Casa editrice: Graffeg
Worry is a universal emotion - it's so universal that even The Worried Book is worried. What if no one reads it? What if it falls behind the bookcase? What if a monster reads it? So much to worry about! A heartwarming tale teaching children how to identify and manage their worries.
The Pooka is a mischievous little creature, but he’s also hungry, thin and hungry in his hole! It’s Monday morning and everyone is looking forward to eating a tasty pie this week, even Tabs the cat, But no pie is safe from the hungry Pooka! Follow the Pooka through the days of the week; what will he eat next? Will he be hungry or full by Sunday? How many more pies can he eat? Will anyone except the Pooka get to eat a pie? Maybe he will discover that you can have too much of a good thing and it’s good not to eat too little or too much!Mostra libro
Goosebumps now on Disney+Cooper, a nervous newcomer to the town, and his friend Margaret are targeted by two evil dogs who cast a spell to switch bodies with the children as a way of wreaking further havoc.Mostra libro
Lost Sci-Fi Books 41 thru 45 - Five Lost Sci-Fi Short Stories from the 1940s, 50s and 60sFoster You’re Dead by Philip K. Dick - Almost everyone had a bomb shelter. You had to have one, in fact, you needed the latest model because the Russians were always developing new weapons that could penetrate the old bomb shelters.Wreck Off Triton by Alfred Coppel - His plans were thorough. Every risk had been closely considered. Now Ron Carnavon, ruthless convict, was ready to loot the wrecked spaceship of its sapphire treasure, and thrust his warped power around the entire, antagonistic EMV triangle.Asleep in Armageddon by Ray Bradbury - Avoid Planetoid 787. Lush and sunny, with fine air and no dangerous beasts, it’ll tempt you to curve in for some nice solid-ground sleep. DON’T!The Old Martians by Rog Phillips - They opened the ruins to tourists at a dollar a head but they reckoned without The Old Martians.Stop, You’re Killing Me! by Darius John Granger - As a private eye I get a lot of screwballcases, but nothing to match my own; my wife and kid trying to kill me—and neither aware of it!Mostra libro
In these hills, the creatures like to eat… COCONUT PIE! But someone has trouble getting up the courage to join them. A palm tree observes this poem about an emotion that is very hard to manage. In this hilly world, there is one that reaches out with empathy and compassion. This healing connection creates courage and lasting self-esteem. Find out who this is, who bakes the pies and how they come together in this poetic story.Mostra libro
Strange Alliance by Bryce Walton - Haunted by their dark heritage, a medieval fate awaited them.... Doctor Spechaug stopped running, breathing deeply and easily where he paused in the middle of the narrow winding road. He glanced at his watch. Nine a.m. He was vaguely perplexed because he did not react more emotionally to the blood staining his slender hands. It was fresh blood, though just beginning to coagulate; it was dabbled over his brown serge suit, splotching the neatly starched white cuffs of his shirt. His wife always did them up so nicely with the peasant's love for trivial detail. He had always hated the silent ignorance of the peasants who surrounded the little college where he taught psychology. He supposed that he had begun to hate his wife, too, when he realized, after taking her from a local barnyard and marrying her, that she could never be anything but a sloe-eyed, shuffling peasant. He walked on with brisk health down the narrow dirt road that led toward Glen Oaks. Elm trees lined the road. The morning air was damp and cool. Dew kept the yellow dust settled where spots of sunlight came through leaves and speckled it. Birds darted freshly through thickly hung branches. He had given perennial lectures on hysterical episodes. Now he realized that he was the victim of such an episode. He had lost a number of minutes from his own memory. He remembered the yellow staring eyes of the breakfast eggs gazing up at him from a sea of grease. He remembered his wife screaming—after that only blankness. He stopped on a small bridge crossing Calvert's Creek, wiped the blood carefully from his hands with a green silk handkerchief. He dropped the stained silk into the clear water. Silver flashes darted up, nibbled the cloth as it floated down. He watched it for a moment, then went on along the shaded road.Mostra libro
