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Enthralling Trails

RRP $29.95

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The book is an anthology of short narratives. These Inspiring narratives are based on day to day happenings which give a deep insight to life making life a memorable one to live and cherish rather than letting it slip away into monotony and despair. Each narrative strengthens core values with a message evoking emotions worth pondering. These narratives touch our soul gently through the nobility in the lives of fellow men. The narratives illustrate a lot of Indian ness, Indian locales, food and culture giving a true picture of life in India. Most of the narratives are based in Pune depicting the life of people belonging to various strata. It depicts the value of money, kindness, education and deals with a few social issues. It also touches our heart when the issues are beyond man's reach. It includes clarification of thoughts through a reflection on peoples lives.

Unmarked Trails

RRP $0.00

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This is a book for everyone who has encountered what the author calls deep-end experiences . . . challenges that cloud our outlook like the veiled gravity of deep water. Retirement was like that for journalist Jane Flink. She was addicted to the adrenalin rush of her 30-year career as reporter, photographer and editor, and as owner and publisher of a weekly newspaper. In 2001, in response to the incursions of relentless time, Flink and her husband, Dick, sold their newspaper and retired to a lake house in central Missouri. In her home office each week, Flink writes newspaper columns as she has for 20 years, employing wisdom, humor and a wealth of knowledge to seek identity in the unstructured world of retirement. If work is a complement to the well-lived life and the ticket to expectation, she writes, what is retirement -- a rocking chair, or an invitation to self-starters? This collection of essays was written between 2003 and 2006. Finding the contemplative life elusive, the author explores the comforting realities of everyday existence, the mysteries of creative vision, and the treasures that spring from unexplored territory. Page by page, Jane Flink leads her readers with gentle artistry toward the charting of their own unmarked trails.

Tangled Trails A Western Detective Story (masterpiece Collection)

RRP $18.99

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Esther McLean brought the afternoon mail in to Cunningham. She put it on the desk before him and stood waiting, timidly, afraid to voice her demand for justice, yet too desperately anxious to leave with it unspoken. He leaned back in his swivel chair, his cold eyes challenging her. "Well," he barked harshly. She was a young, soft creature, very pretty in a kittenish fashion, both sensuous and helpless. It was an easy guess that unless fortune stood her friend she was a predestined victim to the world's selfish love of pleasure, and fortune, with a cynical smile, had stood aside and let her go her way. "I . . . I . . ." A wave of color flooded her face. She twisted a rag of a handkerchief into a hard wadded knot. "Spit it out," he ordered curtly. "I've got to do something . . . soon. Won't you-won't you-?" There was a wail of despair in the unfinished sentence. James Cunningham was a grim, gray pirate, as malleable as cast iron and as soft. He was a large, big-boned man, aggressive, dominant, the kind that takes the world by the throat and shakes success from it. The contour of his hook-nosed face had something rapacious written on it. "No. Not till I get good and ready. I've told you I'd look out for you if you'd keep still. Don't come whining at me. I won't have it." "But-" Already he was ripping letters open and glancing over them. Tears brimmed the brown eyes of the girl. She bit her lower lip, choked back a sob, and turned hopelessly away. Her misfortune lay at her own door. She knew that. But- The woe in her heart was that the man she had loved was leaving her to face alone a night as bleak as death. Cunningham had always led a life of intelligent selfishness. He had usually got what he wanted because he was strong enough to take it. No scrupulous nicety of means had ever deterred him. Nor ever would. He played his own hand with a cynical disregard of the rights of others. It was this that had made him what he was, a man who bulked large in the sight of the city and state. Long ago he had made up his mind that altruism was weakness. He went through his mail with a swift, trained eye. One of the letters he laid aside and glanced at a second time. It brought a grim, hard smile to his lips. A paragraph read: There's no water in your ditch and our crops are burning up. Your whole irrigation system in Dry Valley is a fake. You knew it, but we didn't. You've skinned us out of all we had, you damned bloodsucker. If you ever come up here we'll dry-gulch you, sure. The letter was signed, "One You Have Robbed." Attached to it was a clipping from a small-town paper telling of a meeting of farmers to ask the United States District Attorney for an investigation of the Dry Valley irrigation project promoted by James Cunningham. The promoter smiled. He was not afraid of the Government. He had kept strictly within the law. It was not his fault there was not enough rainfall in the watershed to irrigate the valley. But the threat to dry-gulch him was another matter. He had no fancy for being shot in the back. Some crazy fool of a settler might do just that. He decided to let an agent attend to his Dry Valley affairs hereafter. He dictated some letters, closed his desk, and went down the street toward the City Club. At a florist's he stopped and ordered a box of American Beauties to be sent to Miss Phyllis Harriman. With these he enclosed his card, a line of greeting scrawled on it. A poker game was on at the club and Cunningham sat in. He interrupted it to dine, holding his seat by leaving a pile of chips at the place. When he cashed in his winnings and went downstairs it was still early. As a card-player he was not popular. He was too keen on the main chance and he nearly always won. In spite of his loud and frequent laugh, of the effect of bluff geniality, there was no genuine humor in the man, none of the milk of human kindness. A lawyer in the reading-room rose at sight of Cunningham. "Want to see you a minute," he said.

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