Sandra C. Lopez's Blog, page 309

Review: SOME GIRLS LIE by Amy Andrews (Book 4)

This is the story of JJ and Ethan, Lacey’s older brother.

Ethan, the level-headed cop, is still trying to get over his philandering ex while taking care of his only daughter. JJ has always been there for him and, apparently, was also there for one night of drunken passion. Too bad that her secret crush to him has always been unrequited.
In the midst of all this wild passion, the two must also contend with their exes—Ethan’s vapid ex and JJ’s abusive ex. If Ethan had to pretend to be JJ’s lover to keep her ex away, then so be it. And, of course, JJ had no qualms with it.
This story was definitely better than the first. It was fun and sexy. It was a simple lover story. My only beef was that JJ’s kidnapping and the whole showdown with JJ’s ex could’ve been more exciting.
But, overall, a good read.
My rating: 4 stars

Review: WORST HOLIDAY EVER: A FAMILY DRAMA ROMANCE Anthology

Festive holiday cheers abound in this eclectic collection of tales. Well…not quite festive.


Meeting the family, a busy travel season, and a Christmas thief.


In the tale of The Disaster of the Ungrateful Overweight Daughter, I found that I related to her the most with her overbearing mother and putting up with rude people on a plane. But, of course, the silver lining was the sweet, good-looking guy sitting next to her.


Stories were well-written and well-read. With light-hearted wit and humor, stories should hit a hard spot with readers in relation to family and holidays. Some were better than others, and, for the most part, they were decent reads, albeit a tad long-winded at times.


My rating: 3 stars

Review: AMY’S WISH by Kay Harris

At 30, Amy made her wish—to figure out what she wants to be and have a career. For years, she’s been toiling away as an HR assistant, wasting away her talents under the scrutiny of her controlling boss. An employee program then allows her to try out different jobs within the company and hopefully get a transfer. The first stop is the finance department under the management of Carlos, whom she has adored from afar. Of course, she can never pursue anything with the co-owner of the company and ex-husband of her current manager.


Can love bloom amidst a demanding ex-wife and an overbearing family?


During the holiday season is when the two connect on a non-professional level with text messaging and hang-outs. Too much was focused on the family. The mentoring takes on a whole new level when Carlos has to teach Amy, the asexual virgin, about sexuality, arousal, and the bases of courtship. In fact, the whole thing was just a series of lessons. Although there were some sweet moments in there, the story was pretty tepid and slow. It’s an okay holiday romance, I guess.


My rating: 3 stars

Excerpt: JUSTICE GONE by N. Lombardi Jr.

When a homeless war veteran is beaten to death by the police, stormy protests ensue, engulfing a small New Jersey town. Soon after, three cops are gunned down. A multi-state manhunt is underway for a cop killer on the loose. And Dr. Tessa Thorpe, a veteran's counselor, is caught up in the chase. Donald Darfield, an African-American Iraqi war vet, war-time buddy of the beaten man, and one of Tessa's patients, is holed up in a mountain cabin. Tessa, acting on instinct, sets off to find him, but the swarm of law enforcement officers get there first, leading to Darfield's dramatic capture. Now, the only people separating him from the lethal needle of state justice are Tessa and ageing blind lawyer, Nathaniel Bodine. Can they untangle the web tightening around Darfield in time, when the press and the justice system are baying for revenge? Justice Gone is the first in a series of psychological thrillers involving Dr Tessa Thorpe, wrapped in the divisive issues of modern American society including police brutality and disenfranchised returning war veterans. N Lombardi Jr. is the author of compelling and heartfelt novel The Plain of Jars.

---Excerpt---
Bruntfield, New Jersey, just another banal town in a part of the
country that nobody thinks about, was about to become famous;
or rather, more aptly put, infamous. People sauntered past
lackluster shops unware that in a few days, the lackadaisical
streets would bear the rabid frustrations that divided the nation;
a pus-like bitterness that was held in check by the demands
of everyday survival and the distractions offered by obsessive
consumerism and brazen media.
Some would inevitably blame the cascade of events on the
weather, since the origins could be found on a hot summer day
in 2006. Sure, just about all summer days are hot, but this one
was close to the record, and humid to boot. By the end of July,
the Northeast coast was suffering under a sweltering heat wave.
Despite the humidity, no one could remember the last time it
had rained. A hundred-year drought was predicted, they’d said.
Bruntfield, among the many places under this curse, had its
water supply so severely depressed that the city authorities were
forced to impose water rationing. As if that wasn’t enough, the
excessive load on air conditioners led to incessant brownouts.
With the weather nothing less than insufferable, suffocating,
oppressive, even provoking, tempers flared along with the
temperature. But the local situation, as bad as it was, was about
to get worse.
In the heart of this small town, just a block up from the bus
depot, sat Sliders, a rather successful drinking establishment
catering to young adults, and noted for its ecstasy-fueled rave
parties. At four in the afternoon, the owner, Joe Poppet, a burly
man with a thick red beard and a well-developed beer belly, was
staring out the large glass facade of his bar.
“Screw this heat, man.”
Joe was sweating because he didn’t want to turn on the air conditioning; as a rule, he didn’t put it on until a half hour before
opening. He possessed a rather cynical personality, considering
himself continually persecuted by life’s little aggravations. Now
it was the heat ramping up his electricity bill; soon it would
be the freezing temperatures inflating his heating bill…always
something. His worries constantly exceeded his hopes. He was
sort of a “glass-half-empty” man.
Rudy Glum, the shaven-headed bartender, was an easygoing
optimist, a “glass-half-full” kind of guy. He was whistling as he
washed the glasses in the sink behind the bar. “Tell me about it,”
he chuckled. “I hear ya, buddy.”
But Rudy’s sanguinity did not rub off on Joe. “There’s that
guy again.”
“What guy?”
“That fucking guy we saw yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah, he’s probably from the bus depot. Lotta homeless
hang out there.”
Joe continued to stare out the glass facade, feeling helpless.
“For Chrissakes, why can’t the city do something and get rid of
those bastards. They’re a fucking eyesore…it’s bad for business.
Probably got diseases too.”
Rudy finished drying the glass in his hand and hung it up
on the beer mug rack. “Yeah, it’s a goddamn shame,” he said
noncommittally, trying to get these glasses done before the
evening crowd surged in.
“He doesn’t have a shirt on.”
“Yeah, well it’s hot, ain’t it? Wish I could take mine off.”
“And we’re opening in an hour. Ladies Night tonight.”
Rudy said nothing while reaching for another glass from the
sink behind the bar.
“Call the cops.”
The bartender froze with the glass still in his hand. “And tell
them what?”
“I don’t know, tell ‘em there’s someone suspicious hanging
out on the corner…trying to break into cars or something. That
way they’ll come fast.”
Reluctantly, Rudy put down his dishrag, picked up the
phone, and dialed 911, not feeling good about it at all.
Patrolman Rafael Puente might well be considered an
unattractive man. A pencil-thin mustache above diminutive lips
made insignificant by his large inflated face, gave his head the
appearance of a balloon with a cartoon countenance. His acnescarred
skin oozed sweat as he studied the thin disheveled man,
shirtless with unkempt hair and a scraggly beard, standing three
feet in front of him. “You were trying door handles on cars, eh?”
The man’s body wavered, but his gaze was focused hard on
Puente’s eyes. Then his own eyes darted left and right, revealing
his vacillation on how to handle this situation. “I don’t know
what you’re talking about.”
Puente began playing with his baton, twirling it down, and
then back up smack into his palm. Rotating it down, rotating it
up, like a long yo-yo…like the tail of an agitated cat ready to
pounce. “Give me a language…tell me a language you speak in.”
“Like what?”
Puente’s tone rose in hostility. “Tell me a language you speak
in.”
“I don’t know. What do you want to know?”
The humidity was so dense it felt like a sponge rubbing
against their skins; so thick you could almost take a bite out of
it and chew it.
“I want to know what kinda language you speak.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah, well, what do you know?”
“I don’t know.”
“My partner, he speaks ten languages. Right, Foxy?”
Patrolman John Fox, a clean shaven, waspish-looking man
standing to his right, smiled a mouthful of nice bright teeth.
“Yeah, that’s right. I can speak Mongolian, Cambodian…” Fox
came closer, boxing in the man they were questioning.
“He don’t speak English,” Puente told his partner.
“You don’t?” Fox asked the homeless man.
The figure in front of them became fidgety. “What do you
think I speak?”
Fox put his hands on his hips. “I don’t know, you tell us.
You’re speaking English right now, aren’t ya?”
Puente interrupted. “You know, it seems I see you all the
time, and all the time I gotta say something to you. Do you enjoy
that?”
“Oh yeah, I love bumping into you all the time.”
“Really?”
The bearded man looked to his left and right, looking for an
escape route while at the same time desperately trying to tell
himself that these guys were just American cops and not the
enemy in Iraq. He was trembling with the effort. “So, what do
you guys wanna know?”
Puente’s baton was still twirling with a pent-up belligerence.
“I asked you already.”
“I don’t know what…”
“You trying to open car doors?”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What does that mean, is that a yes or a no?”
“I don’t know, don’t know what you’re hassling me for, man.”
“You got any ID on you?”
“No. I don’t need any.”
“You don’t need any?” Fox voiced with a rising tone of
contempt.
“No, I don’t drive, I don’t vote, no credit card, and I don’t use
my passport anymore.”
“So what’s your name?” Puente asked.
“Felson. Jay Felson.”
“What’s your first name?”

“I just fucking told you, man. Jay.”
“’J’ is an initial. Tell me your full name.”
“Jay, J-A-Y, Felson.”
Puente, his question answered, went off on a new tack. “You
know, I can take you to jail right now…loitering, suspicion of
burglary.”
“You don’t have anything better to do?”
“What’s in your knapsack?” Fox interjected.
“Why? You wanna search it?
“If you don’t mind.”
The bearded man swung his bag off his shoulders and
handed it over. “Knock yourself out.”
“Sit down,” Puente abruptly ordered.
“Sit down where?”
“On the ground.”
This was getting hard. Just cops, he reminded himself, but he
suspected something worse.
“I said sit down.”
“Where man?”
“Where you’re standing, on the ground.”
Felson plopped down on the concrete pavement.
“Put your legs out in front of you. Stretch them out.”
Just do it. He did so, his arms at his sides supporting him.
“Put your hands on your knees.”
No, this is a mind fuck, man. He ignored the command.
“I said put your hands on your knees.”
Realizing he didn’t have much choice, Jay drew his legs up
first, then put his hands on his knees.
“Stretch your legs out.”
He removed his hands from his knees and stretched out his
legs.
“Put your fucking hands on your knees.”
“What the fuck you want me to do. I can’t do both.”
“Give it a try, lean forward and put your hands on your knees.”
Fox was going through the items found in the knapsack.
“Got some letters here. They ain’t addressed to Jay Felson…let’s
see, Casey Hull, Donald Darfield… You stealing other people’s
letters, boy.”
“I’m gonna mail them.”
“They already got stamps on them,” Fox noted. “How come
you haven’t mailed them yet? You know, just slip them into a
mailbox. There’s one right over there on the corner.”
Puente was still toying with his baton. “Let’s take him in
on a 4-96.” Four-ninety-six was police code for handling stolen
property.
Jay Felson, feeling an ache in his lower back, removed his
hands from his knees, once again placing his arms in back of him
to support himself.
“Hey, what the fuck I tell ya! Hands on knees!”
This time Felson was not eager to comply. He remained
motionless in silent defiance.
Puente then reached into his back pocket and slowly,
deliberately, put on a pair of latex gloves. He thrust one gloveladen
fist in front of Felson’s face. “See these fists?’
“Yeah, what about ‘em?”
“They’re getting ready to fuck you up.”
“That just sucks.”
“Put your legs out, put your hands on your knees”
“Hey, I’m sick of playing games, which one is it!”
Puente slapped him in the head.
“Hey, wouldya just fucking…”
“Put your hands on your knees!” he yelled, giving Felson
another slap.
“Wouldya just fucking…”
Fox got on his handheld radio. “Code three, four-fifteen, bus
depot corner Fifth and Clemston.” (Code three, urgent, proceed
with lights and siren; four-fifteen, disturbance.)
Puente slapped Felson’s head a third time. Felson stood up,
tired of being hit while on the ground.
Puente raised his baton.
Felson put his hands in front of him to display supplication.
“Hey, hey all right!”
“Get on the ground, get on the ground now!” Fox screamed.
Both officers began to hit Felson on his legs and side with
their batons, and he did what came instinctively—he ran.
“Take him down, take him down!” Puente yelled.
They grabbed him, got him down on the pavement, pressing
his face against the concrete, and the real beating began.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, sorry, man.”
“Put your hands behind your back,” the two cops shouted,
twisting his arms.
“Okay, I’m sorry…I can’t breathe…”
The two cops were on top, Puente with a knee in Felson’s
back and Fox kicking him. “Stop resisting,” they both yelled in
turns.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
A second patrol car pulled up with sirens blaring and flashers
blazing. Two more officers sprang from the car and piled on.
One of the new guys, Victor Fratollini, tasered Felson, zzzzt,
and Fox began walloping him over the head with his stun gun.
Another unit pulled up. Two more cops, two more assailants,
and seeing Fratollini smashing the homeless man’s cheekbones
with his elbow, joined in the fracas.
Zzzzt, zzzzt, zzzzt they tasered him again and again.
“Dad, Dad, help me!”
More tasering, six times now.
“Help me, Dad! I can’t breathe, I can’t…Dad…”
Someone pounded Felson’s head into the pavement.
“Dad help me!”
A pool of blood formed beneath him. The six police officers
relentlessly pummeled him, the scene resembling a feeding
frenzy of enraged carnivores…until Felson was no longer able
to call for his father.

Excerpt: LEGAL RESERVES by James F. Rosenberg

Graphic Image designed by Sandra Lopez

A significant trial looms.

The two lawyers and the judge all have major reasons to worry: Jeri Richards, a newbie judge, is presiding over her first trial concerned she is too inexperienced to handle it. Mike Reigert, the plaintiff's attorney, must try his biggest case because his client refuses the department store's huge settlement offers--just to make sure that what they did to her won't ever happen to anyone else. The company's attorney, Jack Rogers, is told that he must win this trial or face banishment from his law firm.

If that weren't enough, the three of them have been best friends since their first day of law school.

Back then, they were the cream of their law school and thought their legal careers would involve nothing but success . . . . Now, they aren't so sure.

Jeri adored her two friends in law school. They helped her overcome the trauma of almost being raped. After graduating, she prosecuted the scum that preyed on the weak and became the youngest judge in her county.

Mike was planning to work in Geneva stopping international terrorism, but his uncle convinced him to help in his small practice in a sleepy town outside of Pittsburgh. Mike itches for more responsibility and finally comes to represent a woman mercilessly chained to a table until she confessed to a crime. 

Jack craves the big money he would make if he became a partner at his huge law firm, and is willing to do anything to make it happen.

Now five years after graduating from law school they are thrown back together on opposite sides of a trial where Mike's client seeks to regain her life while Jack will not stop to make sure the company prevails.

Jeri watches as the battles between her two buddies escalate until she has to intervene to protect the life of one of her friends.

Available on Amazon


-----Excerpt-----
 
BRIGHT LIGHTS ILLUMINATED the fourteen leather chairs surroundingthe gleaming mahogany table. A video screen dropped into viewwith a faint mechanical hum. Once he received the signal fromthe nattily dressed man seated at the table, Jack Rogers dimmed thelights and as he started the video said, “I hope you are pleased withwhat you are about to see.”  The man did not react, sitting motionless, staring at the images onthe screen. The presentation lasted less than five minutes and when it wasover the man leaned back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head.“That was tremendous,” he said. “It should help our case significantly.”  Jack let out a scarcely audible sigh having received the blessing of hismentor. “Ed, do you think they’re going to be pissed when they see this?”  “Does a bear crap in the woods?”  Jack laughed as if this were the first time he had heard his mentorask that question, his black hair thrown back slightly as his head nodded.“Speaking of the woods, that little scene where we caught themdoing it behind the trees was entertaining, wasn’t it? Do you think weshould send them this video and give them something to think about?”  The man thought for a moment and responded, “No, if they reallywant to take this case to trial, you can shove the video up your buddy’sass during cross-examination. What we just watched will seal the deal ifa jury ever sees it. We’ll save it as our little insurance policy.” He lookedover at Jack with a wry smile on his face. “You finally seem to have thiscase under control.”  Jack felt his pulse slow for the first time in weeks.  * * * *  Mike Reigert glared at his clients, his clenched fist pounding the table.“I can’t believe what my investigator reported. Can you explain it tome?” The middle-aged couple sitting in the fake leather chairs liftedtheir eyes from the copies of the seven-page report Mike had given tothem at the beginning of their meeting.  The couple stared at Mike without responding. Rubbing his handsthrough his light-red hair, Mike’s heart rate accelerated and he felt atrickle of sweat under his arms. He looked squarely at the woman dressedin an unflattering pantsuit. “Martha, I thought you spent all day in yourbedroom. My investigator has you leaving your house by yourself threetimes in a week. Doesn’t sound like you are so hurt to me.”  The beefy man in the ratty sports coat sitting next to Martha puta hand on her arm to indicate he would respond. “Mike, this doesn’tseem so bad to me. This means she didn’t leave the house four daysduring that week.”  “Mr. Gebbert, you don’t get it, do you? Close is not good enough.You have to be perfect. If Martha is injured, then she has to act likeshe’s hurt. Understand? The report has her going to the grocery storeand then over to a friend’s house. Think about what their lawyer woulddo with that information if he had it. You testified she couldn’t leavethe house. That can’t be true if she is running all over town. If for somereason she absolutely has to leave home, like if she has to go to hershrink or to come here, you are holding onto her as if she is the mostfragile thing on Earth.”  Paul Gebbert stood from his chair and looked directly into Mike’seyes. “We understand what you are saying. She will do better. I willmake sure you can trust her.”  Martha stood and weakly grabbed her attorney’s hand to say goodbye.Mike watched his clients leave the conference room and wonderedwhat curveball his case would throw him next.  * * * *  The peeling paint and stained carpet didn’t bother Jeri Richards. Shelooked at the seal of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania mountedbehind the desk and felt a surge of pride. “Mom, can you believethis is mine?”  The well-attired woman with Jeri shook her head at the dilapidatedstate of the office. “Oh Jeri, look at this desk,” she said as she pulled herhand away from the grime coating the top of the desk. “This is a mess.”  “I know, Mom, but this is easy to fix. Judge Wecksel didn’t caremuch about decorating. His bigger problem was he liked to use thisoffice for non-legal acitivites. It’s going to be different now.” Jeri foldedher arms across her chest and stood tall.  Sandy Richards stepped towards her daughter and embraced her.  “I’m sorry to focus on the unimportant stuff. I’m so proud of you. I can’tbelieve you are a judge.”  Jeri beamed and allowed the hug to linger. The corrugated paperbox her mother had put on the leather armchair in front of the deskdiverted her attention. “What surprises have you brought for me?”Sandy pulled back and cleared her throat. “It’s some of your dad’sstuff. I thought you might want it.”  Jeri opened the box and grabbed a picture frame sitting on top.Her eyes immediately welled-up. “He was so handsome, wasn’t he?”she said pulling her mom over to look at the picture. “I always thoughthe looked so strong in his dress whites.”  Sandy put her head on Jeri’s shoulder. “He was so good looking. Atleast you got his beautiful dark skin and not my pasty white coloring.”  They paused for a moment, staring at the picture before Jeri said,  “What else is in the box?”  “Just a few of his things I thought you might like to have. You cando whatever you want with them.”  Jeri hesitated, sensing that digging deeper into the box might ripopen old wounds. She slowly pulled out her father’s police academygraduation certificate, followed by his badge and then some ribbonsand other commendations. She gasped when she extracted the lastitem from the box.  “No way! Mom, how did you get this past security?” Jeri asked asshe held up a sleek patrolman’s sidearm.  Sandy blushed. “The nice security guard downstairs helped mewith the box. I think he just took it to the other side of the scannerwithout sending it through. I guess I didn’t look terribly threatening.”Jeri laughed, but kept her focus on the gun while she felt its weightin her hands.  “He never shot it. Twenty-two years on the squad and he neverdrew his weapon.” her mom said. “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? He was killedby that drug dealer, but never unholstered his gun.”  Jeri sat into the chair behind the desk as her mother stood motionlesson the other side, their gazes fixed on the gleam of the revolver. 

Excerpt: OUTLOOK by Charles Williams Johns

Benjamin Flew is dead – a suicide.
And Sam Wood wants to understand.
Two years ago, Sam (and seven others) received an enigmatic “goodbye world” email from
Flew, one of Sam’s former guitar students. Sam does not know any of the others who
received the email, but his curiosity about the circumstances regarding Flew’s death reaches
a boiling point.
After lying to his girlfriend and abandoning his studies, Sam embarks on a road trip – a quest
for discovery – accompanied only by his laptop, his phone, and an esoteric collection of
classical C.D.s.
Outlook, the fifth book from the “pen” of Charlie Johns, follows Sam on his journey as he
engages with Benjamin’s old colleagues – and runs face-first into a startling revelation.

---Excerpt--- 
 Henry Purcell
 In the midst of history and the ‘historical perspective’, if one looks hard
enough, one will always find an anomaly. Henry Purcell, the most profound
of all English composers, musician of the Restoration Period, optimist of
London (with its new society prototypical of the continentalism and wealth
we find in London today) found a quiet space to look back. Of course, like
Mendelssohn after him, this looking back displayed more of a magical past
than that of a real one (Mendelssohn’s encounter with Scotland is indeed
magical). What did Purcell do? Amongst all the pompous petitions requested
by Charles II, James II and Queen Mary, he found time to open up
an old dusty chest full of viols and dream up a ‘consort’ piece in the style
of a fantasia. The viola da gamba was on the decline shortly after the huge
success of the violin, but Purcell had unfinished business with this slow
and sturdy creature, with strings made of gut that whispered something
Tudor about it, and a craftsmanship that found its origin in Belgium yet its
technique in the Jews of Northern Italy.
Even the notion of ‘consort’ (ensemble) began to acquire connotations
anathema to the intellectual characteristic that classical music took on
around Purcell’s time; the consort made music a group activity for courts
and households (which then became a domestic activity). Children learnt
simple songs on it at home, sometimes with the hope of putting on plays
at functions. The consort was entertainment. However, it was the consort
of the viola that really cemented this attitude. Even the idea that choristers
learnt how to read music with a viola put certain virtuosos off the instrument.
Nevertheless, Purcell persisted, with both the consort and the viola.
One can imagine Purcell looking out from his window on Bowling
Alley East Street, catching the spires of Westminster Abbey through the
curtains. What is he thinking? Can he hear young William Byrd’s voice resound still, a chorister of Westminster Abbey all those years back? Is he
overcome by a desire to continue the lineage of viola consort music?
Chipped gothic features, rain worn walls, leaves blown on the breath
of God. Whatever that constant unknowing was that gave rise to Purcell’s
pensiveness, it came out in his Fantasias. Of course, Byrd had his fantasias,
but Purcell turns the continuous harmony of notes into cyclical, contrapuntal
Baroque folds. The thousand folds of musical garments drooping,
crossing, mirroring. And these very same folds also became the folds of
the psyche; the folding of the private experience of sound with that of the
public experience (and also that of the introspective musician with that
of the gregarious musician). Purcell’s composition is the ‘fancy’ (fantasia)
of the mind with all its contradictions and taboos. It is even the fancy of
the young Purcell allured by alcohol and women amongst the squalor of
London and its charred backdrop. Yes, Purcell could drink with the best
of them; raising and clunking tankards next to the open fireplaces, dark
wooden beams and low ceilings of the many labyrinthine pubs of a post
1666 London, immersed in spittled joyous song:
Come, come let us drink,
‘tis in vain to think,
like fools on Grief or sadness,
let our money fly, and our sorrows Dye,
all worldly care is Madness,
But wine and good cheer,
will in spight of our fear,
inspire our hearts with mirth, boys,
the time we live,
to wine let us give,
since all must turn to Earth, Boys.
Hand, hand about the bowl
ye delight of my soul,
and to my hand commend it,
a Fig for chink
‘twas made to buy drink,
and before we go hence we’ll spend it.
It was this distillation; the sweetness of English eccentricity, wit and
lightness, with a difficult Gothic backdrop full of darkness and sorrow, that
Henry Purcell would later be defined as the ‘misunderstood’ British tradition. That particular
drinking song by Purcell Come Let Us Drink composed of many
canons expressing the persistent repetitions of rebuilding and restoring
London’s city streets, the insistent lengthy litanies of royal inaugurations,
yet also the vulnerable repetitions of the blackbird, starling, nightingale and
crow in its natural habitat endlessly calling out, only half aware of the imminent
natural catastrophe advancing: flood, plague, fire, war.
Purcell’s Fantasias foresaw the emerging twists and turns of a new
world similar to how Carl Jung, three hundred years later, on a trans-Atlantic
liner to America with a certain Sigmund Freud, foresaw the darkness of
The Great War. Jung overlooked the vast ocean with a thought that would
haunt him to his death:
In October 1913, while I was on a journey, I was suddenly seized
by an overpowering vision: I saw a monstrous flood covering all the
northern and low-lying lands between the North Sea and the Alps.
When it came up to Switzerland I saw that the mountains grew
higher and higher to protect our country. I realized that a frightful
catastrophe was in progress. I saw the mighty yellow waves, the
floating rubble of civilization, and the drowned bodies of uncounted
thousands. Then the whole sea turned to blood. This vision lasted
about one hour. I was perplexed and nauseated, and ashamed of
my weakness.
In the mid-seventeenth century, whilst Purcell’s darker side was preoccupied
by the incandescence of mystery found in English forests, the
famous philosopher John Locke suggested that the forest was off bounds;
a human can only perceive qualities of the tree such as colour, shape and
size. The tree beyond perception would have to be left to the sceptics and
mystics. I wonder if Locke’s ‘discovery’ was simultaneously Purcell’s nagging
mystical obsession; if we can’t get to the ‘tree’ then maybe music can.
Henry Purcell continued to think about nature, and William Byrd,
and Thomas Tallis, and all those old heroes of the English tradition, and all
the shadows of ruins that resisted being known in an increasingly ‘knowledgeable’
epoch. One evening, after a few too many ales at his local tavern,
Purcell walked back home through his cherished city of London, across the
Thames and through Westminster. He smiled at all the mystery of the world
in that drunken, half-jovial state we all know so well in this era. He finally
appeared at his door on Bowling Alley East Street and gave it a knock. What
then happened, which is now famously documented, is that his wife refused to let him in on account of his current state of intoxication. He was left,
then, to walk the streets of London in the cold and rain. He subsequently
caught a chill which led to his death at the age of 35.

Review: BOOK BOYFRIEND by Claire Kingsley

Alex is an aspiring writing working a dead-end job. His sister, an editor, has always wanted him to quit that job and focus on his writing. She even went so far as mentioning the sales boom of romance books. Could Alex write a story so out of his genre? That would be challenging considering his own failures in relationships and that he doesn’t really believe in HEA’s. But then he gives it a shot, and his sister is floored by how great it was and insists on getting it published. A year later, Alex had 7 books published as Lexi Logan (pen name.) The books were selling like crazy.


Mia is an introverted book addict. Her favorite genre is romance and is sick of people not considering it as “serious reading.” She also happens to be a book blogger and a reviewer—something she chooses to keep private from family and friends. One of her favorite authors is Lexi Logan. She meets “her” through her blog and become instant friends.


A secret blogger and a secret author.


Mia and Alex then meet under their real identities, unaware that their alter egos have already met. The two dance in a woo-fest. Of course, Mia ends up falling for Alex hard. But how will she react when she finds out that Alex was really Lexi?


A decent, budding romance.


My rating: 3 stars

Review: WORD PLAY by Amalie Silver

Michael Rourke is an author succumbing to the demands of the industry by writing a best-selling erotica romance just to get a paycheck. He was tired of this trite fodder, which was why he insisted on using a pen name, so no one would know. The publishing professionals and readers think he’s the alpha male that he writes about—they don’t see the real him. His dream was to be a mystery writer and was, therefore, not satisfied with his life. All of a sudden, his secret comes out and raging fans flock all around him. To not lose his readers, he decides to become the brilliant and sexy author he created—the one that fans believe he is.


Readers will enjoy his new and different transformation. I liked his fumbling scenarios. What was with all the blog posts on Monica’s Musings? Were those necessary?


I liked how this story started out, but then it started slowing down about ¼ of the way. This was an ok read.


My rating: 3 stars

Review: GOING VIRAL by Amelie Stephens

Abbie Baker was a hopeless dater and a daily blogger. She often amused followers with her dating stories on Abbie’s Outings. In a drunken stupor, she posts about her bad date with a co-worker. Toby (the date) was outraged when he read the awful, untrue things she said about him. The worst part was that everyone in the office now pegged him as a boring, unsatisfying groper. He decided that Abbie needed to pay, so he hatches a scheme for his friend to date Abbie, make her fall in love, then dump her. Using her blog, the 2 men create the “perfect man” for her. But it’s backfiring. The more time Toby spends with Abbie, the more he likes her; and vice versa. Abbie never realized how wrong she was about Toby, and she starts feeling remorse and guilt.


Story had a lackluster vibe. It had an interesting plot, but there was no enticement in the delivery. I mean, we were dealing with dating revenge here. Couldn’t we crank up the drama a bit? Make it a little more excieting? Toby and Abbie certainly had that sweet chemistry. I kinda wished Toby would’ve gone through with his plan, but I guess that’s not how nice guys work. The story was going pretty good, but then it ended with a cliffhanger, which I hate. Book 2 wasn’t much better either.


My rating: 3 stars

Review: SOCIALLY AWKWARD by Stephanie Haddad

Oliva is a model and actress, an army brat that’s traveled everywhere, never feeling like she belonged. Thanks to social media, she has many cyber friends.


In reality, she’s Jennifer Smith, a normal, boring, fat girl.


It all started with a sociology project and how the term “friend” has redefined online communication. She discovers that there is a correlation between perception and falsehood on the internet. An improved image plan by her doctor seems next to impossible, unless it can be created in the virtual world. Ah, an idea! And that’s when Olivia—the perfect model/actress—was born.


Soon, Jen realized that looks seem to factor greatly in the friend requests. Things take an interesting turn when an old crush sends a friend request to Olivia. Soon, Olivia’s “friends” become a tangled mess with an old crush, a hot trainer, and her sister’s gigolo. Suddenly, she’s leading a double life. We have a crush that thinks her sister is Olivia and a scheme to get “Olivia” to break up with him so Jen could have a shot. It’s a wonderfully wacky mess!


“It was nice of him to make me feel included in his virtual relationship with my fake self.” (131)


Right away, I could relate to Jen’s nerdy, self-deprecating demeanor. Her journey was fascinating in how she learns to accept herself and realize that she too is worthy.


Witty and smart! A humorous tale of internet fraud and sisterly betrayal.


My rating: 4 stars