By Damon Knight
Read or Download A For Anything PDF
Similar women's fiction books
A new sequence from the writer of the elements warden NOVEL S, WHOÂ’S AS Â“Swift, sassy, and horny as Laurell okay. Hamilton. Â” (Mary Jo Putney)Once she used to be Cassiel, a Djinn of unlimited energy. Now, she has been reshaped in human flesh as punishment for defying her masterÂ—and dwelling one of the climate Wardens, whose energy she needs to faucet into frequently or she is going to die.
In a unique as hot and embracing as a family members kitchen, Barbara O’Neal explores the poignant, occasionally advanced relationships among moms and daughters—and the therapeutic magic of selfmade bread. expert baker Ramona Gallagher is a grasp of an artwork that has sustained her throughout the so much turbulent occasions, together with a toddler at fifteen and an unending kinfolk feud.
Additional resources for A For Anything
He plunged back with a violent effort, and the mountain hit him hard. His ears rang. Dust rose around him. He sneezed and struggled to his feet. The man in the convertible looked up at him without speaking. The gun was a double-barreled shotgun, sawed off short. He held it with the stock tucked under his arm. His dusty blue polo shirt was dark with sweat; his face and his heavy arms were burnt brick-color, but he wore only a shabby polo cap against the sun. A deer rifle was propped against the seat near his hand, and the butts of two revolvers stuck out of his waistband.
He had heard it all a hundred times before, and had expected to hear it all a hundred times again. A month or so ago, guest days, except for a few pleasurable aspects, A for Anything 49 had been a pain in the scut. Now he found himself listening and watching with an irritable hunger; it gave him no enjoyment, but he couldn’t take his attention away. There was a familiar shape, little Echols of Scaroon with his big stomach wrapped in a scarlet cummerbund, cigar in one hand and champagne glass in the other.
Spah! ” Dick fired again. ” Not so good, but he’d make it up. He was a better shot than Cash, always had been. Not today, though. Something in the noisy crowd, or maybe in the morning’s frustrations, seemed to have thrown him off. Cash was lining up a good series of tens and nines, while Dick, though he squeezed off each shot with care, was shooting unevenly. “Seven,” called the monitor slob. “Nine . . seven . . seven . ” There was an embarrassed pause. ” A miss, at fifty yards, with his own carbine!