll be hard-pressed to find an article titled “Tips for Busting Your Mentor Out of Jail.” What you will find are stories of corruption. Of people locked up for crimes they claim they haven’t committed. Stories about prisoner abuse, confessions from inmates on their death beds, and if you’re lucky, when your eyes are blurry in the middle of the night after weeks of combing through the Galaxy News archives, you’ll find an interview by a former warden with the information you need. If you have any ideas about breaking someone out of jail, forget it. It’s far easier to get a dead body out of prison than a live one. That’s where I got the idea. Drafting a prison break is easy-peasy once you have step one. I had step one. I didn’t waste time studying the language needed to write a suitable legal notice. I hacked an example from the local mortuary database, forged a signature, and filled in the blanks like a Mad Libs game. I carried my paperwork on board Moon Unit: Mars, the cruise ship where I work as the uniform manager, and kept it under my pillow until today, when a twenty-four-hour layover left me a window to file it at Federation Bureau of Affairs before continuing our journey. See? Easy-peasy. In the past, a Moon Unit would leave the space station and fly directly to our destination. Planets farther away required a combination of thrusters, propellant, wormholes, and gravity assists to get to their destinations. That created an environment where anyone on a Moon Unit couldn’t get off a Moon Unit until it got to where it was going, which would be fine under normal circumstances but not so much when there’s a murderer on board the ship. (You might think that’s an odd extreme, but the outer-space cruise industry is relatively new and unregulated, and a surprising number of incidents involving murder and cruises illustrated a hole in the legislation that defines such things.) After more than one such situation, Federation Council, started requiring all passenger-carrying ships to stop at Colony 1. The idea was to receive an inspection and clearance before embarking to be sure there were no side missions on anybody’s agenda. Colony 1 was where the Federation Council congress was located. It was also where politicians, rich folks who did bad things, and temporarily detained convicts were incarcerated. It was where Neptune had been taken after his arrest on Saturn, and after hacking into the prison system, I’d confirmed there were no plans to move him anytime soon. It was a warm day. Temperatures lingered over eighty degrees. The dry climate, combined with a uniform that regulated my body temperature, made it bearable. The uniform in question was a white Stealthyester® jumpsuit with blue trim. It covered everything but my head, which was protected by a bubble helmet that ensured I got breathable air. Lines of people filled the interior of the Federation Bureau of Affairs. Nobody actually liked making trips to the agency, but certain actions required the effort. I doubted my supervisors at the Moon Unit Corporation expected me to spend my day off filing paperwork, but that was just as well. While other members enjoyed the local tourist attractions, I had a window of relative anonymity to complete my covert business. A person with less to lose would look for the shortest line or the most efficient teller. I looked for the least threatening. The teller at the last window on the end was a petite, girl with a sweet disposition. She wore blue lipstick that matched her blue hair, both of which made her standard Federation uniform appear trendy. Her line was several people deep, but for what I was about to do, I considered her an easier mark than the curmudgeons behind windows three, four, and five. (Window six had a sign that said, “On Break.) For the next twenty minutes, the room was filled with little more than, “I’ll be assisting you today,” which must have been the tellers’ version of “May I help you?” in a department store. The responses were either inaudible or ridiculously boring. After four missing person cases, a name change, and a requisition for early retirement payment, I tuned them out. Eventually, I reached the front of the line. “Name?” the blue-haired young woman asked. “Sylvia Stryker.” “I’m Tulsa. I’ll be assisting you today.” She pushed her blue bangs away from her forehead. “If I get hit on by one more guy pretending to file a missing person report for his ex-girlfriend, I’m going to start wearing a fake wedding band.” She grinned. “Whatcha got?” “Death notification.” I passed my signed (forged) and notarized (official) (-ish) documents under the phaser-proof glass while the woman checked my credentials. She held my ID card over a scanner and turned her head away while a bright light pulsed underneath the surface. She handed the ID card back, glanced over my paperwork, and made a sympathetic sound. “Your friend had quite an accident,” Tulsa said. It hadn’t been easy to come up with a plausible method for Neptune to have died while in prison, and I’d discounted any of the more gruesome ways so I wouldn’t have nightmares picturing them. Reality dictated that I needed some details to sell the fib, so I fabricated a story involving his trademark military attire and a cargo-net malfunction. “It’s sad. If only he’d been wearing his regulation uniform, none of this would have happened.” (Neptune never did give my job as uniform manager the proper respect.) Tulsa smiled what I guessed was one of many pitiful looks she passed off during the day. I studied her face—mouth turned down, blue lips pursed, chin dropped—and thought about how often I’d seen that expression in my life. I learned at an early age that people were generous when it came to pity, but pity didn’t pay the bills. Sometimes, when the circumstances were right, lying, cheating, and bartering did. (Pity helped make it easier to fool people, though, so it wasn’t a hundred percent unwelcome.) Tulsa’s expression changed from pitying to judgmental. “You’re taking his death very well,” she said suspiciously. Yes. Right. I inhaled deeply, exhaled, and pretended to choke back tears before raising my eyes to meet hers. “It hasn’t been easy,” I said. “When I first heard, I lost my mind. I couldn’t function.” I glanced to either side and dropped my voice. “My doctor prescribed an antianxiety drug to help me cope. I probably shouldn’t still be taking it after four months, but it hurts so much, knowing he’s gone.” “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” She stretched her hand out from behind the phaser-proof glass and tapped the back of mine. A small blue lightning bolt that matched her hair and lipstick was tattooed on the back of her wrist. “You’ll get over him in time,” she said. “When my husband died, I was on medication for a year. It got so bad, I—” She seemed to realize she was on the verge of confessing deep, dark secrets to a stranger, and she cut herself off. “If you need help getting off the medication, let me know. I entered a recovery program on Mars. It was effective until—well, if you need assistance, I can help you find it.” I forced a smile and squeezed the tips of her fingers in solidarity. Truth? I wasn’t on any drug. I was on a mission, and that meant every person I encountered was either an enemy or an ally. I learned that at Space Academy before dropping out, and experience had only illustrated the lesson in real time. Most people go through life exchanging pleasantries and being polite, never stopping to listen to what others are saying. This isn’t one of those learn-to-listen lectures that promises you can improve your marriage or gain trust from your employees. It’s a fact: Let people tell you more than you ask. File it all away for later. You never know what you’ll need when you initiate a mission. The only thing you can control is knowing who to go to when you come up against something unexpected. I finished at the window. Now to wait out the natural news cycle. In the next couple of minutes, my paperwork would be fed into a scanner. Words would be extracted, plugged into a news template, and dumped into a database of stories. At the same time the stories were streamed onto computer screens, they would appear on a marquee that wrapped around the perimeter of Federation Council. Somewhere between “Space Pirate Sabotage on Saturn” and “Vandalism on Venus” would be Neptune’s death: “Blacklisted Commander Turned Security Expert Deceased After Cargo-Net Accident in Prison Storage Unit.” Once the information found its way into the prison computers, Neptune’s name and history would be extinguished. It would be as though he spontaneously combusted. If Neptune had made friends on the inside, they might be a complication, but Neptune wasn’t the friend-making type. I guess that’s why loners are loners; they like the simple life. I wasn’t without experience when it came to arrest protocol. When my dad was arrested, the news traveled so fast our dry ice farm went from being a respected supplier to a wasteland of rubbish almost overnight. We were social pariahs. After the council threatened to shut us down, we were left with a fate even worse: invisibility. If I could render Neptune invisible inside the prison, I’d have a shot at getting him out. A steady stream of visitors flowed to and from the building. Efforts had been made to make the air and surface quality of Colony 1 hospitable to the largest majority of those visitors, and in addition to the synthetic oxygen mix that a local team of chemists had developed and sold to the government, there were gravity bars where people congregated and shops to fulfill travel and tchotchke needs. Culinary spots had popped up, too, and now a visit to Colony 1 could net you the best cup of coffee in the universe. On principle, I drank tea. The courtyard outside Federation Bureau of Affairs was active. Vendors with small carts sold snacks to employees on break and visitors who’d made the trip for personal reasons. I peeled off the lid to my hot tea and people-watched, letting the beverage cool. It wasn’t that people-watching was entertaining. It was training. Most people existed in their own worlds, unaware of what their actions and outfits said about them. I considered this an ongoing part of my security training, being able to assess a crowd, identify threats and allies, and build character profiles based purely on observation. It wasn’t a lesson I learned from my security training education or from Neptune during the short time he tutored me. I came up with this one myself. I tested the air quality with my portable molecule tester and, when the reading came back with a positive result, removed my helmet and set it on the bench next to me. I blew on the surface of my tea and then sipped. The beverage was flavored with a hint of zinnia, the most prevalent flower in outer space, leaving behind a lingering sweet note to counter the bitter bite of the tea. I swirled it around over my tongue then swallowed, closing my eyes while the hot liquid slid down the back of my throat. It wasn’t usual for me to indulge in the cost of a cup of brewed tea, but it also wasn’t usual for me to spend my day at Federation Bureau of Affairs having someone declared dead. It seemed this was as good a time as any to try to blend in and act like everybody else. The news banner around Federation Council Headquarters blinked three times in rapid succession, indicating a reboot of the system. This would be followed up with updated news stories and crime reports. The system was automated after Tulsa fed my forms into the computer but depended largely on the reports ahead of it. I was tense, needing to see the news of Neptune’s demise proclaimed to the world before counting my mission as complete. The banner of news started streaming. “Record-Breaking Temperatures Expected on Mars” * * * “Federation Council Vote on Proposed Law Changes in Next Twenty-Four Hours” * * * “Drug Epidemic Reaches Dangerous Levels” * * * “Prisoner Murdered while Serving Life Sentence” * * * “Animal Shelters Reach Peak Capacity” * * * The tension within me ratcheted up. Prisoner murdered while serving a life sentence? That wasn’t right. I sat my tea on the bench and checked my documents on my portable device. The language was clear. Neptune died while unloading cargo from storage. A regulation uniform could have saved his life. It was an unfortunate accident that could have been avoided. No mention of murder. No mention of anything suspicious. I’d purposely kept it as bland as possible to not attract attention. Murder attracted attention. The word “murder” was charged with everything I wanted to avoid. A freak accident could happen. It could be brushed under the rug. It wouldn’t cause anybody to do anything differently. But a murder propelled all sorts of people into action, and a report of a murder would certainly lead to a body that was very much alive. I stood and juggled my helmet, my cup of tea, and my portable document device. The tea fell and splattered by the toe of my boots. Someone called out my name and I shielded my eyes and searched for the source. “Sylvia! Over here!” I zeroed in on the source. It was Tulsa, the teller from Federation Bureau of Affairs. She was shorter than she’d appeared when she filed my paperwork. She came at me so fast her blue hair blew away from her face. “I was hoping you were still here,” she said. She put one hand on her side and bent toward it. “Side stich. Ow.” I pointed at the streaming news banner. “There’s a mistake—” “No mistake,” she said. She straightened and grabbed my arm. “Come with me.” I followed her behind the building to a small garden. The rocky surface area of the colony had been carved away, and small succulents that survived in dry climates covered the ground. There was no way they’d grow on their own, and I wasted a brief thought condemning the council for wasting resources on the beautification of their property and not improving the quality of life for residents under their government. “There was a problem with your paperwork,” Tulsa said. “It was rejected from the system because of duplicitous intel.” “There’s a mistake. Neptune wasn’t murdered. He was in an accident. An accident,” I repeated. “It’s no mistake,” Tulsa said. “Check your device.” I tapped the screen and swiped through pages of reports that had been filed that morning. My report wasn’t there, but the headline I’d seen streaming around the perimeter of Federation Council was. “Prisoner Murdered While Serving Life Sentence” read the headline. Underneath, in the body of the report, were the details, and that’s when I knew my plan to break Neptune out had gotten complicated exponentially. The murder victim wasn’t Neptune. The suspect was. For fans of Star Trek, Star Wars, Dune, UFO, The Orville, Galaxy Quest, Lost in Space, and The Jetsons. Diane-Fans describe “her vintage Vallere goodness,” and say she is a “great storyteller” with “a way with creating strong female characters and intrigue” who is “a superb and very humorous writer.” Her gift of creating “spunky sleuths in fun settings” take readers to Dallas, Palm Springs, Los Angeles, Pennsylvania, and outer space.
Programmed By Weather is a collection of poems and lyrics based around the themes of living as a misanthrope and the illusion of reality. The author is the singer songwriter for the band Guiltfilter and has also released an accompanying 4-rack solo EP.. The titles are taken from songs and poetry written between 2010 to 2019.
Will “the Spill” is a total klutz. He’d give anything to be Chad—the most popular kid in school—just for one day. Chad never trips, or falls, or drops anything. Then Will gets his wish. Chad says he’s got a body-switching machine. And he wants to switch bodies with Will! Will decides to do it. And it works. He loves being Chad—until he finds out Chad's horrible secret…and realizes he’s trapped in Chad's body forever!
This young adult romantic comedy is a sharp, hilarious, and perfectly observed story of high school geeks falling in true love. Seventeen-year-old Sam Kinnison is a dork, and he's totally fine with that. He has his horror movies, his nerdy friends, and World of Warcraft. Sam believes that everything he needs to know can be learned from watching movies. Until Princess Leia turns up in his bedroom, Sam just isn't concerned about girls. Then Camilla Carter arrives on the scene. She's beautiful, friendly and completely not on his radar. Sam is determined to ignore Camilla, except that she has a plan of her own—and Sam seems to be a part of it! Author Melissa Keil will have readers head over heels with these relatable characters. Sam's exceptional voice gives a hilarious and painfully accurate take on high school life.
Enjoy this humorous outer space mystery adventure with uniform lieutenant Sylvia Stryker and a supporting cast of quirky aliens by national bestselling author Diane Vallere… Sylvia Stryker has found her footing in the Moon Unit Corporation--but it’ll take more than fancy dance moves for this amateur sleuth to stay alive on this hilarious rescue mission in space from national bestselling author Diane Vallere. Space sleuth Sylvia Stryker wants more from her day job aboard a Moon Unit than to manage crew uniforms. In her time between moon treks, she turns to hunky hero Neptune for lessons in security training. But when a hijacked space pod lands by their training site and the body of an intergalactic courier is discovered inside, Sylvia’s newly-acquired skills are put to the test. The courier was a friend who shared her interest in back-channel business, and his death seems like a message—or worse, a warning. Determined to seek justice, Sylvia and Neptune assemble a team. But there’s more to this trek through the stars than expected, including fifty rambunctious aliens accidentally beamed aboard the ship, some very nasty space pirates, and one suspicious member of the staff who thought the recruitment message was a call of duty. Now Sylvia’s on a quest to catch a killer, but if she fails, she could wipe out an entire alien race in the process. Hijacked on a Moon Trek is the hilarious third novel featuring uniform lieutenant Sylvia Stryker. If you like humorous mysteries, unique characters, and spacey fun, or read favorites like Joann Fluke or Dakota Cassidy, you'll love Diane Vallere's entertaining interstellar series. Previously published as SATURN NIGHT FEVER. “What a fun, unique, and intriguing story. Love the inside joke about red shirts. That and the laser cat! Lol!!.... Thank you for such an entertaining read!” – Reader “I am pleased to say that after finishing the third book in the series, the enchanting mind of author Diane Vallere continues to charm and come up with even more new fun and adventures around every corner.” – Reader CHAPTER ONE EXCERPT: When Neptune said I fought like a girl, I did the only respectable thing. I hit him. That’s not to say it’s a good idea for dropouts from the space academy to strike their newly-appointed superiors, but in this case, he deserved it. In the two versions of the story that will be told of the incident, at least one will contain the fact that technically, I was in training. Technically, the only reason we were on the helipad on the corner of Neptune’s property was because the helipad was a convenient place to practice. Technically, I was being paid a small sponsorship fee to test the durability of new uniforms designed for Moon Unit Corporation, and technically, the only way I could fully know if the uniforms were durable were to see how they held up when I threw a punch. Neptune’s version might include slight variations. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am a girl,” I said. Neptune was bigger, older, and more experienced than I was, and he probably had more important things to do than spend the day teaching me defensive maneuvers. But never graduating had left me with relatively few channels to advance my learning. After Moon Unit 6 returned from Venus, Neptune contacted me via the comm device implanted in my ear and offered me free room and board in exchange for lessons to pick up where my interrupted education had left off. I’d dropped out when my dad was arrested so I could help my mom with the family dry ice mines. Neptune’s offer to teach me gave us both something of value. I’d accepted, more for me than for him. I’m selfish that way. “You know why you were almost incapacitated on our last moon trek?” he asked. “Because you dropped your guard. You thought size and skill were enough to beat your enemy. You fought fair. You fought like a woman.” “Oh, so now I’m a woman?” I countered. “I grew up fast.” It wasn’t that Neptune treated me like a girl or a woman. He treated me like a student. And most of the time I was okay with that. But the voice in my head that I didn’t want to listen to wondered why someone like Neptune spent time training someone like me. It was a voice that hadn’t had much to question since my dad was arrested. Any attention paid to me usually had strings attached. Retribution for my dad’s crimes, or the novelty of my half Plunian background in a world where lavender women were now rare. More than once I’d fended off advances when I saw where they were headed. I developed a thick skin and narrowed my social circle to a very tight group. But despite the fact that Neptune was a muscular wall of taciturn authority, or maybe because of it, I was attracted to him. I doubted it was the black military-issue cargo gear he wore (did he buy his clothes in bulk?) or the intimidating stance he’d perfected long before I met him (arms crossed, feet shoulder-width apart). I’d never been attracted to men in power—in fact, power was a pretty tried-and-true turn-off. I didn’t know what it was about Neptune that made my lavender skin glow at the least opportune times. I only knew it was important to me to prove to him that I was different. Today, different meant throwing a non-girly punch. He grabbed my wrist and closed my fingers into a fist. His hand was twice the size of mine—tawny against my lavender coloring. “You have to toughen up, Stryker. You’re smart, and you learn information fast, but instincts don’t come from a book.” “I learned how to fight by an accredited Hapkido master. Or have you already forgotten that I dropped you with a sweeping kick because you underestimated me?” He let go of my fist and pointed at me. “Don’t let that go to your head. Success is built on failure. If you learn anything from these lessons, learn that. Failure is your friend.” “I thought failure wasn’t an option? The flight director of Earth’s space shuttle program said it, right? His biography was required reading.” “You didn’t read the book. That’s a made-up quote from a movie script. The flight director liked the line so much he used it for the title of his biography. Lesson number two: check your source. I thought you knew that by now.” I didn’t tell Neptune that I hadn’t read the book because the course took place after I dropped out. I’m pretty sure lesson number three was to keep your weaknesses to yourself. “Repeat it back to me.” “Blah, blah, check your source.” “Repeat what I told you about failure.” “‘Failure is my friend.’” “Remember that.” He turned around and walked a few feet away from me and then turned back. “If you think you can fight because you dropped me—once—then you’ll get complacent. Don’t forget what happened the last time you got complacent.” How could I forget? I almost died. It didn’t help that the fight had been four against one or that my oxygen supply had been cut off, rendering me helpless. My opponents knew my weakness and used it against me. Nothing fair about it. I didn’t want to admit it, but Neptune was right. I’d falsely assumed I could defend myself without too much effort, and my false sense of confidence had worked against me. “Go again,” he said. He bent his knees slightly and prepared for my attack. I swung my arms forward and backward, giant half circles to limber up my shoulders, and felt a seam tear. “Hold on. Uniform malfunction. Moon Unit Corporation thinks they can cut corners by using a different supplier, but the last six uniforms I tested fell apart.” “Where?” “Shoulder.” “Turn around.” I turned and pointed to where I’d felt the split. “What am I supposed to tell them this time? ‘Looks good but you can’t throw a girly punch’?” I felt Neptune tug the split fabric together. Even though I wasn’t looking at him, just the graze of his fingertips against my shoulder blade made me flush. “Why are you wasting your time with uniforms?” “Someday the name ‘Sylvia Stryker’ will be synonymous with space uniforms. After our trip to Venus, the publicity company who planned the hype around the Moon Units contacted me to wear test their prototypes. It’s a little cash on the side between treks and all things considered, I can use the money. I can’t crash here forever.” I knew Neptune wouldn’t pursue the conversation. He understood my predicament: no planet, no family, no home. He was with me the night space pirates destroyed everything I’d ever known. The only reason I agreed to train with him was because there’s a certain security in spending time with someone who prioritized silence over small talk. I could learn a lot from Neptune and I knew it. He could learn from me too. I wasn’t sure he knew that. Yet. Neptune’s loner lifestyle suited him, but I was glad that he begrudgingly allowed me to coexist on his property. Not one to mooch, I made sure to bring what I could to the table. Enter Mattix Dusk, space courier (and my Hapkido instructor) who traveled between the thirteen colonies under Federation Control, to pick up and deliver anything that needed to be picked up or delivered. I introduced the two men and they worked out a mutually acceptable deal. Mattix had use of the helipad and a place to crash while on the Kuiper Belt. Neptune had access to Mattix’s courier contacts and suppliers. And for the foreseeable future, I had not one but two mentors who could further my education. Where Neptune was tall, tawny, and solid muscle, Mattix looked like a piece of worn leather in loose-fitting castoff clothes. Tanned skin, bleached hair worn in a ponytail, and ragamuffin clothes suited him. His job as courier put him in front of shady characters, and he passed along his two most important pieces of advice: look like you have less than the other guy and learn to take care of yourself. Whatever direction my lesson was supposed to go was interrupted by a swiftly approaching space pod. I looked at the sky and watched it glide toward us. It was the Dusk Driver, the space pod that belonged to Mattix. I smiled and waved while backing up so he could land. As his space pod drew closer, alarm bells rang out from the nearby towers. His speed was too fast. He was going to crash. And if I didn’t get out of the way, I’d burn up in the wreckage. Neptune reached the same conclusion before I did. How do I know? When I tore my attention from the incoming space pod to tell Neptune something was wrong, I saw him charge toward me. The impact knocked me to the ground. Either Neptune knew what was happening and wanted to save me, or he was trying to make a point. From the bank of dirt alongside the helipad, the space pod jerked to a halt and then hovered two feet above the ground. Mattix knew better than to approach at the speed he had, but he’d compensated for the potential accident by activating the ship’s invisible buffer: a two foot “bumper” of static electricity that kept the exterior from contacting another surface. It operated much the same way as two magnets held in close proximity. The dueling forcefields pushed away from each other, making it impossible to touch. Mattix wouldn’t have activated the buffer shield unless something was wrong. I scrambled to my feet and, keeping my center of gravity low, approached the space pod. Mattix wouldn’t allow anyone else to navigate the ship without reason, which made what I saw even scarier. The ship was being flown on autopilot. _______________________________________ “It is set in outer space, but keeps a true cozy mystery vibe to it at the same time.” – Reader “Hijacked on a Moon Trek was another fantastic addition to this series! Sylvia and the gang are back in what is quite possibly the best installment yet. This series is quickly becoming one of my favorites. I can't get enough of it!” – Reader “This was the best in the series so far, with added depth in backstories for several of the characters.” – Reader For fans of Star Trek, Star Wars, Dune, UFO, The Orville, Galaxy Quest, Lost in Space, and The Jetsons. Diane-Fans describe “her vintage Vallere goodness,” and say she is a “great storyteller” with “a way with creating strong female characters and intrigue” who is “a superb and very humorous writer.” Her gift of creating “spunky sleuths in fun settings” take readers to Dallas, Palm Springs, Los Angeles, Pennsylvania, and outer space.
The sixth man who walked on the moon shares his journey to the stars, into the mind, and beyond. In February 1971, as Apollo 14 astronaut Edgar Mitchell hurtled Earthward through space, he was engulfed by a profound sense of universal connectedness. He intuitively sensed that his presence and that of the planet in the window were all part of a deliberate, universal process, and that the glittering cosmos itself was, in some way, conscious. The experience was so overwhelming, Mitchell knew his life would never be the same. For the next thirty-five years, he embarked on another journey, an inward exploration of the ineffable mystery of human consciousness and being. Mitchell left NASA to form the Institute of Noetic Sciences (IONS). There he initiated research in areas of study previously neglected by mainstream science and constructed a theory that could explain not only the mysteries of consciousness, but also the psychic event—what spiritualists call a “miracle” and scientists dismiss altogether. Mitchell also created a new dyadic model of reality, revealing a self-aware universe not predetermined by the laws of physics, preordained by deities, or infinitely malleable. While human actions are generally subject to the laws of physics, these laws are also influenced by the mind. From Outer Space to Inner Space traces two remarkable journeys—one through space and one through the mind. Together they fundamentally alter the way we understand the miracle and mystery of being, and ultimately reveal humankind’s role in its own destiny. Previously published as The Way of the Explorer, this edition includes a new foreword by Avi Loeb, an afterword by Dean Radin, and a postscript chapter by the author.
