Close Calls On High Walls Book in PDF, ePub and Kindle version is available to download in english. Read online anytime anywhere directly from your device. Click on the download button below to get a free pdf file of Close Calls On High Walls book. This book definitely worth reading, it is an incredibly well-written.
Brian Evans blends memoir and history to draw a vivid picture of China and its cultural outreach over the past three decades. His historical and sociological insights as student, scholar, and administrator form an authentic commentary as he discusses China and the Cold War; the Cultural Revolution; the post-Mao transformation of China; Canada's relations with China; the cultural impact of the overseas Chinese community on the Canadian Prairies; development of China studies in Canada and elsewhere; the current impact of China on Canadian higher education; and recent Chinese history seen within a broader context. With this book, Evans seeks to make a contribution to the understanding of the nature and wide range of Canada-China relations, an area in which he himself has played a role.
The River Wall by Randall Garrett,Vicki Ann Heydron Pdf
After a meteor explosion, Rikardon wakes in a new body and in a strange desert land named Gandalara, where he must uncover his purpose—and survive to outwit his enemies... Tarani is the new High Lord of Eddarta, and she intends to end its tradition of slavery and corruption. But before Tarani’s rule begins in earnest, she and Rikardon have a mission to complete in Raithskar, where a mindgifted Lord known as Ferrathyn is using the Ra’ira’s powers to manipulate the ape-like vineh. The once majestic city is overrun by chaos and fear, and Ferrathyn’s ambition extends far beyond Raithskar. But another threat is looming, different and more terrifying than any they’ve encountered before. In the wake of a major earthquake, Rikardon finally discovers the origin of his new homeland and the reason he was brought here as Ricardo Carillo many months ago. Every battle and hard-won alliance has been leading to this: a race to save a mighty civilization from destruction, and forge a new future for Gandalara...
Essays and critical writings on contemporary poetry by Stephen Burt, "the finest critic of his generation" (Lucie Brock-Broido) Stephen Burt's Close Calls with Nonsense provokes readers into the elliptical worlds of Rae Armantrout, Paul Muldoon, C. D. Wright, and other contemporary poets whose complexities make them challenging, original, and, finally, readable. Burt's intelligence and enthusiasm introduce both tentative and longtime poetry readers to the rewards of reading new poetry. As Burt writes in the title essay: "The poets I know don't want to be famous people half so much as they want their best poems read; I want to help you find and read them. I write here for people who want to read more new poetry but somehow never get around to it; for people who enjoy Seamus Heaney or Elizabeth Bishop and want to know what next; for people who enjoy John Ashbery or Anne Carson but aren't sure why; and, especially, for people who read the half-column poems in glossy magazines and ask, ‘Is that all there is?'"
The Value of Close Calls in Improving Patient Safety by Joint Commission Resources, Inc Pdf
Because close calls, often termed near misses, don't raise the same concerns about malpractice liability and may be less emotionally charged than errors that cause serious harm, they are a unique source of learning for individuals and organizations striving to keep patients safe. This book tells how to take advantage of these lessons to prevent today's close call from turning into tomorrow's catastrophic event. Special Features: * Foreword by human error expert James Reason, Ph.D. * Authoritative tutorials on what the literature tells us about the concept of close calls and their identification, relationship with errors, and use in assessing and improving the safety and reliability of health care. * 15 detailed case studies from a variety of clinical disciplines and specialties to show how health care organizations use close calls to identify and solve patient safety problems
National Outdoor Book Awards Winner Winner of the BANFF Adventure Travel Award “A thrilling and harrowing story. If it’s a cliche to say I couldn’t put this book down, well, too bad: I couldn’t put this book down.” —Jess Walter, bestselling author of Beautiful Ruins “Polar exploration is utter madness. It is the insistence of life where life shouldn’t exist. And so, Labyrinth of Ice shows you exactly what happens when the unstoppable meets the unmovable. Buddy Levy outdoes himself here. The details and story are magnificent.” —Brad Meltzer, bestselling author of The First Conspiracy: The Secret Plot to Kill George Washington Based on the author's exhaustive research, the incredible true story of the Greely Expedition, one of the most harrowing adventures in the annals of polar exploration. In July 1881, Lt. A.W. Greely and his crew of 24 scientists and explorers were bound for the last region unmarked on global maps. Their goal: Farthest North. What would follow was one of the most extraordinary and terrible voyages ever made. Greely and his men confronted every possible challenge—vicious wolves, sub-zero temperatures, and months of total darkness—as they set about exploring one of the most remote, unrelenting environments on the planet. In May 1882, they broke the 300-year-old record, and returned to camp to eagerly await the resupply ship scheduled to return at the end of the year. Only nothing came. 250 miles south, a wall of ice prevented any rescue from reaching them. Provisions thinned and a second winter descended. Back home, Greely’s wife worked tirelessly against government resistance to rally a rescue mission. Months passed, and Greely made a drastic choice: he and his men loaded the remaining provisions and tools onto their five small boats, and pushed off into the treacherous waters. After just two weeks, dangerous floes surrounded them. Now new dangers awaited: insanity, threats of mutiny, and cannibalism. As food dwindled and the men weakened, Greely's expedition clung desperately to life. Labyrinth of Ice tells the true story of the heroic lives and deaths of these voyagers hell-bent on fame and fortune—at any cost—and how their journey changed the world.
When Elinor Juniper turned on the shower and cut her throat, suicide seemed the only plausible reason for her death. Detective Sergeant Judith Pullen and her bluff Yorkshire mentor, ex-Chief Inspector Ralph Arnott, think otherwise.
“Lucky High” is the snarky nickname given to it by students. They’re constantly told how lucky they are to attend such an incredible school. They’re all academically or athletically gifted with big dreams and a desire to be the best of the best. Elle is “average” here, by her own admission, but has oversized ambitions and is committed to the program. What she uncovers about this school will change everything. Lucky High is a lie. There is no life for these students after high school. (LUCKY HIGH is part of the REALITY RECODED series, but requires no knowledge of that canon to be enjoyed. It is a stand-alone novel and riveting story of good vs. evil. For fans of thrillers and science fiction.)
Caterpillar Association of the United States by Anonim Pdf
"Any person who saves his life jumping from a disabled aircraft, with a parachute, can become a member." The Caterpillar Association was started in 1982.
Everything seems perfect in 2065 for high school senior Dorothy Parker. However, reports of a wall being built around the United States surface under safety pretenses to keep in the Texas nationals that formed a coalition for independence from the People's Republic of Earth. Before she knows it, the five-hundred-foot monstrosity is finished. The wall's true purpose becomes clear when hundreds of flesh-eating zombies land in the streets of large cities, infecting most of the population inside the wall in just a few weeks. Her dreams of running cross-country and living independently at Northwestern are crushed. The safest place known left is surprisingly rumored to be Texas, which had been mostly destroyed by fire bombing just before the wall was in place. She begins her journey from her home city of Rock Haven, North Dakota, with her parents and a scared eight-year-old brother, but she soon finds herself alone after a series of tragic events. Her only friend is her crossbow. This cold new world of America will bring out the worst in people and the best. She encounters an unlikely friend, a psychotic prison guard, a broken best friend, an unreliable ex-boyfriend, a hidden rebellion, and a strange book. She will have to lose everything before uncovering the path to true, pure joy but also the cold hard truth about life in the North American region and the wicked man behind the wall.
A comprehensive overview of bouldering guides readers through the best rock climbing sites in the U.S. while providing a history of the sport and its most famous participants.
Close Calls is first a book of people profiles of Texans rich and poor, famous and downtrodden. Reid provides details of his various assignments and the people and places he has encountered while working for Texas Monthly and other publications going on beats with Texas police officers, attending church with George Foreman in New York, and meeting Kickapoo Indians in the Sierra Madres.
Long before she made her first trip to Afghanistan as an embedded reporter for The Globe and Mail, Christie Blatchford was already one of Canada’s most respected and eagerly read journalists. Her vivid prose, her unmistakable voice, her ability to connect emotionally with her subjects and readers, her hard-won and hard-nosed skills as a reporter–these had already established her as a household name. But with her many reports from Afghanistan, and in dozens of interviews with the returned members of the 1st Battalion, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry and others back at home, she found the subject she was born to tackle. Her reporting of the conflict and her deeply empathetic observations of the men and women who wear the maple leaf are words for the ages, fit to stand alongside the nation’s best writing on war. It is a testament to Christie Blatchford’s skills and integrity that along with the admiration of her readers, she won the respect and trust of the soldiers. They share breathtakingly honest accounts of their desire to serve, their willingness to confront fear and danger in the battlefield, their loyalty towards each other and the heartbreak occasioned by the loss of one of their own. Grounded in insights gained over the course of three trips to Afghanistan in 2006, and drawing on hundreds of hours of interviews not only with the servicemen and -women with whom she shared so much, but with their commanders and family members as well, Christie Blatchford creates a detailed, complex and deeply affecting picture of military life in the twenty-first century.
From Army Rangers to Green Berets to the U.S. Navy SEAL team that killed Osama bin Laden, this book explains what makes Special Forces "special," covering the rich and varied history of elite formations in American military history and describing their recruitment, intense training, and equipment in depth. Most civilians have only a vague idea of what the U.S. Special Forces are all about—who they are, how they differ from our "normal" military forces, what they've accomplished throughout our history, and how they operate today. Fighting Elites: A History of U.S. Special Forces examines the rich and varied history of U.S. Special Forces, identifies their contributions to specific conflicts from colonial times forward, and highlights their present operational excellence. In this first-ever reference guide to U.S. Special Forces, military historian John C. Fredriksen provides a carefully balanced presentation, describing all units in their own detailed section that discusses their origins, recruitment, training, tactics, and equipment, and defining military engagements, if known. The text also contains 20 biographical entries of noted personalities associated with special purpose activities.
Return to the City of Splendors—where even dreams can be bought and sold for the right price—in this Song & Swords series finale The famed city of Waterdeep brims with magic and mystery, and everything imaginable is for sale. In this melting pot of human wizards, elves, dwarves, and more, even dreams can be purchased if one is willing to pay the price—and many are unable to resist the temptation, no matter the danger. So when the sale of dream spheres threatens the life of his newfound half sister, Danilo Thann joins forces with Airlyn Moonblade to uncover the source of this deadly trade. Their search leads them into the dark heart of Waterdeep, and to personal secrets that could destroy them both.
The Army of the Undead: Alternate Reality by Ronald Wintrick Pdf
Favel's lower half fell away, kicking and thrashing, rolling across the cobblestones, then somehow managed its feet. A black gush of blood poured out of Favel's upper half, which still clung to the soldier, still feasting on the soldier's face. The man still screamed. His knife still plunged into Favel impotently. The soldier who had chopped Favel in half stepped back in horrific incomprehension. The look on his face would have taken tomes to describe. Then he spewed his guts in an explosive convulsion that sprayed over the two struggling men, but neither seemed to notice. At the last moment the soldier's head turned in time to notice the approach of the pair of legs. He swung his sword and chopped down through the hips and separated the two legs, which fell away from one another but continued to struggle on. When he came upon the first combatants, the Necromancers were nowhere to be seen. There was heavy fighting but the men seemed to be slowly overwhelming the Ignacian, fighting in a Line Formation where they could more easily bring their swords and axes into service. The men were steadily falling back, but that was only so that they did not have to walk among the fallen body parts of the enemy, which continued to fight even when cleaved to individual pieces. A legless torso would clamber forward and attempt to climb a man, and would have to be chopped away. When one of their own fell, the men turned and chopped their own comrade to pieces, even if he was not completely dead. The merest scratch by one of the Ignacian was a death sentence that arrived only minutes later, and as gruesome as it might seem to chop apart your own comrades, it was a duty that had to be done. The men continued to fall back, but the Ignacian were taking a heavy toll. The now tireless team pulling the woman's wagon followed them like lost dogs, but the woman and her children leaped out onto the first unwary humans they encountered. It was an amusing game to watch the Ignacian tear into the helpless people. There were many variations of the game. Kill one among a family and watch as the others rush to see what is wrong. Kill the child in the mother's arms and watch laughing as it rips off the breast it was feeding on. They rode into the city, killing and killing as they went, the chain reaction now unstoppable. Moruv nodded uncertainly. Since when did the Warlord make inspections of his land? Since when did he go anywhere without an armed escort? A sizable one at that! Who was the tall stranger with him? Moruv had the strangest sensation while looking at him that his face had wavered and rippled! Ridiculous of course, but after yesterday's events, Moruv was looking at the world with an entirely new viewpoint, one in which previously impossible things had just become the possible. He was sure that nothing could now surprise him, but he was wrong. The Ignacian poured forward over the lip of the trench, the front rows just falling in as their uncoordinated movements tumbled them forward. Some tried to step in, or jump down, but they could not accomplish anything so complicated. They continued to march forward into the opening until they had filled the trench and then their comrades walked over their bodies, into the bristling pikes. When he reached their point of origin, the westernmost end of the Big Wood's Road, and found that the Ignacian element had not yet reached the fortifications which had been erected there, he floated over the unknowing Army and the Sisters arrayed there to defend their breastworks and watched the Ignacian finish closing the short distance to the waiting Army. Lives would certainly be lost this day but Lester needed to see what kind of a defense the flesh and blood soldiers would be able to pose against their undead adversaries. His timing had been nearly perfect and he did not have to wait long. Daghula and the rest of the Necromancers were all alike in that regard- they thought they were too good to bow and grovel before their true Master! Malton was not impeded by such arrogant shortcomings. He knew and understood Sheitan's superiority. When that eventual day came he would grovel happily, in blissful acceptance of his fate, at the Master's feet. The Master would be pleased with him. He would pet him and croon to him as Malton groveled. No. Malton did not fear that eventual day. Not in the least. She was on the field of battle. All around her raged unceasing combat, men and women, even children, battling the undead Ignacian, and every time one of the living fell, mortally wounded, he rose immediately as one of the enemy, to strike down those he had just stood with, his loved ones, his own family. Jana was fighting with her short sword and Casting Wizard's Fire but there was little room in the melee for the use of it without fear of hitting the living. For as far as she could see, in every direction, there was nothing but the heaving bodies of those engaged in mortal combat, then the old woman's eyes seemed to withdraw and Jana reeled away. Cloudless and as bright as any night could hope to be under the brilliance of the billions of stars above, Daghula cast an illusion which made him invisible then drew the great Black Sword which Sheitan himself had given him, buried within the heart of a great volcanic rock which even his spells had been unable to dislodge; he had chipped the rock away by hand to expose the hungry blade, this direct Channel to the Lower Plane and Sheitan himself. He drew it now and felt it quiver in his hand, as if it were a thing alive unto itself, but it was not, it merely conveyed the hunger of its Master. For those who it consumed there could be no salvation, their souls sent directly to the Lower Plane, no matter what life they lived while here. "It was the Wizard Timan! He attacked me in Specter Form!" Nimian snarled. Everything unknown in life became clear after death when the soul's unlimited ability to comprehend was released from its limiting physical bonds. It would also make the torments of Hell that much more acute. "It be." Old Woman said. She had been called Old Woman for so long that she had completely forgotten her given name. She had bounced Hirren, their hot tempered King, on her knees when he was but a babe as she had bounced Hirren's father before him, and his father before him, and even beyond that, though her memory no longer served her well enough to remember just exactly how long she had been alive. The days just continued to pass and she continued to move through them. She was Old Woman. "The Balance," Marea emphasized, "is contingent upon toil and struggle. The future depends on Right and Justice, but Righteousness must come to its own as must Discord and Rebellion. The day will come, eventually, when Discord and Rebellion must finally cease to exist, but that cessation must be brought about by the hand of man. This is our world, and if we wish to keep the Good which is within it, we will have to fight for it. Excerpts; -"You don’t think the war in Parce will reach us here, do you, mum?" Timan asked, not really knowing what he expected, but in no way expecting the reaction she did have. The smile fell from her lips, the joy left her eyes, and clouds of sorrow seemed to cross her countenance. .......... -"Those who came through here last week claimed to be fleeing an Army of the Undead. An Army of the Undead led by a Necromancer they called Daghula Ichorious." "Not led," Marea corrected, "but forced through Evil spells from their very graves to rise and do the Necromancer’s bidding. They do not follow willingly. No one rises from their grave willingly." "You speak of it as if you know of such things!" Timan said, causing his mother to blanch slightly, as if this were a subject she had not wanted raised. Not ever. "Your mother was not always a farmer’s wife and a mother. She was once a very well-known Sorceress of not inconsiderable Power!" Jarod said, a small smile now twisting his lips, and something else was there, as well. A certain deference Timan had never noticed before but now that he had noticed it, realized it had always been there. He had always thought highly of his parent’s relationship, which was of a much more equal nature than some of the other Prairie folk, and now he seemed to understand why and also to have a new respect for his father. It would take a special man to marry a woman who possessed Power enough to overpower him if they should ever come to arguing. Timan was old enough to understand how difficult that would be for most men, but not, apparently, his father. .......... Timan immediately felt the spell coursing through his veins, throbbing like an additional heartbeat, a heartbeat that thrummed in tune with spoken words that held no conscious meaning, beating at his temples, pounding at his temples, and then he was no longer in his own body. He seemed to leap out of it and into the air, faster than he could have ever moved in his physical body, where such rapid acceleration would have ripped him apart at the seams. As he hurtled away he had just enough time to look back over his shoulder (he still seemed to be in his physical form) and watch . . . himself . . . be left far behind. This might be what it would be like to die, except that he would not be able to return after his brief sojourn. "Absolutely." Kenry said, and before Timan knew what was happening he was snatched from his seat and thrown roughly to the ground. Kenry turned back to Marea as Timan scrambled to his feet. "You understand I will not coddle him. I will do him no favors if I coddle him." Marea began to speak quietly under her breath. Had she spoken aloud Jarod still wouldn’t have understood her. She was speaking the Old Tongue. The language of Power which, if the oral histories were correct, could not be translated into any other language, the ancient meanings of the words so long lost in time that their present counterparts could not be discerned. Marea believed, possibly, with several dozen lifetimes available in which to research and experiment, the task could be completed, but the only way to live much beyond the normal span was to trade away your soul to Sheitan, the evil god of the Lower Realm, and if you did that, Sheitan would have demands that precluded using your time for your own purposes. Such Wizards who gave themselves to Sheitan were called Necromancers and through their unholy union with the God of the Lower Realms were able to perform many spells normal Wizards were not, including the ability to raise the dead. "What have you done!" Jarod exclaimed, running down the steps to challenge the man, who flinched back before the now greenly glowing blade and Jarod’s fury. "I’ve done nothing! What mean you, man?" "It’s not him." Marea interjected, coming down to stand beside her husband. "It’s the residue on the blade." The stranger’s eyes snapped down to the blade hanging from his belt. A look that contained both horror and revulsion and a dawning realization of just what this might mean. "I didn’t know! I swear! I cleaned the blade!" He was now nearly hysterical. Children in both the wagons broke out crying and looks of horror spread across the faces of everyone else not crying but old enough or smart enough to understand what this could mean. "It means you have probably carried the spell of the Necromancer with you!" Marea said. "Hurry and remove your scabbard. It must be purified. Quickly now man!" She added as he stood there a moment longer, stupefied. The child was in its crib, where it had been before the attack and where it had been tossed back into after it made its transformation and was no longer palatable to whatever had been eating it. Its left arm had been ripped raggedly away from the shoulder, the right at the elbow, as if two somethings had been in a tug of war with it to obtain it. Its stomach and inner organs were missing, as well as a ragged chunk from its face. Yet it was on its feet and trying to climb the high walls of its crib as if those wounds were of no more than a passing inconvenience. They were, however, enough of an inconvenience that even with its Evil strength, it could not free itself. It smiled up at Timan angelically.