In The Five Love Languages, Dr. Gary Chapman talks about how different people express love in different ways. Some people are verbal, expressing their love in words. Others may never speak their affection, yet they show it by the things they do.

Sadly, many couples look to receive love the same way they give it, misunderstanding their spouses. This can lead to quarrels, hurt feelings, and even divorce. However, if you understand each other's love languages, you can learn to give and receive love more effectively.~

Unhappiness in marriage often has a simple root cause: we speak different love languages, believes Dr. Gary Chapman. While working as a marriage counselor for more than 30 years, he identified five love languages: Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch. In a friendly, often humorous style, he unpacks each one. Some husbands or wives may crave focused attention; another needs regular praise. Gifts are highly important to one spouse, while another sees fixing a leaky faucet, ironing a shirt, or cooking a meal as filling their "love tank." Some partners might find physical touch makes them feel valued: holding hands, giving back rubs, and sexual contact. Chapman illustrates each love language with real-life examples from his counseling practice.

How do you discover your spouse’s – and your own – love language? Chapman’s short questionnaires are one of several ways to find out. Throughout the book, he also includes application questions that can be answered more extensively in the beautifully detailed companion leather journal (an exclusive Amazon.com set). Each section of the journal corresponds with a chapter from the book, offering opportunities for deeper reflection on your marriage.

Although some readers may find choosing to love a spouse that they no longer even like –hoping the feelings of affection will follow later– a difficult concept to swallow, Chapman promises that the results will be worth the effort. "Love is a choice," says Chapman. "And either partner can start the process today." --Cindy Crosby. This text refers to the Amazon.com Exclusive Journal & Paperback Book Set.

Just after midnight, the famous Orient Express is stopped in its tracks by a snowdrift. By morning, the millionaire Samuel Edward Ratchett lies dead in his compartment, stabbed a dozen times, his door locked from the inside. One of his fellow passengers must be the murderer.

Isolated by the storm, detective Hercule Poirot must find the killer among a dozen of the dead man's enemies, before the murderer decides to strike again.

Warning - This is a SHORT STORY of circa two thousand words. (Approx 15 Kindle Pages)

Extract:
I’ve been watching you Dahlia, looking down from the tiered seating housing scores of students just like you, eagerly noting Mrs Bond’s imparted wisdom, but you haven’t noticed me, you’re too wrapped up in the drama unfolding stage front.

You look to your right, the stairs alongside the aisle disappear behind you, leading to a number of doors; one or two occasionally opening quietly, admitting a latecomer but nobody leaves, none dare exit Mrs Bond’s lectures prematurely.

It’s not just her intellect, her dulcet tones, gravitas and charisma; it’s the whole damn package, isn’t it?

Barely glancing at her notes, her clear delivery reaches you verbatim via the lapel mic pinned to her severe navy blue suit.

You try concentrating on her sonorous words.

It’s a given that Mrs Bond won’t remove her jacket, she’ll wear it even on the hottest days, admittedly unbuttoned, permitting a glimpse of her blouse, a prim nod to femininity. The soft fabric intimate beneath her harsh business attire and you visualise rolling the sheer cloth between your fingertips.

Adults only: Content is sexually explicit and is unsuitable for readers under the age of 18.

www.secretnarrative.com
www.eroticaexpress.com

Warning - This is a SHORT STORY of circa two thousand words. (Approx 15 Kindle Pages)

Extract:
I’ve been watching you Dahlia, looking down from the tiered seating housing scores of students just like you, eagerly noting Mrs Bond’s imparted wisdom, but you haven’t noticed me, you’re too wrapped up in the drama unfolding stage front.

You look to your right, the stairs alongside the aisle disappear behind you, leading to a number of doors; one or two occasionally opening quietly, admitting a latecomer but nobody leaves, none dare exit Mrs Bond’s lectures prematurely.

It’s not just her intellect, her dulcet tones, gravitas and charisma; it’s the whole damn package, isn’t it?

Barely glancing at her notes, her clear delivery reaches you verbatim via the lapel mic pinned to her severe navy blue suit.

You try concentrating on her sonorous words.

It’s a given that Mrs Bond won’t remove her jacket, she’ll wear it even on the hottest days, admittedly unbuttoned, permitting a glimpse of her blouse, a prim nod to femininity. The soft fabric intimate beneath her harsh business attire and you visualise rolling the sheer cloth between your fingertips.

Adults only: Content is sexually explicit and is unsuitable for readers under the age of 18.

www.secretnarrative.com
www.eroticaexpress.com

How to Understand and Express Your Deepest Feelings Toward Others Conflict simply is. Believing that we can somehow avoid it can only damage our relationships, but when we learn to integrate our needs and wants with those of others, it can be a catalyst in our relationships for deeper loving care. This classic title in Christian peacemaking teaches the reader how to build trust, cope with blame and prejudice, and be honest about anger and frustration. Dr. Augsburger challenges readers to keep in mind that the important issue is not what the conflict is about, but instead how the conflict is handled. He offers a biblically based model for dealing with conflict to teach Christians how to confront with compassion and resolve issues in a healthy and healing way. Whether in family, church or work relationships, Caring Enough toConfront gives readers the tools to make the most of every conflict.

• ISBN13: 9780763642341
• Condition: New
• Notes: BRAND NEW FROM PUBLISHER! 100% Satisfaction Guarantee. Tracking provided on most orders. Buy with Confidence! Millions of books sold!

Nearly 600,000 Stink books in print

When three guinea pigs from the local pet shop make a great escape, Stink Moody and his friends Webster and Sophie spring into action. Ta-da! The Fantastic Fur Friends round up the little hairballs and bring them safely back to Mrs. Birdwistle’s shop, where they discover — oohla- la! — guinea pig pandemonium! Time for the Great Guinea Pig Giveaway! Stink and company hit the road aboard the Squeals on Wheels Express in a crazy quest to fi nd good homes for 101 squealing, whistling, chirping, wiggly piggies. FUR-eaky!

Service Due (Lexington Avenue Express - Short Fiction)

Within a year, the incident had been filed, archived, and forgotten on a shelf in the courthouse basement. The storage box, including the fine layer of dust that covered it, weighed twelve pounds; far less than the bulk of the human hearts Cameron Adams had destroyed.

As a registered sex offender, these quarterly meetings with a county psychiatrist had become a modest inconvenience, a burden Adams could easily bear.

“Sometimes I wish it could end,” he said, his tone sincere, convincing. “Battling this affliction can be overpowering at times.”

He had a new doctor today, the third in twelve months. The young psychiatrist the county had assigned to his case looked thoughtfully at a clipboard as he responded. “What do you mean when you say 'overpowering', Cameron? Do you think you can ever fully conquer your illness?”

Adams didn't say what he thought. Instead, he responded with words he knew would convince this stranger of his remorse. “I've grown to know my affliction well; I realize it will always be with me. I suppose I'm just feeling a bit sorry for myself today. Sometimes it is easier to blame one's problems on the world, I suppose I'm just a little tired.”

“Tired? Are you tired mentally or physically or both, Cameron?” The young psychiatrist had a new contract with the county. His inexperience would never bridge the writhing madness that separated him from his new patient.

Adams fought the impulse to smile in response to the well-meaning young man’s question. “As you doubtless know, doctor, I fight these urges each day of my life. My medication helps, but the desire is always there, gnawing away, relentlessly challenging me. I've dedicated my life to winning the battle, but the effort takes a toll.”

Cameron Adams saw the flicker of acknowledgment in his interviewer’s hazel eyes and knew he'd won again. Adams’ keen perception, combined with years of experience in criminal law, made him a particularly cunning predator.

An hour later, Adams' Lexus rumbled through the turnstile as he exited the hospital parking garage. As usual, he'd scheduled to have his car serviced on the way to the club for cocktails and an early dinner. Smugly, he considered these required quarterly sessions with the county-assigned psychiatrist a handy means of reminding him when his Lexus needed an oil change.

The parking lot lights were just coming on as Adams rolled to a stop at the Executive Auto Service Center. A sign at the driveway entrance read ‘DON’T FORGET – We’re Relocating to 1110 Culver Ave. on March 1st!’ Adams paid no attention to the sign as he parked in front of the open bay door and smiled, recalling the young psychiatrist's dark lashes and those lovely hazel eyes. If the doctor were only fifteen years younger, he thought.
*****
A few years earlier, Cameron Adams had been released from the county jail after only six hours in custody. Although the arrest had surprised and embarrassed him, the incident had quickly dropped from public view. His law firm had called in some very valuable markers.

With the creative assistance of his partners, the video and photographic evidence of Adams' monstrous depravity had been suppressed on a search warrant technicality. In the end, he had pleaded the charges against him down to simple gratification of lust.

One thousand hours of community service and on-going counseling as a registered sex offender; that was the penalty the law had imposed. Without censure from his peers, the attorney had discreetly returned to his practice and to his old ways. Adams had learned from his mistakes. Nearly five years had passed without further public incident. He'd become more … cautious.
*****
“I think you'd better take a look at this, sir, the attendant said from beneath the Lexus luxury sedan.

Adams was standing near the front fender, absently drinking coffee from a plastic cup. He peered under the car ...

Service Due (Lexington Avenue Express - Short Fiction)

Within a year, the incident had been filed, archived, and forgotten on a shelf in the courthouse basement. The storage box, including the fine layer of dust that covered it, weighed twelve pounds; far less than the bulk of the human hearts Cameron Adams had destroyed.

As a registered sex offender, these quarterly meetings with a county psychiatrist had become a modest inconvenience, a burden Adams could easily bear.

“Sometimes I wish it could end,” he said, his tone sincere, convincing. “Battling this affliction can be overpowering at times.”

He had a new doctor today, the third in twelve months. The young psychiatrist the county had assigned to his case looked thoughtfully at a clipboard as he responded. “What do you mean when you say 'overpowering', Cameron? Do you think you can ever fully conquer your illness?”

Adams didn't say what he thought. Instead, he responded with words he knew would convince this stranger of his remorse. “I've grown to know my affliction well; I realize it will always be with me. I suppose I'm just feeling a bit sorry for myself today. Sometimes it is easier to blame one's problems on the world, I suppose I'm just a little tired.”

“Tired? Are you tired mentally or physically or both, Cameron?” The young psychiatrist had a new contract with the county. His inexperience would never bridge the writhing madness that separated him from his new patient.

Adams fought the impulse to smile in response to the well-meaning young man’s question. “As you doubtless know, doctor, I fight these urges each day of my life. My medication helps, but the desire is always there, gnawing away, relentlessly challenging me. I've dedicated my life to winning the battle, but the effort takes a toll.”

Cameron Adams saw the flicker of acknowledgment in his interviewer’s hazel eyes and knew he'd won again. Adams’ keen perception, combined with years of experience in criminal law, made him a particularly cunning predator.

An hour later, Adams' Lexus rumbled through the turnstile as he exited the hospital parking garage. As usual, he'd scheduled to have his car serviced on the way to the club for cocktails and an early dinner. Smugly, he considered these required quarterly sessions with the county-assigned psychiatrist a handy means of reminding him when his Lexus needed an oil change.

The parking lot lights were just coming on as Adams rolled to a stop at the Executive Auto Service Center. A sign at the driveway entrance read ‘DON’T FORGET – We’re Relocating to 1110 Culver Ave. on March 1st!’ Adams paid no attention to the sign as he parked in front of the open bay door and smiled, recalling the young psychiatrist's dark lashes and those lovely hazel eyes. If the doctor were only fifteen years younger, he thought.
*****
A few years earlier, Cameron Adams had been released from the county jail after only six hours in custody. Although the arrest had surprised and embarrassed him, the incident had quickly dropped from public view. His law firm had called in some very valuable markers.

With the creative assistance of his partners, the video and photographic evidence of Adams' monstrous depravity had been suppressed on a search warrant technicality. In the end, he had pleaded the charges against him down to simple gratification of lust.

One thousand hours of community service and on-going counseling as a registered sex offender; that was the penalty the law had imposed. Without censure from his peers, the attorney had discreetly returned to his practice and to his old ways. Adams had learned from his mistakes. Nearly five years had passed without further public incident. He'd become more … cautious.
*****
“I think you'd better take a look at this, sir, the attendant said from beneath the Lexus luxury sedan.

Adams was standing near the front fender, absently drinking coffee from a plastic cup. He peered under the car ...

Completely revised and updated for Logic Pro 9 and Logic Express 9, this Apple-certified guide shows you how to record, produce, and polish music files with Apple’s professional audio software. Veteran music producer David Nahmani’s step-by-step, instructions teach you everything from basic music creation to advanced production techniques using Logic’s software synthesizers, samplers, and digital signal processors. Using the book’s DVD files and either Logic Pro 9 or Logic Express 9, you’ll begin making music in the first lesson. Whether you’re looking to use your computer as a digital recording studio, create musical compositions, or transfer that song in your head into music you can share, this comprehensive book/DVD combo will show you how.

•  DVD-ROM includes lesson and media files
  

•  Focused lessons take you step-by-step through professional, real-world projects
  

•  Accessible writing style puts an expert instructor at your side

•  Ample illustrations and keyboard shortcuts help you master techniques fast
  

•  Lesson goals and time estimates help you plan your time

•  Chapter review questions summarize what you’ve learned and prepare you for the Apple Certifi ed Pro Exam
  

Act of Contrition (Lexington Avenue Express - Short Fiction)

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been … thirty-four years since my last confession.”

Cole Reynolds was a long way from home. His commercial flight from Minneapolis had arrived at the Jackson airport just before lunch. An hour later, he'd found himself driving west on I-20.

“Thirty-four years is a long time, my son. But the Lord is patient. Confess to Him and He will forgive you your sins.”

The midday traffic had been heavy and one lane was closed. Cole's vacant gaze had never left the highway as he inched passed the lumbering asphalt equipment clawing at the undulating hills of east Mississippi.

“Thirty years ago,” Cole began, “I was working at a nickel mine in Guatemala …” a dry cough interrupted his confession. “I'm sorry, Father,” he finally continued. “It’s complicated.”

Other drivers had jockeyed for position, necks pivoting, eyes wide as they'd fought to capture a few more precious feet of pavement before braking sharply to avoid a collision. Like a diseased heart, the irregular rhythm of the traffic had continued for miles; accelerate, brake abruptly, hesitate, accelerate, brake abruptly, hesitate--

“Go on, my son,” the priest prompted him.

Cole had unconsciously slowed his breathing as the air conditioner filled his rental car's interior with noxious fumes produced by the towering asphalt-grinding monsters. “Only fifty miles to Vicksburg; one more hour and my burden will be lifted,” he'd whispered aloud.

“Mine 406 was located fifty miles northeast of Guatemala City, across the lake in a rugged, mountainous area. The company had been threatening to close the mine because of rebel guerrilla pressure. Finally after two Canadians were killed in a nighttime raid, the Nickel mining outfit decided to call it quits. I'm sorry, Father. I know I'm rambling.”

A heavy chain had blocked the entrance to the parking lot of Saint Ignatius Catholic Church in the center of Vicksburg. Cole Reynolds had driven two blocks further up Levee Street before he’d found a parking space. After carefully maneuvering his rental car into position, he had deposited two quarters in the meter and started down the steep hill toward the church.

“There was a girl there, Father, a beautiful Mayan girl named Mara. Her family ran the little store and cafe in the village, not much really, just a few ancient soft drink coolers and an odd assortment of merchandise accumulated over the years.”

Cole had adjusted his stride for the steep descent down Levee Street. At the base of the hill a quarter mile away, the street disappeared, swallowed by the wide, slate-gray expanse of the Mississippi River. All along the sidewalk, fireplugs painted as toy soldiers stared impassively and life in the little city drifted with the faint August-afternoon breeze.

“At seventeen, Mara was the oldest of nine children. She'd been married briefly but her Canadian husband had been killed in an accident at the mine. Everyone wanted her, Father,” Cole's voice dropped to a whisper, “but I loved her. To me, she was so precious, so full of life. Her eyes; they sparkled so, like the dazzling fire opal necklace she wore.”

As he'd walked, Cole had felt an odd rush of relief, realizing his ordeal was nearly at an end. He'd paused and surveyed his surroundings; painters were busy on a second story scaffold in front an antique shop, a tattooed teenager drifted from one gas meter to the next absently recording readings on a clipboard, two old men sat silently on a park bench in the shade, peanut husks littered the pavement around their feet.

“There were only seven of us left there, Father. We were responsible for the final details involved in closing the mine. Another day and we'd have been gone too but …”

Entering the cool church, Cole had knelt for a long moment outside the confessional. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he had read and re-read the quote; it was...

Act of Contrition (Lexington Avenue Express - Short Fiction)

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been … thirty-four years since my last confession.”

Cole Reynolds was a long way from home. His commercial flight from Minneapolis had arrived at the Jackson airport just before lunch. An hour later, he'd found himself driving west on I-20.

“Thirty-four years is a long time, my son. But the Lord is patient. Confess to Him and He will forgive you your sins.”

The midday traffic had been heavy and one lane was closed. Cole's vacant gaze had never left the highway as he inched passed the lumbering asphalt equipment clawing at the undulating hills of east Mississippi.

“Thirty years ago,” Cole began, “I was working at a nickel mine in Guatemala …” a dry cough interrupted his confession. “I'm sorry, Father,” he finally continued. “It’s complicated.”

Other drivers had jockeyed for position, necks pivoting, eyes wide as they'd fought to capture a few more precious feet of pavement before braking sharply to avoid a collision. Like a diseased heart, the irregular rhythm of the traffic had continued for miles; accelerate, brake abruptly, hesitate, accelerate, brake abruptly, hesitate--

“Go on, my son,” the priest prompted him.

Cole had unconsciously slowed his breathing as the air conditioner filled his rental car's interior with noxious fumes produced by the towering asphalt-grinding monsters. “Only fifty miles to Vicksburg; one more hour and my burden will be lifted,” he'd whispered aloud.

“Mine 406 was located fifty miles northeast of Guatemala City, across the lake in a rugged, mountainous area. The company had been threatening to close the mine because of rebel guerrilla pressure. Finally after two Canadians were killed in a nighttime raid, the Nickel mining outfit decided to call it quits. I'm sorry, Father. I know I'm rambling.”

A heavy chain had blocked the entrance to the parking lot of Saint Ignatius Catholic Church in the center of Vicksburg. Cole Reynolds had driven two blocks further up Levee Street before he’d found a parking space. After carefully maneuvering his rental car into position, he had deposited two quarters in the meter and started down the steep hill toward the church.

“There was a girl there, Father, a beautiful Mayan girl named Mara. Her family ran the little store and cafe in the village, not much really, just a few ancient soft drink coolers and an odd assortment of merchandise accumulated over the years.”

Cole had adjusted his stride for the steep descent down Levee Street. At the base of the hill a quarter mile away, the street disappeared, swallowed by the wide, slate-gray expanse of the Mississippi River. All along the sidewalk, fireplugs painted as toy soldiers stared impassively and life in the little city drifted with the faint August-afternoon breeze.

“At seventeen, Mara was the oldest of nine children. She'd been married briefly but her Canadian husband had been killed in an accident at the mine. Everyone wanted her, Father,” Cole's voice dropped to a whisper, “but I loved her. To me, she was so precious, so full of life. Her eyes; they sparkled so, like the dazzling fire opal necklace she wore.”

As he'd walked, Cole had felt an odd rush of relief, realizing his ordeal was nearly at an end. He'd paused and surveyed his surroundings; painters were busy on a second story scaffold in front an antique shop, a tattooed teenager drifted from one gas meter to the next absently recording readings on a clipboard, two old men sat silently on a park bench in the shade, peanut husks littered the pavement around their feet.

“There were only seven of us left there, Father. We were responsible for the final details involved in closing the mine. Another day and we'd have been gone too but …”

Entering the cool church, Cole had knelt for a long moment outside the confessional. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he had read and re-read the quote; it was...