#AmWatching The Descendants (starring George Clooney)

The Descendants

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Matt King (George Clooney) attempts to repair his relationship with his two daughters after his wife is in a boating accident off of Waikiki.

• Starring: George Clooney, Shailene Woodley
• Directed by: Alexander Payne
• Runtime: 1 hour 55 minutes
• Release year: 2011
• Studio: 20th Century Fox

 

Plot Summary:

With his wife Elizabeth on life support after a boating accident, Hawaiian land baron Matt King takes his daughters on a trip from Oahu to Kauai to confront the man who was having an affair with Elizabeth before her misfortune. Written by realndn06

Matt King's family has lived in Hawaii for generations. His extended family - namely he and his many cousins - own 25,000 acres of undeveloped land on Kauai held in trust, which ends in seven years. The easiest thing for the family to do is sell the land before the seven years is up, which is all the talk in the state, as, to whom they sell the property could very well change the face of Kauai. Despite the vast wealth that comes with the land, Matt has decided to live solely on what he earns as a Honolulu lawyer. However, Matt has not had a perfect life living in Hawaiian paradise as many believe. He and his wife Elizabeth were having problems in their marriage. She recently got into a boating accident which has placed her in a coma. Their seventeen year old daughter Alex is in boarding school on the big island since they couldn't handle her rebellion, which was made all the worse by an argument of an unknown nature between mother and daughter during Alex's last visit home. And their ten year old daughter Scottie is starting to act out, which Matt doesn't know if he can handle, potentially raising her on his own. Matt decides to bring Alex home upon news that Elizabeth is brain dead, and that she will be pulled off life support. But revelations about Elizabeth and Alex's argument, which is tied indirectly to the issue of the land sale, leads to some decisions on Matt's part about what is best for him in both mourning Elizabeth's death and what is the best thing to do about the land, the two decisions which may be incompatible. Written by Huggo

Attorney Matt King is having a difficult time coping with his life at the moment. His wife Elizabeth is in a coma in the hospital following a boating accident. His youngest daughter Scottie is acting out and in many ways Matt is forced to be a parent for the first time in a long time. Matt is also in control of a family trust, one that is set to expire in a few years time. The trust owns a huge tract of land - vigorously sought by developers - the sale of which would be of great help financially to many of his cousins. He fetches his eldest daughter Alexandra from school and in a heated argument learns that Elizabeth was having an affair and was going to divorce him. Matt sets out to see the man, but isn't quite sure what he will say or do when he locates him. Written by garykmcd

The Way Home by Nhys Glover

PROLOGUE

October 1940, Leconfield, Yorkshire, ENGLAND

What it was about the large farmhouse Hawk did not know, but from the first moment he crossed its threshold, he felt at home. Its thick stone walls embraced him; its low beams protected him.

Homesickness or nostalgia couldn’t account for his feelings because the place was very different from its counterparts at home. Nothing in England reminded him of Poland.

‘Come in, come in, don’t stand there like statue,’ the farmer demanded, his gruff Yorkshire accent softened by his friendly tone. He looked to be in his fifties, although there was the fragility of old age about him, too, as if his body had worn out earlier than it should.

‘You do understand me, don’t ye? I know ye’re foreign an’ all…’

Hawk grinned and nodded. Although the man’s accent was strong, he understood it well enough. ‘I speak English. We had to learn before they would let us up in their planes.’

The farmer nodded sagely, still waiting for him to move into the house more fully. Hawk wanted to savour the moment like a fine liqueur, letting the taste remain on his tongue, breathing it in through his nose.

There was mustiness in the air of a damp space kept closed up for too long. He could smell furniture polish and wet dog. There was also the odour of manure that had accompanied them in from the farmyard. None of the individual scents he identified gave him sensations of pleasure, but in combination, they affected him pleasantly.

He’d grown up in the city. Rural life was alien to him. Mostly, it worried him with its isolation, but not here, not in this farmhouse. Here, the rural setting suited him. Here, the isolation felt comfortable, as if he could be wholly himself for the first time without the intrusion of others. The sound of aircraft landing and taking off nearby only added to the feeling of home.

‘Is it shell shock ye’re sufferin’?’ The farmer was staring at him now, his deeply lined brow puckered with concern.

Hawk gave himself a mental shake and smiled at the man again. ‘Sorry, no. It is just this house. I feel like I know it… or it knows me. I sound like a crazy person, I know. Would you prefer I left?’

He didn’t want to leave – not now. Not ever, a little voice in his head said. If the man began to worry about Hawk’s sanity, however, it might be better. They didn’t want to get a bad reputation with the locals. Already, the man might see him as an intruder. After all, Hawk had wandered up his long drive to the farmhouse for no reason other than he wanted to know what was at the end of the road. He hadn’t been invited onto the property until the farmer had seen him and offered him welcome.

‘Nah then, lad, don’t be daft. I invited thee, didn’t I? And our Mildred’ll give me a right say-so if I let thee go before tha’ve had a cup o’ tea. We’ve heard about thee lads, the 303 Squadron?’

The man had turned and had begun walking down the dark hallway, talking all the while. Hawk couldn’t draw the moment out any longer. He had to follow along behind the farmer or be considered rude.

He took several long, striding steps to catch up with the Yorkshireman. ‘Yes. We were rotated out to Leconfield from Northolt for a break. Six weeks we have been in the air.’

‘One hundred and twenty-six kills in six weeks, they’re sayin’. Impressive, and we aren’t impressed by foreigners easy in these parts.’

‘We lost eighteen Hurricanes, seven pilots and we have five more badly wounded. That is not so impressive.’

‘If I told thee the losses we took at the Somme, thee’d think twice about that.’ The man’s voice was hollow, as if it came from a long way away, a lifetime away.

‘You survived the Great War?’

‘Aye. Lucky’s what I was, nowt but lucky. The mustard gas got ta ma lungs, but nowt bad. Now ‘ere’s our Mildred…’

They’d made it to the back of the house by now and entered the big country kitchen with its wooden table in the centre and flagstones on the floor. A big black range burned hot against the far wall. He could feel its heat from where he stood. A small window over the sink was open, as was the back door, probably because it was midday and the sun was shining. The cool air from outside also balanced the heat inside a little.

He could see autumn leaves, golden and beautiful, on the oak tree just outside the window. They seemed to glow in the sunlight.

Mildred was a matronly woman with grey, straggly hair and a friendly smile. Her face was flushed red from the heat of the stove. She wiped a strand of hair away from her face with the back of a floury arm.

‘Ayap, who’s tha wi’ ye then, our Alf? A ‘andsome airman fromt’ looks of ‘im.’

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Genre - Historical  Romance

Rating – PG

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Website http://nhysglover.com/

Harmless by Ernie Lindsey

CHAPTER 1

Here’s how it happened, and most of this is true.

That night, a single pop of gunfire next door interrupted a well-earned scotch. 

Long day.  Feet up.  Tie loosened with the Giants down by two runs in the ninth.  You know how it goes.  You wake up expecting normal things to happen—like a shower without the hot water heater going bust, or fixing your eggs without burning a fat blister, or the judge deciding that you are, indeed, entitled to see your kids every other weekend.  One bang of the gavel and you trip backwards down the stairs of Progress, rolling and tumbling until you land on your rear, dazed, alone, and seriously pissed off.

First floor: defeat, desperation, ladies’ lingerie.

It’s amazing how a thin slingshot of material—a mixture of lace and cotton, a thong, or thongs, plural—can ruin ten years of marriage, a career, and the relationship you’re supposed to have with your children.

The fault lies with me.  I’ve admitted it.  I’ve apologized.  I’ve begged.

I am, and remain, an unforgivable wretch.

At least, according to the court system.

And those who are unfamiliar with me.

I jumped to my feet, drenching a pants leg with sloshing scotch and melting ice, and pulled two blinds apart at the window.

The woman next door, the first time I met her, she initially said her name was Jan.

She said Jan, I know she did, but we’ll get to that later.  The mistakenly delivered mail from Sterling Savings & Loan referred to her as Kerry Parker—do I really look that sketchy?  Sketchy enough for her to lie?  Also, I used this joke on her, an old standby:  “I think I know you from somewhere…maybe from high school…yeah, didn’t we have Chemistry together?  No?  Well, we do now.”

Jan, Kerry.  Kerry, Jan.  I’ll call her Kerry.  It’s easier that way.

She moved in six months ago and lived alone in a modest ranch home with dark, red brick and white shutters.  Her plants died in the summer heat while her yard stayed over-watered and jungle-like.  What kind of person does that?  I was positive that an entomologist could find a number of undiscovered species crawling throughout its vines and lush green canopy.  I’d offered to mow it for her several times while mowing mine (shirtless, of course—the tan stays even, period), but she always declined, said she could use the help but no thanks, and then would scurry inside like she was trying to get away from me.  Cute butt waggling in short shorts, flip-flops slapping against her heels as she climbed the three steps leading up to her porch.

I mention the cute butt because, well, how could you not?  I mean, really, it’s like a bubble.  The one time I got a better look from my office window, as she sunbathed in her backyard—no top and a pink thong, of all things—that was all it took to confirm that yes, “bubble” was the perfect word.  It’s not like I was spying.  I just happened to be on the computer upstairs and looked outside.  Maybe for a little too long—what’s the harm in that?

The difference between a peeping tom and coincidence is timing—and duration.

She was thirty-two, eleven years younger than me.  And I know this because I got a quick look at her driver’s license—Kerry Parker, confirmed—which I found in the front seat of her car.  (A storm was coming.  Her windows were down.  I try to be helpful in such situations.  I do.  Honest.) 

She was separated from her husband, according to the letter from Wellington & Wellington, Attorneys at Law, which, coincidentally, was the same firm handling my case.  So it was a complete accident that I opened the envelope.  I thought it was mine. 

When I gave it to her, I got the feeling that she was slightly unnerved.  Explaining what happened eased her apprehension, I’m sure of it, but she still gave me the same kind of look you give a car salesman when you know he’s trying to give you the shaft and guaranteeing that you’ll enjoy it.  I should know.  I’ve gotten that look several times peddling metal over at Thrifty’s Used Cars.

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Genre - Mystery/Suspense

Rating – PG13

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Blog http://www.ernielindsey.com/

Knights of the Dragon by Albert J. Gallant @Alberttttt

This novel contains baby dragons and adventure. It also encompasses valorous knights and humor. It’s a tale of magic and mayhem.

Knights of the Dragon is an exciting tale of knights, wizards, romance and dragons. The adventure to save Leeander is on! When an exceptional baby dragon is born will it change everyone’s destiny?

A dragon named Ryxa befriends a boy only to discover that his kingdom will soon be conquered by another and the boy is doomed, and so to save him and his people she hires knights to go on an adventure with her and the boy to find magic.

Leeander’s knight Stone is sent out to capture a wizard in an attempt to defend the kingdom while trying hard to keep his eyes off princess Alexa, who insists on going with them in pursuit of a sorcerer.

Meanwhile, a red dragon named Ella falls for a black dragon, which is taboo, and she tries hard to resist his irresistible charm. She doesn’t want her life to be left in ruins because of bonding with a black dragon.

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Genre - Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

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Website http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/a-j-gallant.html

The Pat O’Malley Historical Steampunk Mystery Trilogy - Jim Musgrave

Chapter 4:  Alcohol and the Black Cat

The next day, I wanted to go back and see if I could get some real information out of Plug Ugly gang leader Walter McKenzie in Hoboken, New Jersey.  He was doing business all along the docks during the time Poe was working in New York.  Today, he was limited to the docks in Jersey.  I was hoping he could supply me with some specific clues about Poe and his relationship with the murdered tobacco shop girl.

The cobblestone streets in the poorer neighborhoods collected refuse and dead animals.  People threw their garbage out of the windows and the dead rats, dogs and cats fell down into big cracks in the road where they would stink to high heaven.  One of our tortures as children would be to force the victim’s face down into one of these cracks until he or she began screaming for release.

I went through the same inspection process as I entered the dockside building where McKenzie had his center of business.  “Watch it with your hands, ladies,” I told them, “don’t touch anything you don’t want to buy,” I added, as they felt all around my legs and up my back.

“He’s clean,” said a ham-fisted gangster wearing a dock worker’s uniform of black gabardines and red suspenders.  He also had a cargo hook hanging from his belt that probably served more as a weapon than as a loading utensil.  The three of them pushed me into the back room and slammed the door.

Today, Walter McKenzie was not in his cups.  Instead, he had two prostitutes, one on each knee, giving him little chucks under his three chins and whispering sweet nothings in his cauliflower ears.  They wore Chinese gowns with gold dragons on the front, and their black stockings could be seen as their legs crossed each other. 

He swiveled his big chair around toward me.  “O’Malley, is it?  Ya ain’t no relation to Father O’Malley, the priest who comes down to the docks to tell us we’re all goin’ to Hades, are ya now?”

“No, I’m just trying to show the world that the Irish aren’t all a bunch of sots and drunkards.  I thought maybe you could answer a few questions for me now that you’re not besotted.  The case I’m working on has to do with events happening in New York City from 1846 to 1849.”

“It depends.  I ain’t no stool pigeon.  And I won’t help the police,” McKenzie said, pushing the girls off his knees and standing up.  “Get back to work on your backs!” he laughed, and the women left the room giggling.

“I won’t ask anything that would put your grand reputation in jeopardy,” I said, “and I am not a flat foot.  I’m a vet who’s trying to make a living in private investigations.”

“A man of the Union, are ya then?”

I nodded.

“That’s a horse of a different color, now ain’t it?  Ask away, O’Malley, me boy-o.  Ya risked your life so’s the likes of me can stay in business, and I’ll give ya my best memory, ‘though there’s been a lot of malt into me bowels and a few whacks on me skull during all these years,” McKenzie laughed, pointing to his head.

“Did you ever work for a gentleman by the name of John Anderson?  He owned a tobacco shop in New York during those years,” I said.

“Anderson.  Let me see now.  That name’s familiar.  It was an Anderson come to me about that Rogers girl.  Mary Rogers was her name.  But it weren’t a Mister Anderson.  It were Missus Anderson who come to me about the woman trouble that Rogers was having.  She was ready with the money, and I told her about the best: Madame Restell, the female doctor with the mansion on Fifth Avenue.”

I tried a different approach on the old blackguard. “All right.  I know about Mary Rogers and her troubles.  What I want to know is if Mister Anderson was mentioned at any point in your conversation with his wife?”

McKenzie furrowed his brow.  “Ya know, she did say that the girl was living with them when she got into trouble.  I thought it were strange, but these rich bastards are always knockin’ up the hired help, if ya know what I mean,” he snickered into his big hand.  “She also asked me if I could send somebody to follow this Mary Rogers around.  Missus Anderson said she was worried that she’d get into more girl trouble.  So’s I sent Bernie Ryan to do it.”

Most of this information, except for the hired goon, verified what the poet William Ross Wallace was telling me about Anderson and his relationship with the Rogers girl.  Ergo, if Anderson got his tobacco shop girl pregnant, and his wife found out about it, then she would certainly want to have the problem taken care of post haste.  Mary Rogers and her mother moved into their own place shortly after that.  She was finally out of temptation’s way.

However, if Anderson did impregnate the girl, it still didn’t prove he wanted to kill Poe.  Poe, in fact, according to Wallace, was hired to write the story that helped keep the police from suspecting the tobacconist millionaire of killing the girl.  Anderson would not have wanted Poe harmed, if he were being helped by the famous writer.  No, there must be another connection between Poe’s death and the death of Mary Rogers, and I needed more information to find out what that connection was.

“Is there any more information you remember about Rogers and the Andersons?  Also, did you ever hear about Edgar Allan Poe having anything to do with the Rogers death?” I asked McKenzie.

“No, all I knew were that Missus Anderson wanted the problem handled by the best.  I never heard no Mister Poe mentioned at all, me boy-o,” said McKenzie.

I got up from my chair and reached out to shake Walter McKenzie’s hand.  His grip was still strong at age sixty-two.  “Thank you.  I’ll be in touch, if you don’t mind, if I can think of anything else,” I said, and I handed him one of my business cards.  “If you remember anything, just send me a message,” I said, and I left the room.

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Genre – Historical Steampunk Mystery

Rating – PG13

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Website http://contempinstruct.com/Forevermore/

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The Magistrate (The Prisonworld Trilogy) by Keira Michelle Telford

« P »

Five years ago …

An explosion shakes the ground and sends a plume of thick black smoke up into the air, a raging ball of fire beneath it. Debris is thrown up and comes crashing back down to earth: bits of stone and brick, chunks of twisted metal, and scraps of human flesh.

The entire western elevation of Hamilton House—an imposing Victorian building located on the Victoria Embankment in the EC4 zone of London, right at the edge of the Square Mile—is destroyed, leaving a gaping, fiery hole from which the screams of the injured echo into the deserted Inner Temple Gardens beside it.

After the blast, and the brief moment of hollow silence following it, the normally tranquil area around Victoria Embankment is flooded with noise.

Sirens.

Fire.

Police.

Medics.

In the coming hours, the news will report that the Home Secretary is dead, along with several senior Section Five officers. Many more people—other Section Five officers included—were injured, and the first to be dragged from the wreckage by a couple of passing pedestrians is a forty-odd-year-old man. His shoulder-length light brown hair, which is normally pulled back into a neat ponytail, is bedraggled and scruffy. Dressed like a proper gentleman—in other words, a toff—he’s wearing an expensive suit, complete with waistcoat and silk puff tie.

His tweed flat cap falls off, getting trampled on as the two conscientious humanitarians pull him across Inner Temple Gardens and lie him down on the soft green grass away from the fire and the smoke, helping him to breathe.

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Genre - Lesbian Romance/ Dystopian/ Neo-Victorian

Rating – R (18+)

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Website http://www.ellacross.com/

Author Interview – Harriet Hodgson

How much sleep do you need to be your best?

I need seven hours of sleep in order to function. Because I’m an early morning person, I go to bed early, and hit the sack at 10 p.m. At five in the morning I’m often at the computer, writing copy at whirlwind speed. I write for an hour, have breakfast, and return to writing.

If you were accidentally locked into a store, what store would it be and what department?

Since I love to cook, I would like to be locked into a major department store, such as Macy’s, and be in the cookware department. That department would include kitchen tools, mixing bowls, tableware, linens, and cookbooks. I read cookbooks like some people read novels. The cookware department would have a hot pot of coffee on the counter, with a large mug just for me.

How long have you been writing?

I’ve been a freelancer for 36+ years, am the author of hundreds of print and Internet articles, and 33 published books, some of them short and some of them long.

When you’re not writing how to you relax?

I relax with cooking, decorating, and reading. There’s nothing like a good mystery to get me relaxed and eager for the next page.

Sometimes it’s hard to keep at it. How do you keep going?

I’m a disciplined writer and write every day. Not writing would feel strange to me, so I don’t have to force myself to sit down at the computer. Other writers and would-be writers ask me about “writer’s block.” To be honest, I don’t have time for “writer’s block,” I have to keep practicing my craft and producing good work.

“Will I survive? Will I ever be happy again? Questions that Harriet Hodgson asked herself after she was left to raise her twin grandchildren, while grieving for four family members, including her daughter. Harriet reminds us that we are not alone in our grief and, though losses may define our lives, they will not destroy them. This book tugged at my heartstrings. Harriet’s account of a journey from despair to hope is filled with practical suggestions on how to once again have a meaningful life.

“Happy Again! inspired me and I think it will inspire you.” ~ Heidi Horsley, PsyD, LMSW, Executive Director, Open to Hope Foundation and Adjunct Professor, Columbia University

“Harriet Hodgson speaks wisely and compassionately from the very depths of her soul. Engagingly written with personal experiences, psychological insights, and practical wisdom, she transforms crushing tragedy to growth and a positive affirmation of life.” ~ Rabbi Earl Grollman, DHL, DD, author of Living When a Loved One has Died

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Genre – Non-fiction

Rating – G

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Website http://harriethodgson.com/