Books for Arab American Heritage Month
In honor of Arab American Heritage Month in April, we are sharing books by Arab and Arab American authors that share their culture, history, and personal lives.
Read more
But when Ladington turns up dead himself from a supposed “suicide,” Jessica knows that a murderer is on the loose—and with a little help from George, she must try and bottle up a motive for murder from an extensive list of less-than-vintage suspects...
The temperature of the mud bath continued to rise, and I realized it was reaching a dangerous point. My flesh was on fire, and my head pounded.
“Could you make the mud cooler?” I asked.
“That’s not possible,” she said. Her bitter, angry expression said she had no intention of doing that, and it occurred to me that she was the one who had turned up the temperature.
“I have to get out now,” I said, attempting to sit up, but the mud blanket was too heavy. Mary Jane placed her hands--strong hands--through the mud on my shoulders, holding me down. “Let me up!” I snapped. “I’ve had enough.”
“What do you know about Louis’ death?” she hissed, continuing the pressure on my shoulders.”
“Nothing, just that he was murdered.” I now yelled, “Let me out, damn it!”
If she pushed down any more, I would drown in the boiling mud, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it…
But when Ladington turns up dead himself from a supposed “suicide,” Jessica knows that a murderer is on the loose—and with a little help from George, she must try and bottle up a motive for murder from an extensive list of less-than-vintage suspects...
The temperature of the mud bath continued to rise, and I realized it was reaching a dangerous point. My flesh was on fire, and my head pounded.
“Could you make the mud cooler?” I asked.
“That’s not possible,” she said. Her bitter, angry expression said she had no intention of doing that, and it occurred to me that she was the one who had turned up the temperature.
“I have to get out now,” I said, attempting to sit up, but the mud blanket was too heavy. Mary Jane placed her hands--strong hands--through the mud on my shoulders, holding me down. “Let me up!” I snapped. “I’ve had enough.”
“What do you know about Louis’ death?” she hissed, continuing the pressure on my shoulders.”
“Nothing, just that he was murdered.” I now yelled, “Let me out, damn it!”
If she pushed down any more, I would drown in the boiling mud, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it…
In honor of Arab American Heritage Month in April, we are sharing books by Arab and Arab American authors that share their culture, history, and personal lives.
For National Poetry Month in April, we are sharing poetry collections and books about poetry by authors who have their own stories to tell. These poets delve into history, reimagine the present, examine poetry itself—from traditional poems many know and love to poems and voices that are new and original.
/
