Lucie: Bride of Tennessee (American Mail-Order Brides & prequel to Mail-Order Brides of the Southwest): Heidi Vanlandingham
Die Bekanntgabe bezüglich der Beweismittel an Taylors Kleidung sorgt für großen Wirbel. Unverzüglich veranlassen die Eltern der Basketballspieler und die Leyland School eine ausführliche DNA-Analyse am gesamten Team. Schließlich zwingen die anstehenden Tests Eric zu einer schmerzhaften Offenbarung. Unterdessen sucht Taylor den Weg zurück in die Normalität, indem er sich wieder bei einer öffentlichen Schule in der Umgebung einschreibt.
An American Dream:Harper Perennial Modern Classics Norman Mailer
An American Dream:A Novel Norman Mailer
This book explores the conflicted relationship writers have with their public image, particularly when they have written about their personal lives. DAmore analyzes the autobiographical works of Norman Mailer, John Edgar Wideman, and Dave Eggers in light of theories of authorship, autobiography, and celebrity. Jonathan D Amore is a lecturer in the Department of English at St. Michael s College in Colchester, Vermont, where he teaches courses in writing, life narratives, and American literature.
Grizzly in the Mail and Other Adventures in American History: Tim Grove
Jenny never intended for this to happen. It was just a stupid pop-up ad on a stupid website, the final annoyance in a frustrating, stupid day. Seriously, who offers 30-day trials for viking husbands? Of course Jenny didnt read the fine print, she just clicked it! Now Torhild is standing on her doorstep wrapped in animal pelts, his muscles rippling, his primitive mind set on just two things: Conquest, and making love to his new American bride! ----- Excerpt ----- He was the tallest man Id ever seen outside a basketball game, yet his body was nothing like a professional athletes. His neck and shoulders were massive, his biceps thicker than my thighs, and his own thighs were like glistening tree trunks. I saw all of this, and all the glistening, because he was garbed in nothing but fur pelts. His bare skin was shiny with sweat and the spatters of what I didnt recognize as blood. Id stepped out of my car laughing. I stopped when I realized the stag slung over the mans shoulder was alive--or had been until just recently. Its antlers bowed over his broad chest, its eye closed in death. I dropped my purse when the man called out to me. His voice was as frosty as a glacier and as rugged as the calluses in his palms. Greetings, Jenny Templeton, he boomed. I am Torhild, son of Folcwald, strangler of the serpents spawn and bane of Jörmungandr. Uh? I said. I stared into the mans ice blue eyes. They were heralds of winter in the warm fall evening. His hair, too, had a wintry cast, a pale blonde that was more snow than gold. The hair was thick and flowed over his shoulders, some of it wrapped up into long, complicated braids. His face was beardless, though a reddish stubble gleamed on his cheeks and chin. His eyebrows, thick and even whiter than his hair, rose high on his tan forehead. You are Jenny Templeton? he asked. Um, yeah, I said. I shouldered my purse and tried to remember if mace had an expiration date, and if I was even carrying my mace, and if mace could stop a hulking hunk that strangled serpents spawn. Torhild nodded. Then we are well met, he said. You are a most comely maiden. Why was I blushing for this psychopath on my doorstep? I swiped a lock of hair behind my ear and shook my head. Well, uh, jokes on you, buddy, because Im not a maiden. I glanced quickly to my left and right. Where the hell did he come from? Could I outrun him? Hed apparently outrun a deer, so probably not. Torhild let rip a mighty laugh that threatened to rock my car windows out of their sockets. Aha! he snorted. Tis good, Jenny. Ive little patience for blushing virgins. Green kindling yields little warmth. Oh, okay, so thats where this is going, I muttered. Just stay back or Ill scream. You cant attack me in broad daylight. He smiled at me from beneath his snowy eyebrows. Ive no intention of ravishing thee, Jenny. He hefted the deer on his shoulder. As a token of my troth, Ive hunted the swiftest stag in this land. For five days he led me through the woods of Fairfield, Litchfield, and Hartford, where I at last slew him within a stones throw of Tolland. He died honorably and shall make a fine feast. I stared at the man, my mouth agape. Or perhaps you are a vegetarian? he asked.
Im April 1999 lernt Juliane in Paris Leander kennen. Zweieinhalb Tage verbringen sie zusammen. 4320 Minuten. Zweieinhalb perfekte und unvorstellbar romantische Tage. Wieder zurück in Deutschland, im beschaulichen Tübingen, in der Realität, schreibt Juliane ihm E-Mails. Sie will ihn unbedingt wiedersehen, ihn besser kennenlernen, mehr Zeit mit ihm verbringen. Auf ein Leben gesehen, sind zweieinhalb Tage einfach zu wenig. Doch nichts, keine Reaktion ... Jahrelang. Und das obwohl sie ihm wieder und wieder ihr Herz ausschüttet. Ihre Mails werden zu einer Art Tagebuch. Die Antwort folgt nach vierzehn Jahren. Leander ist inzwischen Diplomat, lebt in Istanbul und möchte Juliane wiedersehen. Doch möchte sie das auch noch? Nach all der Zeit? Ein moderner Briefroman über die Lieben eines Lebens, über Verluste und die Lust des Neuanfangens.