Las Vegas area Book Clubs

Clark County Library: Mahogany Circle
12/4/2010, 11 am: #1 Ladies Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith
1/8/2011, 11 am: No meeting this month. See you in February!
Centennial Hills Library: Readers Circle
12/7/2010, 10:30 am: Holiday Readers' Choice, like Blue Christmas by Mary Kay Andrews
1/4/2011, 10:30 am: Reader's Choice
Laughlin Library: Brown Bag Book Group
12/9/2010, 11 am: The Christmas List, Richard Paul Evans
1/13/2011, 11 am: Twenty Wishes, Debbie Macomber
Rainbow Library: Cover 2 Cover Book Club
12/25/2010, 10:30 am: No meeting in December, Back in January!
1/15/2011, 10:30 am: Pending, Pending
Sahara West Library: Book Discussion Group
12/16/2010, 5:30 pm: Reader's Choice, like A Cedar Cove Christmas, by Debbie Macomber
01/20/2011, 5:30 pm: My Life in France, Julia Child
Sahara West Library: Desert Hearts Romance Readers Book Club
12/19/2010, 2:00 pm: Holiday Celebration!
1/23/2011, 2:00 pm: To Desire a Devil, Elizabeth Hoyt
Sahara West Library: Murder in the Library
12/14/2010, 5:30: No meeting, See you in January!
1/11/2011, 5:30: The Memory Collector, Meg Gardiner
Spring Valley Library: Book Discussion Group
12/19/2010, 1 pm: A Christmas Blizzard, Garrison Keillor
1/16/2011, 1 pm: Little House in the Big Woods & On the Prairie, Laura Ingalls Wilder
Summerlin Library: Book Chat Cafe
12/18/2010, 10:30 am: No meeting, See you in January!
1/15/2011, 10:30 am: Remarkable Creatures, Tracy Chevalier
Summerlin Library: Teen Punch & Pages Book Club
For teens only! Call 507-3865 to register.
12/13/2010, 5:30 PM: Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins
1/22/2011, 3:00 PM: Peak, Roland Smith
Sunrise Library: Breakfast Book Club
12/17/2010, 11 am: Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
1/21/2011, 11 am: Pillars of the Earth, Ken Follett
West Charleston Library: Amazing Reads Book Club
12/25/2010, 5:30 pm: No Meeting, See you in January!
1/25/2011, 5:30 pm: A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
Whitney Library: Book Bistro
12/14/2010, 5:30 pm: Dark Places, Gillian Flynn
1/11/2011, 5:30 pm: Pending, Pending


These are just the ones sponsored by the library district.  If you know of others in the area please let us know about them.  What do you enjoy about participating in a book club?  Is it the literary discussion, the friendships, the cocktails?
For more information on the activities of these book clubs check the library events page.

What is a "Quest Mystery" and have you written one yet?

I was intrigued by the concept once I read about the quest for a dagger hidden in the Las Vegas desert.  I did not join in the chase but many others did.  Have you ever participated in such a quest?  Have you written this type of mystery?  After learning about them do you think you would try to write in this interactive genre?

About Quest Mystery

Author Reveals Location of Dagger Worth Thousands

Author Reveals Location of Dagger Worth Thousands: "For two and a half years, more than 1,000 people have been searching Las Vegas for a hidden dagger worth $25,000. The novel Vegas Die holds clues to the treasure hunt, but no one was able to find the prize. The author is finally revealing the secret location."

A short story review.

I ran across this short story and liked it style.  I appreciated the way she created conflict in the mind of the main character and created a sense of place.  The dusty sun-baked desert that cradles Las Vegas.  Let me know what you think and send her a shout out as well.

Enjoy!


Nowhere From Here (A Desert Story) by Jen Ruano

It’s always hot in Ecuador

“You knew the risk before you got on board! So tell every one to buckle up, sit down and shut the hell up”. I had been watching him since we took off. He was pretending to be asleep but I had never seen one so aware of his surroundings, other than Asaiy Mahler that is, and he was watching me. The sudden jar of the plane, the raised voices, the change in the sound of the engine abruptly forced him to arise from his feigned slumber. An instinctual animal like awareness that came over him immediately. Yea, he was definitely awake now, wide awake. With only a glance he summed up the situation. The look on the faces of the five other passengers . The smoke pouring out of the starboard engine. The low altitude apparent by the treetops now visible from the windows. All of this took a fraction of a second for he and I both to take in. Jordan Scott leapt to his feet and in two steps was in the cockpit. One of the seats was empty as Ron, the co-pilot, tried to secure the passengers and everything within the fuselage as best as he could. Jordan’s actions were as instantaneous as a knee-jerk reflex. The pilot started to object but as he quickly became aware of the expertise of the man next to him as he began apprising him of the situation. “A bird took out the starboard engine. Landing gear down” Jordan said nothing; his hands were on the control pulling forcefully back as he scanned the horizon. “Any place to land this thing? Road? Field? Anything?” Jordan asked. “10 miles ahead, 20 degrees west. If we can keep her steady for a few more minutes we can coast in.” The men banked west, perspiration breaking out on the brow of each of then.  It was hot; it’s always hot in Ecuador. Jordan knew they were too low even to make it 10 more miles. He could see the clearing but the landing gear was already just feet from the treetops. This was all too familiar.

“Not again.” He said, the words only barely audible “I will not let this happen again!” He was talking as if to the past, as if trying to reject an inevitability. He had been here before and was determined to create and alternate ending.

There was no distress call, no mayday sent, no flares launched, no beacon signal turned on. Three on board knew why, one speculated, the rest never even noticed. Jordan’s eyebrow arched as he remembered this little oddity among the string of interesting turns of events. Now was not the time to solve that puzzle, now their survival posed the challenge.

The scene unfolding before me in slow motion sat me straight up in my seat.. The sudden jerk of the plane, the man from across the isle moving to the cockpit, the co-pilot scurrying about the cabin. Feelings rushed in on my consciousness. Shock, anger, indignation. “Damn it!” I demanded. “What happened?” Maher Security had paid these men very well to make sure I and my cargo made it in one piece.  I couldn’t help but scream with the others at the sound of treetops snapping and mettle twisting. There was a moment of silence then impact…pain…darkness.

The rain on my face brought me back. There was pain in my right temple throbbing in pace with my heart beat. The taste of blood swam around my mouth. Spitting, I went though a mental check list; feet, legs, hips, arms, breathe in, breathe out, look left, look right.

A hand reached to steady me, it was covered in mud. There was blood on Jordan’s face; he had a rough sling securing his left arm to his body made out of belt and rope.

“Don’t try to move yet,” he said. His own pain was audible in his pinched, unsteady, breathless voice.

 “My head hurts, but I’m OK.” I assured him while trying to focus on his face, illumined is the faint emergency lighting still functioning in the dismembered hull of the wrecked plane.  Reaching for my seat belt I heard someone moan in the darkness. The fuselage shifted and debris began to fall from somewhere above. Jordan moved quickly to shield me with his own body and growled in pain as something struck his back.

“Shit!. We need to get out of here now and look for help. Quick, can you move? The pilot never sent a mayday or distress call.” He was talking through his questions, thinking out loud as he shifted debris out of my path, “They were carrying something or someone illegal, I don’t know what, but I don’t think anyone will be looking for us any time soon. That is anyone we would want to meet anyway.”  His voice trailed off as he thought of the drug traffickers, warlords and regional militia that patrolled these mountains.

“My case, I have to find my case!” Suddenly alarmed, to the point of panic, I became more and more aware that the cargo I was commissioned to hand carry to Sao Paulo was gone. “It’s silver, it has a diamond design on the front that says Maher Security, the size of a large laptop computer…” I talked into the air and searched with my eyes, crawling away from my seat and over the scattered debris of the crash. My hand landed on something warm and soft. The feel of it was startling as I recognize that it had once been one of my co-passengers, dead in the wreckage.  Moving gingerly around the body I continued my desperate search. The rain was starting up again. Heavier, there was thunder now.

“Leave it!” Jordan commanded. He had more strength in his voice now, probably bolstered by anger. Looking at the sky darkening through the treetops, “We need to find some shelter,” he said. “There is nothing left here. Your case could be a mile away or in the top of a tree somewhere. It’s not worth you life!”

“It’s worth my life and yours to! I have to find it. I can’t let anyone get a hold of it.”

Jordan’s eyes narrowed as he watched her growing anxiety. “You’re the reason for all the secrecy, why they couldn’t call for help.”

Thunder clapped loudly overhead, the sky lit up, sheets of rain began to fall. Jordan grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the tail section of the plain that had broken off and sat some 100 feet away. There was a tarp, a blanket and some clothing strewn about.  He pushed me ahead of him toward a temporary shelter that he must have constructed while I was still out. He gather up a few more items along the way.

We collapsed next to each other on the wet, slick, ground. The effort exhausted us both. All we could do was sit huddled together, wet and in pain, waiting for the rain to stop. The sound of the storm must have masked the sound to the helicopter.  The sound of stomping boots crunching through the bush was little different from the heavy rain drops on the rainforest canopy.

“Carmen March! Is your name Carmen March, ma’am!” came the command from a camouflaged form suddenly standing before the dazed crash survivors.

“Yes.” Was all I could manage in response.

“Your name, sir!

“Major Jordan M. Woods, CIA, U.S. Air Force retired.”

The form in green snapped to attention, saluted briefly “Are their any other survivors sir?,

“No one, just us that I can find.” Jordan’s eyes moved to the base of the boulder sheltering them, sure the darkness and rain would disguise the disturbed earth.

“The case is missing, from the crash.” I explained, to whom or why I was not sure. I was loosing consciousness and I just needed someone to know. “You need to find it…” I was loosing ground rapidly.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Was the response. “Please come with us quickly.”

Someone was helping me to my feet. Voices were shouting commands. The rain was easing up. There was a flash of light and heat from behind me as I moved toward a clearing where two helicopters sat, blades slashing through the thick hot air overhead. Turning to look, men were spraying the crash area with flamethrowers, three small explosions lit up the scene. Blackness was engulfing me once again. Next Jordan and I were onboard one of the helicopters, lifting gently away from the earth.

 “Sir?” One of the men on the helicopter inquired of the Major. “You were not listed in our rescue orders. Were you her escort, Sir?” He probed gently, not sure exactly how much he was authorized to know.

Jordan grimaced, or was that a wry smile. “No.”

 “Then why were you out here on that plane. Sir?”

“Going fishing.”

The airman just looked at him puzzled,

“I was going deep sea fishing, airman, that’s all, just fishing.” The stern look in his eye and his set jaw indicated there would be not further discussion.

The airman shook his head, made a note on his report log and turned to tell the pilots of the Major’s answer.

Aware for a moment again as if I was moving in and out of a dream. I called out. “The briefcase!” A whisper strained from lips where a shout was intended.

His voice was reassuring. “Rest Carmen March, you did good, now rest.” And I did.

Rural Road Rage

I would not have normally driven on this road. It was out of the way. It was isolated. It was dull and dreary. But it as the only open rout after the mud slide had taken out the main highway and it was the last fifteen miles between me and home. This had been one of the most taxing sales trips I had ever had the misfortune to embark on. None of these people knew me. I had no clue of the relationships that my predecessor had developed with each of them. What they expected and had become accustomed to.  I was tired frustrated and fed up with entire mess.

The sky was fading and the clouds were starting to take on their golden evening attire as the sun sank in the sky. There was a haze of dust hanging in the air. A constant in these rural whistle-stop regions of California’s Central Valley as much as the smog was a constant in the cities along the coast. 

I approached some taillights in front of me as I eased up the two lane highway.  The old SUV on one sort or another crept along at its own leisurely pace. I of course was in a hurry as most city-folks would be at this time of the evening. Quitting time. I follow impatiently peaking around from behind in the diminishing light. A truck was coming toward us. I ducked back.  The road ambled on and the vehicle ahead slowed, and slowed and slowed, and finally turned down a dirt road. I looked out of my window toward the retreating taillights, my irritation no doubt visible on my face. I want a shower, a glass of wine and my little pooch Petunia the Pomeranian on my lap while I vegge out in front of Project Runway. Good ridden to you! I thought. A head popped out from the drivers window,  an angry red face attached to it spewing colorful epithets that were lost in the wind as I drove on. I smiled wryly and glanced in my rear mirror. The car was turning rapidly on the dirt road, kicking up pebbles and dust as he hurriedly spun his wheels. Is he turning around? I queried.  I shrugged. I had free and open road ahead of me so I continued on my journey unhindered by the cumbersome beat-up SUV so he could do what ever he wanted, in whatever direction he chose. “Free Country…” I said aloud and turned up the volume of my Jill Scott CD.

My eyes glanced in the rear view mirror. Habit. I saw headlights closing in and there was still enough light to make out the shape and color of the truck that had just turned off the road in front of me. It was coming up quick. Hhm, is he chasing me? I though incredulously. “I think he is chasing me.” I said, into the air. The truck was closing in and I could make out the same angry red face still in silent tirade. The driver reached for something but came up short; as the road curved he drifted and grasped the steering wheel with both hands momentarily. Sticking a hand out his window he shook his fist and tossed the one finger salute at my mirror.

“He is actually chasing me. What the hell is his problem?”

I watched as he made a reach again for something under his seat. In this area I would not be surprised to see a shotgun emerge from the window as if from a turret. But what did emerge was even more bizarre. Out swung a giant machete clinched in the white knuckled fist of my pursuer raised high over the roof of his truck. His entire forearm exposed I could make out a swastika tattooed blue on his pale skin.

“Damn! I’m being chased by a skinhead!” The banjo music from ‘Deliverance’ sprang to mind like the cold sweat sprang to my forehead. A semi roared by honking his horn at the scene.  

The menacing truck eased up toward my rear bumper and then out to the left as if to pass, bouncing back quickly as he saw the approaching headlights.

“Oh, Hell No!” I shouted into my empty car and hit the gas.