I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A man with a hidden past he has no memory of must go on a journey to save his partner after she is abducted by the all-powerful Empire in author Quill Holland’s “Forgotten Evil”, the first book in The Forgotten Saga.
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The Synopsis
If you had the power to rewrite people’s thoughts… would you?
As a thirty-five-year-old farmer on a colony world, Raith is a kind and simple man, with a catch – he’s only existed for two years. His previous life is a mystery; the only clue to his past is a dark, ominous voice inside his head.
When the Empire executes its triennial ‘Soul Harvest’, Raith’s partner, Amorina, is amongst the abducted colonists. Stowing away aboard one of the departing ships, Raith must navigate strange yet familiar territory in an attempt to save her. Haunted by his inner demon, the rescue becomes increasingly complex, as Raith finds himself caught between the Empire, the Insurgency, and the United Earth Republic, with new friends and enemies knowing more about Raith’s history than he does.
Finally, as his past catches up with him, Raith discovers the dark truth about his former life and the powerful technology responsible for erasing it. With the burden of his disturbing past weighing upon him, Raith is forced into wielding that power once more; and the fate of humanity hangs on his decision.
The Review
This was a masterful and exhilarating sci-fi read. The author did a remarkable job of finding a way of balancing the story with epic mythos and intimate character development. The world-building was so above par, with a vast network of planets and divided allegiances that speak to a long and storied universe that the protagonist finds himself hurtling through. The imagery really brought this narrative to life in a fresh and engaging way.
To me, the combination of powerful character growth and strong themes of morality, and the fine line between good and evil made this such a standout novella. The way the protagonist embodied both good and evil with his past and present constantly colliding, and the morality of what it means to change worlds “for the better” made this a compelling story, as did the rich character arcs that showcased the romance, the drama, and the sci-fi action that fans of the genre have come to know and love.
The Verdict
Memorable, captivating, and entertaining, author Quill Holland’s “Forgotten Evil” is a fantastic sci-fi novella and the perfect first book in The Forgotten Saga. The twists and turns in the narrative and the shocking mysterious ending shows a wealth of backstory and world-building still left to discover, and the fast pace of the narrative itself will keep readers coming back to this story time and time again. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Growing up, Quill could always be found with his nose in a book, or watching the latest science-fiction movie. As a result, he’s developed an imagination that never stops, and naturally, sci-fi and fantasy is largely the domain that Quill’s own work inhabits.
Whether it was typing code or writing fiction, Quill has been creating content for years; now as a recent creative writing graduate from the New Zealand Institute of Business Studies and a member of the New Zealand Society of Authors, Quill has taken the plunge by self-publishing his first work.
When he’s not debugging code or creating worlds, Quill likes to dabble in illustration and photography, as well as exploring the natural beauty of New Zealand with his partner.
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A royal Prince and a small-town high school student discover they are identical twins and tackle the challenges each faces in author Eric Geron’s “A Tale of Two Princes”.
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The Synopsis
#1 New York Times bestselling author Eric Geron delivers whirlwind wish-fulfillment in this story of a closeted crown prince and an out-and-proud cowboy who discover they were separated at birth.
Edward Dinnissen leads a charmed life. He’s the Crown Prince of Canada, gets the royal treatment at his exclusive private school, and resides in a ritzy mansion. He thrives off being the perfect prince as he prepares for the Investiture Ceremony on his eighteenth birthday, the final step in his role as heir—and Canada’s future king. But this closeted Crown Prince has just one tiny problem: he’s unsure how to tell his parents, his beloved country, and his adoring fans that he’s gay.
Billy Boone should be happy with the simple life. His family’s ranch is his favorite place in the world, he loves his small town, and his boyfriend is the cutest guy at Little Timber High. So why does it feel like something’s still missing? Maybe it has to do with the fact that this out-and-proud cowboy feels destined for something more . . .
When Edward and Billy meet by chance in New York City, they discover that they are long-lost twins, and their lives are forever changed. Together, will these twin princes—“twinces”—be able to take on high school, coming out, and coronations? Or will this royal reunion quickly become a royal train wreck?
The Review
This was a truly compelling and entertaining LGBTQ-driven read. The author did an amazing job o balancing the emotional character development with the drama and glamor of Royal and the Royal family. The unique story addition of a Canadian Royal Family and the twist on the classic Parent Trap/long-lost twin trope added depth to the narrative that was both wildly engaging and thoughtful. The magical setting of New York and Canada’s royal property was a great juxtaposition to the calm and serene beauty of the Montana countryside.
To me, the heart of this narrative rested in the rich character development and the inclusivity that the author’s story provided. The way the author tackled the fears and hardships of both staying closeted and being out as a gay teen, let alone a gay teen in the public eye, was greatly represented by the brothers and their unique backgrounds. The drama that ensues as the pressures of royal life and the line of succession, as well as scheming behind the scenes and subtle yet passionate romances, made this a truly compelling story.
The Verdict
Memorable, emotionally-riven, and thoughtful written, author Eric Geron’s “A Tale of Two Princes” is a must-read LGBTQ YA novel of 2023. The heart of this story and the gripping story of two brothers, a shocking backstory, and the emotional depths of the themes, from lost loved ones and family secrets to battling homophobia and accepting oneself for who they are, make this a book I couldn’t put down. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
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About the Author
Eric Geron (pronounced: jur-ON) is the New York Times bestselling author of The Hocus Pocus Spell Book, Poultrygeist, and Bye Bye, Binary, along with numerous other titles, including the New York Times bestselling Descendants novelization under the name Rico Green. He earned his creative writing degree from the University of Miami and spent many years at Disney as an editor of New York Times bestselling books. He currently resides in New York City. You can find him on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok @EricGeron and on his website at ericgeron.com.
“Handsome and charming? How is Canada’s perfect royal son possibly still single?”
Travis Romano, Dean of Admissions at The Juilliard School here in New York, gives me a meaty handshake. A gigantic grin plasters his face and his green eyes crinkle at the corners. He shifts his stance as if hoping the photographers will be able to capture a few good shots of this moment. It’s the same irk-some question I’ve been dodging since the day I went from “Royal Tot” to “Royally Hot.”
The clanging of crystal quiets as a hush falls around the dean. A Silicon Valley tech guru sets down her glass of Bor-deaux to lovingly place her hand on her husband’s arm. The president’s son gives me a cheeky grin. Everyone within a three-metre radius is now silent, impatiently waiting to hear how I’ll respond.
For a moment, I imagine telling everyone the truth: “Guess what? I’m gay! And I don’t want to marry a woman and one day have babies to continue the royal bloodline.” But I’ll never say that. It’s too important to my parents—and all of Canada—that I follow in their footsteps.
And as next in line to the Maple Crown, it’s too important that I be a good king for my people one day.
EDWARD
“Handsome and charming? How is Canada’s perfect royal son possibly still single?”
Travis Romano, Dean of Admissions at The Juilliard School here in New York, gives me a meaty handshake. A gigantic grin plasters his face and his green eyes crinkle at the corners. He shifts his stance as if hoping the photographers will be able to capture a few good shots of this moment. It’s the same irk-some question I’ve been dodging since the day I went from “Royal Tot” to “Royally Hot.”
The clanging of crystal quiets as a hush falls around the dean. A Silicon Valley tech guru sets down her glass of Bor-deaux to lovingly place her hand on her husband’s arm. The president’s son gives me a cheeky grin. Everyone within a three-metre radius is now silent, impatiently waiting to hear how I’ll respond.
For a moment, I imagine telling everyone the truth: “Guess what? I’m gay! And I don’t want to marry a woman and one day have babies to continue the royal bloodline.” But I’ll never say that. It’s too important to my parents—and all of Canada—that I follow in their footsteps.
And as next in line to the Maple Crown, it’s too important that I be a good king for my people one day.
So, I’ll never find true love. That’s the cost of my destiny, and I’ve accepted it. Besides, I’m already married—to tradition.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 57: Never discuss matters of the heart.
To cover my nervousness, I flash my signature sugar-sweet smile—one befitting the Crown Prince of Canada—at the attentive crowd on the dance floor, letting them drink in the seconds. Over the Juilliard violinists playing softly in the back-ground, I answer the dean’s question about how I’m possibly still single with one deadpan word:
“Midterms.”
Some people chuckle while others begin a chorus of aaaaaaw. The platinum maple leaf brooch on my jacket lapel sits heavy on top of my heart. It identifies me as the Crown Prince of Canada, but it’s also the lock of the box I’m trapped in-side. The truth is, I’m single because I’m a closeted gay guy…and I’m a closeted gay guy because I’m the Crown Prince of Canada.
I keep smiling at the crowd, even though the many faces staring back feel overwhelming. I’ve been gone from the public eye for almost a year, so of course everyone is excited to see the “reclusive” Crown Prince return to the limelight. They don’t have to know that “reclusive” actually means I’ve been grounded this whole time, and all because of how poorly I acted at my seventeenth birthday party.
In the fallout, Mum and Dad grounded me for the rest of my junior year, then ordered I be sent away to New York City for my senior year. I’ve been here for six months, cooped up between my family’s private Upper East Side residence and a stuffy private school. Sure, there was public scrutiny over my parents shipping me off to New York, but they passed it off as an opportunity to strengthen their tight bonds with Canada’s closest neighbour to the south. No need for anyone to know I had been grounded and sent here as punishment.
Luckily, all my efforts to be a model prisoner have paid off, and my parents have just decided I don’t have to be grounded for the rest of my senior year. Tonight they’re giving me the chance to prove I really can be a model Crown Prince. And of course, I promised Mum and Dad I would be on my abso-lute best behaviour. After all, the Investiture Ceremony is in a couple of weeks, which means I have to prove that I’m fully prepared to be heir to the Maple Crown, aka the Canadian Crown. I know I’m ready. I’ve been training for it since I was a child. But I still need to convince the 38,346,809 people of Canada—and the rest of the world too. No pressure, right?
Dean Romano claps me on the back, wagging his finger at me with a cloying smile. “Well, we look forward to the day you find the perfect girl.” The rest of the group applauds po-litely and clinks their glasses.
I sigh inwardly. Since forever, Mum and Dad have said the same exact thing to me whenever the topic of the future queen has come up. I want to tell my rapt audience that I’m only seventeen years old, and therefore in no rush to marry anyone, obviously. But I’m used to near-total strangers interrogating me about my love life, so I wink at the dean and then add, “I promise that you’ll be the first to know.”
MAPLE CROWN RULE 16: Maintain civility in social settings.
The semicircle of men and women—okay, mostly women—tightens around me, countless sequined arms and shimmer-ing bare shoulders swarming me like voracious sea creatures. My Adam’s apple presses against my stiff collar. “Who knows?” I add, my sultry smile fighting a twitch as I reach up to loosen my tie. “Maybe I’ll meet someone special here tonight.”
MAPLE CROWN RULE 46: Make everyone feel heard
Charity balls are a royal pain in the derrière, but also an unfortunate requirement, along with cutting ribbons and giv-ing speeches. With the Dinnissen monarchy still so new, my parents work tirelessly to endear themselves to the Canadian public, which is still forming opinions on our family as its new fledging figureheads—and as soon as I graduate in June and return home to Canada, the full weight of that responsibility will fall upon my shoulders as well.
Though I suppose I can’t be too upset with my parents, or as the British press has dubbed them, Canada’s “Maple Syrup Sweeties.” Tonight, they’re off at some admirable conference with our prime minister. Actual important stuff that doesn’t in-volve schmoozing with politicians and celebrities. Well, maybe still some schmoozing—Mum always books her reflexologist before traveling with the PM. Then again, I can’t complain about standing in for them tonight. I’m still just so glad my time of captivity is finally over.
“To Prince Edward finding true love!” Dean Romano’s wife, Rebecca, lifts her crystal champagne flute toward the chandelier, and everyone echoes her words, then drains their glasses.
I manage to keep smiling. Her toast is yet another painful reminder of something I’ll never have…true love. But that’s the trade-off that comes with getting to be king one day.
It’s more exhausting than I remembered to keep pretending I’m something I’m not. I really need to get a breath of fresh air.
Excusing myself, I turn away and scan for the back doors of the Grand Ballroom—combing through a choppy ocean of barons, dignitaries, dukes, and celebrities. All resplendent in sheer gowns and sleek black ties. All elated to speak to me. But I don’t care about any of them. I only care about one per-son. Where the hell is Neel, anyway? To think I call him my best friend. And where the hell is the exit?
Gord Lauzon, Canadian secretary to Dad and my personal adviser since I was a child, is laughing up a storm with a group of people against the ballroom’s gilded wall. Like always, Gord looks sharp in a luxury suit and tie, his head freshly shaved and gleaming white. He was Granny’s ex–private secretary who now controls the press office, acts as the vital channel of com-munication between my parents and the Canadian govern-ment, and manages my day-to-day. Gord also works as liaison to the Institution—or “Firm”—that keeps the Royal Family running like one big business. He was delighted my ground-ing presented him with a chance to ratchet up his royal lessons. That is, after he got over the sour taste it left in his mouth.
He meets my eyes through his bold-framed glasses. After six months of him being my New York City babysitter, aka my parents’ eyes on me, I can tell he’s checking in. He subtly extends his arm, pressing fingertip to thumb, our signal for asking if everything is copacetic. I doubt anything foul will happen in this historic hotel’s grand old ballroom, other than me breaking a heart or two, so I return the gesture and he nods in understanding. Though, if I’m being honest, I could use his help to point out the exit door.
I check my timepiece and realize I’ve only been here for an hour. I used to be so good at wowing the crowds at these fundraisers. I’ve got to get back on top of my game. That is, after I take that much-needed brief break.
“Well, if it isn’t Canada’s Golden Child,” says a sly voice in my ear.
Suddenly, I’m being suffocated by a thick cloud of vanilla perfume as I turn to take in the full lips and chiseled cheek-bones of Sephora’s latest global ambassador, aka Lady Sofia Marchand, aka Fi, aka my frenemy since childhood. In an exquisite seafoam-blue couture gown with enough tulle to make Cinderella jealous, she looks every bit an ethereal fairy tale goddess.
Click!
The event photographer trips the shutter of his camera be-fore I can even utter a greeting. Seamlessly, Fi throws her head back in laughter as if I’ve just showed her the most hilarious GIF in the world. Instinctively, I tighten my core, relax my shoulders, and flex my chest.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 13: Have a royal presence.
Gord once told me that the best way to have perfect posture was to pretend someone was pulling a string right up through the top of my head, like a puppet. I was five. That’s me, all these years later: Perfect Puppet Prince Eddie, aching mouth unhinged, grin and all.
And Lady Sofia knows just how to pull my strings. With British aristocracy on her mum’s side and descending from French nobles on her Canadian dad’s side, Fi’s been one of my Crown-approved acquaintances since we were kids at Ash-wood Elementary in Ottawa. For years, we’ve attended the same polo and equestrian summer camp, the same celebrity birthday parties, and the same VIP meet-and-greets backstage at sold-out concerts. It’s painstakingly evident that our par-ents are hoping for a romantic spark, but Fi and I are less like maple syrup in milk and more like oil and water. I thought we might be rid of each other when I moved south of the border for my senior year, but no such luck. Her parents put her into St. Aubyn’s Prep as soon as they heard I would be attending, which she didn’t seem to mind.
Click!
“Well if it isn’t New York’s hottest crown-chaser,” I mut-ter out the corner of my mouth.
“Given how elusive you are, it’s no wonder I haven’t caught it yet.” Fi laughs—cackling this time. “It’s only a matter of time.” She perches one hand on my shoulder while lightly clasping it with the other, her front leg shifting to elegantly eclipse her back leg. She’s all fair skin tinged pink, peachy cheeks, silver-highlighted collarbones, and smoky cat eye.
Click!
Behind the photographer a few yards away, I spy a huddle of girls my age clamouring for my attention, hopping and waving their arms about. I’ll have to deal with them soon, I’m sure.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 52: Every person is important.
That includes the fangirls. Ça va. Beside me, Fi drops her sculpted arms and shoulders back, puffing out her chest. “What’s it been, nearly a year since you’ve hit the social scene? Glad your ’rents finally let you off the short leash.”
I smile very sweetly, keeping my eyes trained ahead. “As am I.”
Click!
“I can’t wait to get even more photos with you at the gala on Thursday night,” Fi continues. “I assume you’ll be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
The photographer lowers his camera and nods, as if to say he’s captured enough. Bien.
Fi faces me and talks through her smile. “My work here is done. It’s been real, loser. See you in school!” Then she turns to the photographer. “Make sure you tag me—that’s Sofia with an f.” She scoffs to herself. “As if he doesn’t already know that.”
MAPLE CROWN RULE 101: No personal social media accounts.
So, that’s a thing, albeit fairly new. My Royal Family has general verified accounts instead, of course. At my last check, the @CanadianRoyals had 20.6 million followers. And pho-tos of me happen to get the most likes.
I look past Fi, lingering despite her goodbyes, and inad-vertently lock pupils with one of the girls in the huddle, who takes the fleeting eye contact for an invitation. Gathering her black gown, she rushes forward. Her gaggle of friends follows with hungry expressions, flocking my way in a V-formation.
A crushing weight settles on my chest. Although the pressure of being a royal is ever-present, at least when I was grounded I didn’t have to deal with this level of people-pleasing.
Nodding toward the girls, Fi scrunches up her delicate nose. “Good luck with that.” She flashes the crowd an enchant-ing smile, flips her long ombré hair, and strides down a non-existent red carpet while all heads turn her way and another photographer flails for her attention.
Well. That’s Lady Sofia for you, je ne sais quoi and all.
“Your Royal Highness!” says the girl in the black gown, who appears to be squatting in what I suppose is her attempt at a perfunctory curtsy. “Sir, may I get a photo with you, too?” I freeze, trying with all my might not to roll my eyes. Members of the Royal Family must always be gracious. “Of course, mademoiselle!” Growing up with a French-speaking nanny clearly rubbed off on me—along with remedial French lessons at school.
“Thank you!” she squeals, then turns to her posse and mouths, Mademoiselle! She angles her phone overhead, and I see my brow wrinkling on-screen.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 102: No selfies
Another recent rule. My grandmother and the family matri-arch, the queen of England, managed to officially deem self-ies as unfit for royalty. Too common. Too vain. I agree with some of the Maple Crown Rules inspired by Granny’s original ones (the Buckingham Crown Rules). But a lot of the tradi-tional values that any Royal Family thrives on are woefully backward.
C’est comme ça.
I gesture at the event photographer still hovering nearby. “Shall we have him take the photo? I trust my friend here will do a fine job capturing your beauty.”
“Oh, of course, sir!” The girl titters abashedly and tucks her phone into a sequin clutch. We assume the position while her friends look on, capturing every moment behind their screens. Others move in to watch too, unwittingly revealing the exit behind the photographer. He snaps a few shots and then walks over, showing us the photos.
I smile in approval, then I rely on an old standby and wave to an invisible friend across the packed ballroom. “I’m terri-bly sorry,” I tell the growing cluster of waiting girls. “I must step out for a brief moment. I’ll be back very soon! I promise.”
MAPLE CROWN RULE 18: Depart at the right moment
Technically I also broke the rule Royals don’t apologize, but I can typically let that one slide. I am Canadian, after all.
Flashing one last dashing smile, I make my escape. The good ol’ Flash-and-Dash. Works every time. I spin on my heel and bump into a table, sending plates and glasses chattering like teeth (how unlike me!), then course-correct, making my way toward the exit. In my periphery, Gord excuses himself from his coterie of raucous socialites and follows, a long shadow tethered to my every stride, while I search for that pesky in-visible friend who conveniently can’t seem to stay in one place, weaving in and out and greeting the crème de la crème as I go.
“How are you?” I call to a NASA astronaut. I wave at a Scot-tish minister. “Hello there! Smart-looking kilt!”
“Salut! Comment va votre famille?” I ask the French ambassa-dor. I crank my megawatt smile up to an eleven for the prime minister of Japan. “Sumimasen,” I say.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 36: Royals should speak multiple languages.
For everyone else, I use my nod/twinkle-in-eye combo that’s friendly, but also too intimidating for anyone to do more than reply with a wave, smile, or nod. Otherwise, they’d be on me like flies on maple syrup. I reach the exit, soar through a series of doors, and maneuver past the black-and-white-clad waitstaff wheeling out carts of teacups. Everybody is so busy, they don’t even notice me in all the hubbub. I push a swinging aluminum traffic door, stepping past the bustling kitchen, and take a flight of steps down to a door leading to a break room reeking of what I can only assume is the smell of old coffee where I know no one will find me.
It’s empty, except for a guy my age in a worker’s uniform sitting at a rickety little table, gazing at his phone. I drop into a folding chair at a table in front of him, loosen my tie some more, and let out a whoosh of air.
I’m safe. For now.
“Oh!” he says with a start, nervously pushing back his bangs.
“Can I help you? Are you lost?”
“I’m fine. It’s okay that I’m in here, right?” I ask.
His glimmering eyes dart around. “Umm, normally they’d make me kick guests out for…reasons.” He suddenly notices my maple leaf brooch, and blushes. “But it’s cool! I won’t tell. Your Royal Highness, sir,” he adds hastily.
I almost begin to disclose why I’m hiding out in the first place. But then I remember.
MAPLE CROWN RULE 77: Only share what is necessary.
It’s technically: Only share with your subjects what is necessary, but I’ve truncated it. I don’t have subjects. At least, not yet.
I nod. “Perfect. Thanks.”
“D-do you want some privacy?” he stammers. He stands up to leave, and his phone falls from his hand. It skitters across the warped linoleum, coming to a rest at the tip of my shiny black patent leather shoes.
I pick it up and hand it back to him. “No, no, it’s fine. Stay. I just needed a tiny break. I’ll be out in a jiffy.” I give the break room a cursory scan, eyes sweeping cabinets, a sink, a small white fridge. “Do you have any food? I’m famished.”
One of his eyebrows quirks in bewilderment. “Oh, you didn’t get a chance to eat?”
“At a charity event like this one? Too much schmoozing. Not enough eating. As it goes.”
He lets out a little laugh. “Let me see what we have.” He vanishes up into the stairwell, then comes trundling back down a minute later with a tray of miniature desserts: everything from frozen mochi and mint sorbet to macarons and bonbons with gold leafing on top.
“Super!” I pinch up a pink mochi and pop it in my mouth. “Have one.”
He hesitates, but after darting a glance at the door, he selects a pale green one. “Staff isn’t supposed to eat these,” he says, but he bites down on it anyway.
“Look at us,” I remark. “Me trespassing in employee break rooms and you eating forbidden mochi. We’re breaking all the rules.” We both laugh. “So, you work here? Aren’t you in high school like me?”
“Yeah. But I just work nights. I’m saving up for college. My uncle got me the job. He’s a cook here.”
I take another mochi. Double chocolate. A favourite. “Do you cook too?”
“I try.” He laughs, running his hand through his shiny black hair. “What about you?”
Best not to share how all of my meals are prepared for me at the risk of sounding elitist. Instead, I grin. “Can you keep a secret? I’ve been working on a chocolate chip cookie recipe that puts Pierre on Park’s to shame.” I pass it off as a joke, but I actually spent all winter experimenting on just that recipe—along with original recipes for fresh new takes on profiteroles, cream puffs, and croquembouches.
The guy laughs again, briefly covering his mouth. “I bet.” “I’m serious.” I select a bonbon from the tray. “It’s rather ag-onizing being a foodie when you’re the next leader of a coun-try whose biggest culinary claim to fame is gourmet poutine.” His expression turns contemplative. “Hey, didn’t Canada invent the Twinkie?” “I rest my case.”
The guy chuckles and combs his fingers through his hair once more, then locks eyes with me. “I never expected to meet a royal, let alone, well, you. Sorry, you just seem so…normal.” Reddening, he adds, “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t… It’s just, you seem so chill. It’s like hanging out with…a friend from school.” He tucks a strand behind his ear, his eyes downcast, his cheeks practically puce.
“Don’t worry about it. I get it.” I swallow. I don’t know why, but my throat has decided to go bone-dry. “It’s easy to talk to you too. Do you get that a lot?”
Silence falls.
My stomach drops as soon as the words escape my lips. Do I sound like I’m coming onto him? What am I babbling about to this stranger?
But much to my relief, a smile washes across his face like sunlight.
I’m wondering what to say next when—
Slam!
The break room door bursts open, and I hear the voice of my best friend. “Edward! There you are!”
The worker and I jump with a start, stepping away from one another as if we were just caught hiding a dead body.
In struts Neel Singh, aforementioned best friend who also happens to be the son of Zubin Singh, Indian ambassador to Canada.
Let me tell you about Neel. People think I’m charming, but Neel can get them eating out of the palm of his manicured hand in seconds—including my parents, who bizarrely enough think him being in New York with me is a good thing. He grew up all over the world, but stayed in Ottawa long enough for us to become best friends, a relationship which fully crystallized after we built a snowman with a creatively placed carrot. Thank goodness it melted before my parents or Gord saw it. And now, he’s in New York for his senior year too. Only Neel could con-vince his parents that he should move to another country for his last year of high school. I guess he griped enough about being separated from his best friend that they eventually caved.
But in this moment, with the worker’s eyes still locked on mine, I’m kind of wishing Neel’s parents had kept him in Ottawa.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Oh, now you decide to show up. Where were you forever ago when I was looking for you, mon chum?”
Neel glances at the worker, whose name I wish I knew—que c’est gênant—then back at me, grinning. “Oh, you’ve made a new friend?”
“Shut up,” I growl so low that only Neel can hear me. He knows my secret and I trust him to keep it, but sometimes what he says in front of others makes me sweat.
He ignores me and walks across the break room. “Hi. I’m Neel. It’s so nice to meet you.” He pumps my new friend’s hand, lingering for far too long. He has a knack for being overly friendly. And there’s no denying Neel looks suave in his tailored black suit, crisp white button-up that contrasts nicely against the warm bronze undertones of his brown skin, and bow tie that perfectly matches his silk pocket square. Probably a look he “borrowed” from the runway he walked in Milan. The perks of being incredibly wealthy and good-looking.
“Nice to meet you too.” The guy looks from Neel to me, flashes a timid smile, and scurries from the room before I can utter salut.
Neel shoots me a knowing smirk then starts washing his hands at the sink. He ditched me all night, only showing up to barge in and scare off my new friend. This is low, even for him.
“Can you believe they had no vegetarian options?” he asks incredulously. “Meat pies for as far as the eye could see.”
“Seriously, where have you been? I needed you,” I say. “And how did you find me?”
He dries his hands on a dish rag then snatches up a bonbon. “I have my sources,” he says through a mouthful.
I glare. I could murder him. Use industrial-strength kitchen cleaner to hide the evidence.
“Fine.” Neel sticks his thumb into a vanilla mochi, then jerks it in the direction of the door.
Right on cue, Gord sets foot into the break room, looking less than pleased. “Your Royal Highness.”
Rolling my eyes at Neel, I give Gord the signal that all is well.
But as Neel rests a hand on my forearm, I’m no longer sure. He’s got that look in his eye. “I’m bored of the ball, so I’m thinking we leave before the raffle and silent auction. Besides—” he beams his radiant smile “—there’s a private shindig taking place now at Beauty and Essex—no nonsense this time. Say you’ll come? Great! Let’s go.” Neel hooks his arm in mine and twists in the direction of the door.
He may have made the Forbes 30 Under 30 Asia list, but right now, he’s number 1 on my naughty list.
I plant my feet. “Sounds sweet, but I’d rather not end up grounded again.”
Neel grips my face, pleading. “Please? Pretty please with maple sugar on top?”
I pry his fingers off. “Tempting,” I say, “but I’m afraid I’m immune to your charms, my friend.”
He grins impishly. “I’ll do your AP Chem lab homework,” he says in singsong.
He knows that’s my Achilles’ heel. I sigh. “You better not make me regret this.”
Gord clears his throat. “Sir.” He slowly shakes his head.
Neel knots his fingers together pleadingly. “But I’ll have him home by midnight, G!”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who are you, my fairy godmother?” With Neel, “midnight” means 4:30 a.m. Neel’s dad still lives in Ottawa, his mum’s in India, and he has no chaperone here, so he’s pretty much a free agent. The notion of “curfew” is not something he’s well acquainted with. While Neel’s par-ents are barely even aware of his zip code, mine like to be in the know, even with being busy running and continuing to establish a somewhat new form of monarchy. Hence, Gord, who I’m practically closer with than my own father.
Gord picks a piece of invisible lint off my jacket. “I don’t advise it, sir. Your parents gave me direct orders—your name is not ending up in the tabloids.” He straightens my brooch. “Again,” he adds tartly.
It’s true. Dad did say leading up to this event that if I had one more bad run-in with the press, he was going to revoke my going-out privileges for good.
Neel gasps and clutches his chest. “What happened last time was not his fault.”
Gord turns on Neel. “You mean when His Royal Highness was photographed setting off fireworks for his birthday party on a yacht in the Ottawa River? A little stunt that burned down half the trees on the waterfront? You’re both lucky it didn’t launch a media blitz.”
I feel myself blushing. “I didn’t know it was illegal to set off fireworks from a yacht, pour l’amour du Christ!”
At this response, Gord clenches his jaw. I know what that means. This conversation is over.
Neel knows it too. He screws up his mouth in defeat, and sighs. “Bye, bharˉa.” His nickname for me, “brother” in Pun-jabi, never fails to pull at my heartstrings.
I clap a hand on his shoulder. “Have fun for both of us?”
Neel eases back into his radiant smile, eyes playful again. He winks. “Oh, I always do.”
“Prince Edward! Prince Edward! Over here!”
Paparazzi surround us, cameras flashing, as we step out into the Manhattan night. A frigid breeze buffets down the ave-nue, fluttering awnings. My chauffeur holds open the door to my black town car as I duck inside, exchanging the icy air for blissful artificial warmth.
Camera lenses take aim, yards from the tinted windows. Good luck getting a decent shot. The paparazzi here truly are as ubiquitous as rats on subway tracks. Not that I’ve ever taken the subway.
Gord buckles into the passenger seat, and the chauffeur pulls the car onto 59th while the paparazzi give chase, shouting my name. Before kicking me out of Rideau Hall, Mum and Dad never failed to remind me that the paparazzi in New York would be documenting my every folly, unlike in Canada where the industry isn’t quite so rabid and boundaries are better re-spected (other than the Daily Maple, the source for most Royals- related reports and rumours). Going out and about, acting like a delinquent in New York would not only mean my family would find out about it, but the rest of the world as well. Given Mum and Dad’s own distaste for paparazzi, they must have felt pretty desperate to have sent me here, but it’s been quite ef-fective. That, and being under Gord’s constant supervision.
We cross the intersection, leaving Central Park behind us, its naked treetops illuminated by city lights. From the front seat, Gord turns up the radio volume and soft classical music plays. He knows it’s one of the few things that relaxes me. I lean back, take a deep breath, and pull out my phone.
A million Google alerts pop up. What? Of course I have a Google alert for my own name. I need to know what people are saying about me after my reentry into the party scene. It’s mostly just gossipy tabloid stories, an occasional fashion mag-azine editorial, and the inevitable message board comments perpetuating age-old rumours and adding to tired conspiracy theories. When it comes to the relatively new Canadian mon-archy, people love trying to spill royal Earl Grey tea.
Just before I was born, Mum and Dad fled across the pond to Canada in hopes of escaping the scrutiny of the English press. Waking up to a new disparaging headline every day about Mum being a lowly commoner from Canada was un-tenable for them—not to mention being baited and badgered by slimy photographers wherever they set foot. My parents had even been prepared to leave the Royal Family and relinquish their official titles—anything to help put an ocean between them and the snaky British tabloids.
A while back, there was a movement to one day replace Granny with a homegrown Canadian Royal Family, but noth-ing came of it. Our current situation was the result of an agreement with the Canadian prime minister at the time. Apparently, he recognized that Canadian love for the Royal Family was good for business. (Our official merch alone con-tributes greatly to Canada’s bottom line.) The fact Dad was born on Canadian soil before growing up in England made him a natural fit for Canadian king.
On my phone, I’m idly poking around popular royal hashtags and notice that someone has reposted, for the zillionth time, that old and super famous long-range paparazzi photo of my parents arriving home at Rideau Hall with bundled-up newborn me. It was the first time the paparazzi had caught a glimpse of The Canadian Royal Baby. Given my mum’s ner-vousness about paparazzi, my parents had hidden out at the super private Hôpital Royal Jolee in Montreal for the birth, far from where anyone expected them to go.
It’s one of the only photos of me as a child to have gotten out. To no one’s surprise, it was from a wily and out-of-town photographer who wasn’t afraid of being blacklisted. Since that day, my parents have held an iron grip on our private lives, only slightly loosening up the photography ban when I en-tered high school a little over three years ago. (Hello, People magazine cover shoot!)
Despite her secretly difficult pregnancy, Mum appears healthy, rested, and as much a fashion icon as ever in the photo, step-ping out of a town car in a formfitting dress with the traditional maple leaf tartan pattern. Dad cradles me in a blanket woven with the same fabric. I’ve seen this photo so many times that I know it by heart.
I tap back to my notifications. Many of the alerts swirl around the topic of me at tonight’s ball, with a few official photos starting to surface, most showing me on the red carpet, hands in pockets. The one of me with Fi is already trending. Just as she’d hoped.
I let out a sigh. It does little to release the familiar feeling of pressure and expectation building in my heart and chest. The whole world is watching, commenting on my every move. I have to uphold the royal Dinnissen glory, or our Canada goose is cooked, because there’s a lot to live up to as Crown Prince, aka Prince Royal. Mum and Dad had the perfect modern-day fairy tale love story: prince meets born-and-bred Cana-dian commoner and falls in love. People have always eaten up and adored their story, even with its darker, nearly-stripped-of-their-titles side to it.
Suddenly, the heat in the car has become stifling. I crack the window for some fresh air.
As much as I love the perks of being Crown Prince, sometimes I want to throw all the rules out the window. But when ever I get that urge, I remember the fiasco that was my seventeenth birthday party. I’ve learned my lesson. And what choice do I have? I’m trapped.
Gord is always telling me that it’s much easier for Canada to get rid of our monarchy than to further change it. I can hear Gord reciting Maple Crown Rule 1, drilling it into my brain like he has my entire life: Duty to the Crown above all else.
I open the faceless alias Instagram account, aka Finsta, that I secretly made for myself—mostly to drool over slow-mo videos of people frosting cakes or pulling gooey, piping-hot cookies apart, and to read baking “top tips” from my favourite maître pâtissiers, or master pastry chef—Chef Pierre—who regularly unveils his latest innovative desserts at his culinary school in Paris that end up on the menu of his world-renowned bakery-café here in New York.
Of course, there are also the gay couple accounts I peruse, with varying arrays of cutesy, saccharine selfies. I want what they have.
As I scroll, I can’t help daydreaming about going back to the break room, letting the cute guy pull me up onto one of those rickety little tables, his lips parting as we press against each other…
I can never tell a soul, let alone the world, about my petit secret.
I am absolutely certain that if I were to come out, the powers that be would find a way to strip me of my title. I can’t let that happen. Do I sometimes wish I could have a normal life that allows me to settle down with a nice guy? Yes, I do. But not more than I want that crown. Besides, it would break my par-ents’ hearts if their only son didn’t succeed them on the throne.
Sure, my family has had their own fair share of secrets. Hell, here are more secrets than rules (and if you couldn’t tell by now, we have a lot of rules). My Royal Family tree isn’t with-out its rotten apples—or rotten maple leaves, to keep things on brand. But I may just be the worst. A blight, the one to petrify the family tree so that not a single leaf remains cling-ing to its ancient branches.
It’s bad enough that the Firm and current conservative government share a little-known penchant for wanting to streamline the Royal Family, meaning the three of us could be stripped of our titles at any moment.
Selfishly, abdicating the throne would alleviate me of the immense weight to remain in the closet. But I couldn’t do that to my parents, even if I could find a good way out, and there isn’t one—out of the closet or out of the monarchy. After the stunt I pulled at my last birthday, Mum and Dad have felt like the three of us are in danger of losing our position in Canada and being sent to live out the rest of our days in a drafty, for-gotten castle in Cornwall.
But my parents won’t have to worry about the monarchy dissipating to the Chinook winds. I was raised to be Crown Prince of Canada, destined to fulfill my royal birthright. Even if it does mean no love life.
To bear a crown of power is to be alone, right?
I press my nose to the cold window glass, hearing ambu-lance sirens blaring in the distance. Normally, traditions im-posed on the heir to the throne wouldn’t be a huge problem. Except, well…
UNSPOKEN MAPLE CROWN RULE: Don’t be gay, eh?
DAILY MAPLE ONLINE
THE ROYAL ROUNDUP
March 2, 06:23 a.m. ET
PRINCE EDWARD SIZZLES BACK INTO THE SPOTLIGHT
by Omar Scooby
Welcome back, Eddie! After ten months of skirting the spotlight following his seventeenth birthday debacle, the Crown Prince of Canada slides back into the social scene with a rare appearance at a star-studded gala.
Entering the ballroom last night at the Plaza Hotel, the Crown Prince of Canada was a sight to behold—wowing in a tailored suit and titillating partygoers with his wit, charm, and majestic magnetism. The world has truly missed seeing that hundred-watt smile. The Daily Maple spoke to an insider about what it’s like for him, being a teen heartthrob.
When asked about any details surrounding the highly anticipated Investiture Ceremony, our close-to-the-royal-family insider went mum. What has the prince got up his hemmed silken sleeves? We hope to find out and see a whole lot more of him—and his winning smile—in the coming days.
RELATED STORIES
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I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A wife desperate to find her missing husband searches for clues to his location, unaware her neighbors may have been the last to see or hear from him in author Mary Kubica’s “Just the Nicest Couple”.
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The Synopsis
A husband’s disappearance links two couples in this twisty thriller from New York Times bestselling author Mary Kubica
Jake Hayes is missing. This much is certain. At first, his wife, Nina, thinks he is blowing off steam at a friend’s house after their heated fight the night before. But then a day goes by. Two days. Five. And Jake is still nowhere to be found.
Lily Scott, Nina’s friend and coworker, thinks she may have been the last to see Jake before he went missing. After Lily confesses everything to her husband, Christian, the two decide that nobody can find out what happened leading up to Jake’s disappearance, especially not Nina. But Nina is out there looking for her husband, and she won’t stop until the truth is discovered.
The Review
This was a gripping and captivating domestic thriller. The author does an incredible job of layering this story with intrigue from the beginning, from Lily’s shocked demeanor and her husband’s desperation to protect her to Nina’s fear and determination to find answers to all her questions. The pacing of the novel was incredible as it allowed the mystery to unravel slowly and keep the reader engaged with the narrative as the motivations and suspects in this case grow larger and larger.
Character development was the heart of this narrative, as each of the four main characters in this narrative held a depth to them that captivated readers from the start. The use of both Christian and Nina’s perspectives for the majority of the story allowed both of their unique viewpoints and shocking revelations to hold their own weight in the story, and the mystery surrounding those they love and what they are capable of to grow until the explosive final chapters.
The Verdict
Memorable, shocking, and entertaining, author Mary Kubica’s “Just the Nicest Couple” is a must-read domestic thriller of 2023. The twists and turns in the narrative and the shocking revelations that come to light in the disappearance of Jake Hayes will keep fans of the genre hanging onto the author’s every word. The adrenaline-fueled suspense read will stay with readers and connect both psychologically and emotionally. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
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About the Author
Mary Kubica is a New York Times bestselling author of thrillers including The Good Girl, The Other Mrs., and Local Woman Missing. Her books have been translated into over thirty languages and have sold over two million copies worldwide. She’s been described as “a helluva storyteller” (Kirkus) and “a writer of vice-like control” (Chicago Tribune), and her novels have been praised as “hypnotic” (People) and “illuminating” (L.A. Times). She lives outside of Chicago with her husband and children.
I gasp and stagger backward. My hand goes to my mouth, bear- ing down.
My brain screams at me to run. Run.
I can’t at first. Shock and fear hold me captive. They keep me from moving, like a ship that’s dropped anchor. I’m moored to this spot, my eyes gaping in disbelief. My breath quickens and I feel the flailing of my heartbeat in my neck, my throat and in my ears.
Run, my brain screams at me. Go. Fucking run.
There is movement on the ground before me. The sound that comes with it is something heathen and raging, and some part of me knows that if I don’t go now, I may never leave this place alive.
I turn away. It’s instantaneous. One minute I’m unmoving and the next I’m moving so fast that the world comes at me in vague shapes and colors, streaks of brown and blue and green. I barely feel the movement of my legs and my feet as I run. I don’t feel the impact of my shoes colliding with the earth, moving quickly across it. I don’t look back, though I want more than anything to steal a look to know that I’m alone. That I’m not being followed. But I don’t look. It’s too risky. Looking back would cost precious seconds that I don’t know that I have. If I do, those seconds could be my last.
Sounds come, but I’m so disoriented that I don’t know where they come from. Is it only my pulse, the rush of blood in my ears?
Or is someone there?
I feel something tangible against my hair and then my spine. My back arches. I jerk away, pitching forward, landing hard on my hands and knees.
The world stops moving.
I have only two thoughts in that moment: staying alive, and that this isn’t the way it was supposed to happen.
Christian
Lily is sitting on the leather chair in the family room when I come in. Her back is to me. I see her from behind, just her long brown hair spilling down the back of the chair. She stares toward the TV on the opposite wall, but the TV is off. It’s just a black box, and in it, I see a murky reflection of Lily on the screen, though I can’t tell if her eyes are open or shut.
“Hey,” I say, coming in through the garage door, closing it quietly and stepping out of my shoes. I set my phone and keys on the counter, and then ask, “How was your day?”
It’s getting dark in the house. Out the window, the sun is about to set. Lily hasn’t bothered with the lights, and so the in- side of the house is colorless and gray. We face east. Any pretty sunset is the other way. You can’t see it from here, if there even is one to see.
Lily says nothing back. She must have fallen asleep, sitting upright in the chair. It wouldn’t be the first time. She’s been extremely tired lately. The pregnancy is getting the best of her, not to mention that she’s on her feet teaching all day. These two things in combination exhaust her. It used to be that Lily would be in the kitchen, cooking dinner when I got home, but these last few weeks, she comes home from work ready to drop. I don’t mind that she’s not cooking. I’ve never been the kind of person to need a home-cooked meal after work, but that’s the way Lily was raised. Her mother did it for her father, and so she thinks she should do it for me. She’s been apologetic that she hasn’t had it in her to cook dinner, but she’s been queasy, too, and the last thing she needs to be doing is cooking for me. I called from the car and ordered takeout already; it will be here any minute.
I step quietly into the family room. I come around to the other side of Lily to face her. Lily isn’t asleep like I thought. Her eyes are open but her expression is blank. Her skin looks gray, washed-out like the room, and I blame the poor lighting.
Lily’s head turns. She looks up at me as if in slow motion.
“Hey,” I say again, gently, smiling. “You okay? Did I wake you?”
I flip on a side table light, and she winces from the bright- ness of it, her eyes taking time to adjust. I apologize for it, realizing that her pale face had nothing to do with the lack of light.
In the warmth of the lamp’s glow, I see that Lily’s hair is wet. She wears maroon-colored joggers and a sweatshirt. She’s showered and changed since coming home, which is more than she usually does. Usually she falls flat on the couch and doesn’t leave until it’s time to go to bed.
I drop to my knees in front of her. I reach forward and run a hand the length of her hair. “You look exhausted, babe. Do you want to just go to bed? I can help you up. Takeout should be here soon. I’ll bring it up to the room for you when it gets here.”
Lily blinks three times, as if to clear the fog. She finds her voice. It’s husky at first, dry, like after a day of shouting at a football game, which is not that different than a day of teach- ing rowdy high school kids math. “No,” she says, shaking her head, “I’m fine. Just tired. It was a long day.”
“You sure? I wouldn’t mind dinner in bed myself.” I had a long day too, but it doesn’t seem right to compare them when only one of us has another human growing inside of them.
“That sounds messy,” she says.
“I promise I’ll be neat.”
Lily smiles and my heart melts. I love it when she smiles at me. “When are you ever neat?”
“Never,” I say, feeling better if she can still poke fun at me.
I’ve done my research on pregnancy and childbirth. I’ve read that the fatigue women feel during the first trimester is maybe the most tired they’ll feel in their whole lives. Growing a human is exhausting. Caring for one is too, but we’re not there yet.
“You need anything?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
Takeout comes. I convince Lily to come sit on the couch with me, where we both fit. We watch TV and, as we do, I ask her about her day and she asks me about mine. She’s quieter than usual tonight. I do most of the talking. I’m a market research analyst, while Lily teaches high school algebra. We met in college over of our shared love of math. When we tell people that, it makes them laugh. We’re math nerds.
When it’s time for bed, Lily goes up to the room before me. From downstairs, I hear the sink run as she washes up. I clean up from dinner. I throw the takeout containers in the trash. There is a package waiting on the front porch. I step outside to get it, where the night is dark, though the sky is clear. It must be a new moon.
Lily is standing at the top of the stairs when I come back in. She’s there in the upstairs hall, standing in the dark, backlit by the bedroom light. Gone are the maroon sweats she wore ear- lier. She has on my flannel shirt now. Her legs are bare, one foot balanced on the other. Her hair is pulled back, her face still wet from washing it.
“Don’t forget to lock the door,” she says down over the rail- ing, patting her face dry with a towel.
I wouldn’t have forgotten to lock the door. I never do. It’s not like Lily to remind me. I turn away from her, making sure the storm door is shut and locked, and then I push the front door closed and lock the dead bolt too.
Our house sits on a large lot. It’s old on the outside, but has a completely revamped, modern interior. It boasts things like a wraparound porch, beamed ceilings, a brick fireplace—which Lily fell in love with the first time she laid eyes on the house, and so I knew I couldn’t say no despite the price—as well as the more modern amenities of a subzero fridge, stainless steel appliances, heated floors and a large soaker tub that I was more enthusiastic about. The house is aesthetically pleasing to say the least, with an enormous amount of curb appeal. It practically broke the bank to buy, but felt worth it at the time, even if it meant being poor for a while.
In the backyard, the river runs along the far edge of the prop- erty, bound by a public hiking and biking trail. We were worried about a lack of privacy when we first moved in, because of the trail. The trail brought pedestrians to us. Strangers. People just passing by. For most of the year, it’s not a problem. The leaves on the trees provide plenty of privacy. It’s only when they fall that we’re more exposed, but the views of the river are worth it for that small sacrifice.
“Done,” I tell her about the locks, and she asks then if I set the alarm. We’ve lived here years and hardly ever set the alarm. I’m taken aback that she would ask.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
Lily says, “Yes, fine.” She says that we have an alarm. We pay for it. We might as well use it. She isn’t wrong—it’s just that she’s never wanted to before.
I set the alarm. I make my way around the first floor, turning off lights. It takes a minute. When I’m done, I climb the stairs for the bedroom. Lily has the lights off in the room now. She stands at the window in the dark, with her back to the door.
She’s splitting the blinds apart with her fingers and is looking out into the dark night.
I come quietly into the room. I sidle up behind Lily, setting my hand on the small of her back and asking, “What are you looking at?” as I lean forward to set my chin on her shoulder, to see what she sees.
Suddenly Lily reels back, away from the window. She drops the blinds. They clamor shut. I’ve scared her. Instinctively, her hands rise up in self-defense, as if to strike me.
I pull back, ducking before I get hit. “Whoa there, Rocky,” I say, reaching for her arms.
Lily’s hands and arms remain motionless, suspended in air.
“Shit, sorry,” she says, knowing how close she came to im- pact. The realization startles us both.
“What was that?” I ask as I gently lower Lily’s arms. Lily isn’t usually so jumpy. I’ve never seen that kind of reaction from her.
She says, “I didn’t know it was you.”
“Who did you think it was?” I ask, as a joke. She and I are the only ones here.
Lily doesn’t answer directly. Instead she says, “I didn’t hear you come up the stairs. I thought you were still downstairs.”
That doesn’t explain it.
“What are you looking at?” I ask again, gazing past her for the window.
“I thought I heard something outside,” she says.
“Like what?”
She says that she doesn’t know. Just something. We stand, quiet, listening. It’s silent at first, but then I hear the voices of kids rising up from somewhere outside. They’re laughing, and I know there are teenagers clowning around on the trail again. It wouldn’t be the first time. They never do anything too bad, though we’ve found cigarette butts and empty bottles of booze. I don’t get mad about it. I was a stupid teenager once. I did worse.
I go to the bed. I pull the blankets back. “It’s just dumb kids,
Lily. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Come to bed,” I say, but, even as she turns away from the window and slips under the sheets with me, I sense Lily’s hesitation. She’s not so sure.
Excerpted from Just the Nicest Couple @ 2023 by Mary Kyrychenko, used with permission by Park Row Books.
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
Author J.S. Kirby shares tips to help people transition from working in an office environment to at-home work and become the most productive remote worker possible in the book “Working from Home: Slacker to Superstar”.
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The Synopsis
Working from Home: Slacker to Superstar is a book for anyone who wants to learn how to be the best possible remote worker whether you are a CEO or just landed your first job. Transitioning from an office to working remotely can be a huge challenge for some. This book will provide you with the strategies and tools you need to maximize productivity and make sure that every minute of your work day counts.
You’ll gain knowledge on managing your time effectively and organizing tasks so they are accomplished in the most efficient way possible. Working from Home: Slacker to Superstar will give you tips on structure, concentration, motivation, self-discipline, focus and goal setting when working from home.
Working from Home: Slacker to Superstar is an indispensable resource for anyone wanting to dive into the pros and cons of WFH while learning valuable tips and tricks to improve productivity, physical, and mental health as well as increase your efficiency and productivity levels. Take advantage of these working from home tips to help take control of your career and goals.
The Review
I loved how clear and concise this book was. As someone who is disabled and must do remote work to earn a living, the need to establish a professional and motivating environment is one of the most important things that remote workers need in their life. Having more control over your time and environment is a great thing, but the need for structure and order is still great, as it helps improve productivity and keep our work schedules intact.
The author’s relatability and honesty in their writing style, and the directness that the author’s steps to help guide readers towards a more productive at-home work environment were inspiring to see come to life on the page. The need to overcome things that we take for granted at home, like physical activity and communication with others in the company or work field you work in, were well represented in these steps, and the guide itself was both easy to understand and was written in a way that could allow remote workers to refer to the text over and over again.
The Verdict
Insightful, memorable, and engaging, author J.S. Kirby’s “Working from Home: Slacker to Superstar” is a must-read nonfiction and business book on remote work and establishing good work habits as a whole. The knowledge the author imparts to the reader and the thoughtful approach to the physical, mental, and emotional weight of remote work, in general, was a welcome addition that helped elevate the work put into the guide. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
There was a crowd milling around the entrance to the embarkation point’s airlock for the probeship Saarien. It was a farewell ceremony for the crew.
The Spacecorps officers stood trim and fit in standard duty uniform dress: a close-fitting, full-length two-tone garment. Each one of the personnel’s uniforms consisted of black trousers, matching utility belt and ankle boots, and black tunics with a color-coded horizontal chest stripe for the appropriate branch.
Piping of the branch color threaded through the black shoulder covering, rank insignia worn on the left collar; a chevron-fashioned intraship communicator pin occupied the right. With all the various personnel lined up to see the crew off, it looked as if the astronauts were passing through a rainbow of reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, golds, browns, and purples.
Each member of the Saarien team was photogenic and full of confidence, everyone’s image of spacefarers. Clasping forearms as they strolled down the featureless corridor, the eighteen astronauts’ hefted tote bags filled with their personal effects and went through the vestibule and into the lock. Beyond, they were shuttled from the interplanetary Orbiter 1 to the outer dock where the moored Saarien inside the lacy mooring filigree of the orbital station.
The bridge deck’s starboard airlock door slid slowly open with a distinct reassuring hiss. As one, the survey team stepped outside the probeship reception airlock into Deck 1’s assembly point. Each drew in a lungful of stale, yet pleasantly cooled air. Moving as one, the colonist ventured from the starboard vestibule down a short corridor and into the bridge’s Operations Wardroom; it bore the same clinical, featureless color scheme as the Orbiter 1: Aidennia.
Even compared to the spacestation’s mission operations room, the bridge’s wardroom was a spacious two-tier sixteen-retemed high, by seventy-three-retemed long, by forty-four-retemed wide dome. Its gray-white curving walls were alighted with colorful data holo-displays.
Dozens of three-dimensional maps, charts, and graphs tracked the streams of information that moved in and out of Saarien from every point in the sector and many places beyond. The clean lines of its architecture could not conceal the fact that it bristled with the most advanced technology Spacecorps had to offer.
Saarien was equipped with a mission-ready bridge and shipwide systems control. Instrument and computer stations ranked for science officers, propulsion systems engineers, emergency manual override, and environmental systems. There were swivel chairs for every workstation around the bridge operation pit’s perimeter and the quarterdeck.
On the main floor of the bridge were contained the typical complement of control stations, with the addition of a small main floor area at the bridge’s aft with an integral master situation monitor and conference table with surrounding overhead monitors and computing hardware that would allow the crew to study and plan strategies and tactics during reduced action periods. Engineering and science stations had been included and had dedicated data network lines to the main computer and critical systems, both were vital to the operation of the probeship should a battle ensue.
In the bridge’s forward section was another opened isolation hatch, it framed the interior of the command section where the flight control (conn) and flight operations (ops) consoles with their contoured flight chairs were set immediately in front of the bridge’s main viewscreen.
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Commander Capel Perezsire had seen the bridge before, but even now, he could not restrain letting out a long, slow breath of appreciation. He supposed he would get used to it, too; but he hoped he would never lose the proud lift of his heart that he had felt when he had first stepped onto the bridge so many months ago during its final shakedown; the same rush he was experiencing now as he moved into the nerve center with the others.
Captain Cellini, a male Dorian descended from Aidennian stock, allowed himself to feel a measure of satisfaction in his ship and his crew as he spotted the approaching science team, absently smoothing his dark mustache with thumb and forefinger. With a few confident strides, he exited the command section and entered the bridge’s main area.
He had belief that all aboard would perform admirably under his command; he was the type of person who rubbed his hands together when he was about to dive into something — a debate, a good meal, a prickly scientific hypothesis. He did everything with a certain gusto. With his free hand, he held a data imager — a wafer-thin hand-held pad that had a flat view screen with blue-lettered captions scrolling.
Glancing at it, he resumed his review of personnel profiles — most of the information he knew from memory — having reviewed the inventory of the personnel under his charge since the moment they assembled. All of them Non-Echelon breeding stock, most of them were adults, with a complement of offspring — the majority post-pubescent/pre-ka-telan.
Ah, he thought winsomely, that time in life in which an individual has arrived just past puberty and just before the state in an individual’s development when he or she is physically/emotionally/spiritually capable of sexual pre-determination awareness. He stifled a chuckle behind another thought, Ah; the hormone rush will be unbearable once we get to Mira IV! Thank the Oversoul I am Echelon and stationed here onboard Saarien and not planetside!
Cellini, arms now behind his back, stared levelly at the tableau, and then his gaze flickered to his second-in-command. The captain smiled faintly as one of the scientists caught the attention of his first officer. He recognized the young male from the roster; he was memorable because his pre-mission scans were very inconclusive to his predicted ka-tela orientation. Ah, the politics of Space exploration, Cellini mused.
E. Robert Dunn has a new queer sci-fi book out, Echelon’s End book one: Last Generation.
The year is 6752, A.T. and Earth is but a memory to its space faring descendents. The urbane beings of The System embark on a test-colonization mission to a far off solar group called Mira. The AST [Aidennia-System Transport] Saarien’s flight path is ended abruptly and the colonizing supership explodes under a hail from Tauron Starhounds; a century of peace with the Tauron Empire is fractured. Six Aidennian survivors jettison in a terra-forming conestoga Pioneer Pod.
Now, a young male echelon couple and their fellow crewmembers must deal with a reality in which their peaceful existence is shattered by war and prejudice. The only solace appears in the form of an unknown, arid planet in a ternary star group.
Upon the Pioneer Pod Four’s descent into the planet’s atmosphere, a defense planetary shield is activated and causes the Pod 4 to crash land in an ancient, dried-up seabed. This sets the Aidennians on a jarring adventure where survival is a game of chance with the life forces of the Universe.
Warnings: There are adult (sexual) references and interaction in several of the books.
SYSTEM STAR CYCLE: 6752.0719 A.T. PLANETARY DATE: 171/195 LAUNCH TIME: TEE-MINUS 02:32:30
A tranquil sphere hung in Space under a white cloud.
“I don’t know why,” Medical Commander Dara Lidasiress muttered to herself out loud, “but I have a bad feeling about all of this.”
From a vantage point some four hundred kiloretems above, Dara was watching it beyond the thick syntheglass of an observation viewport; the sight was dizzying, fascinating. The cloud‑shrouded planet Aidennia. It seemed to lie almost in the trajectory of the Orbiter 1: Aidennia Station. The light of a strong, middle‑aged sun cataloged as Pintarus 19 fell on the cloud.
“Count now stands at minus zero two nodes and thirty-two, and counting,” the station controller announced over the station PA. “All networks are green and go.”
Dara smiled nervously, distracting herself by the vista beyond and beneath her view. “Calm yourself,” she said aloud. “Feeling anxious is normal and natural. It is part of the system that evolved to keep us safe and well.” She took a deep breath. Being the only one in the observation lounge, she felt somewhat silly being self-conscious about her anxiousness. “Come on. Give it a chance.”
There was still plenty of time before she would be called. Dara shifted her attention and the room seemed to slip away, walls became gossamer and ethereal.
She was suddenly thinking of other times, and other places…
The public address net hummed again, then the controller was back with another update. “Minus zero two nodes and fifteen and counting. Technicians, complete final checkouts.”
Dara’s attention refocused as her peripheral view caught a glimpse of her reflection coming off the window. A tall, powerful slender, fine-boned figure, with high cheekbones and penetrating chocolate eyes that gave a look of great delicacy founded in extraordinary resiliency framed by a neatly cropped mane told that she was no shallow youth, but a fully mature adult.
Saying good‑bye had not been easy, especially to her elder sibling, Aspera. A sadness that had kept a small place in her heart now pulsed as Dara viewed Aidennia below.
“Medical Commander,” an unexpected, disembodied page intoned over the still airwaves.
“Yes?”
“There’s a planet to orbit call coming through for you.”
“Fine. I will take it here.”
The stylized blue-and-white ovals of the Spacecorps logo flashed holographically off a communication set. A dark-haired female holograph, an avatar of the real person making the summons, coalesced into view. The similarities between the two females were undeniable. Broad smiling features caused Dara’s voice to fill with emotion, her features melting into sudden recognition.
“Aspera!” Dara gasped, excitedly.
“I know your life is anything but normal right now, but I just had to say one last farewell.”
Feelings of euphoria swept repeatedly over Dara as she spoke without turning her eyes from the miniaturized figure on the holo-emitter. “I welcome any communication from you.”
“How are you doing?”
“Nervous.”
The female holograph laughed warmly, flashing a set of perfectly formed white teeth. The sound fell on ears that were eager to hear such a resonance.
“You would not be you without being that.” Aspera smiled. “You have much responsibility on your shoulders being peret of the vanguard for generations of clans to come. The first settlers on a new world where unlimited food and water will be the birthright for all…”
“You’re quoting incentive simulations.”
“Well, it is true. Regardless of the stature you have been elevated to by Spacecorps,” her smile broadened more. “You will always be my little sister.”
“A title I will always be proud to have…”
Dara was cut off as another controller announcement echoed throughout the towering launch apparatus.
“This is Spacecorps Launch Control,” he said. “Complete close-out preparations. Check command-apse switch configurations. Complete inertial measurement unit preflight alignments. Transition onboard computers to launch configuration. Start fuel cell thermal conditioning. Close vent valves. Transition backup flight system to launch configuration.’
“Sounds busy up there,” Aspera mused, undeterred.
Dara nodded. “Never-ending.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where are the others?”
“Capel’s attending a mission commanders final briefing. The children are completing their concluding physicals with the other Pod crews, so I am just…”
“Seeking some solace before the launch.”
“You know me too well.”
Aspera hesitated, wanting to be near her sister, to soothe, to remind, to strengthen familial bonds. Another female would, perhaps, have flushed a little, she did not. Her face grew urgent. Meeting her younger sibling’s eyes, she said, steadily, “Then I best let you get to it.” She paused, more from emotion than for dramatic effect; she fought back sudden tears. Finally, she added, “Always know you are loved.”
“Always.”
There was another hesitation. A non-verbal exchange. The secret language between siblings.
“Are you more at peace with your decision?” Aspera asked.
“About the children?”
Aspera simply nodded.
“Capel and I have lived a good part of our lives,” Dara waxed. “The children are just starting out. If someone should be apart of this colonization effort, it should be Capel and me…”
“Do you remember when you were discussing your plans for the space flight? You could not decide whether you had the right to bring Moela, Retho, and Lunon along.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“Do you regret your decision?”
“You want the truth?”
“The truth.”
“Well, not knowing how long we can last out there…” Dara stifled a sob. “They deserve something more than that.”
“Having them with you …Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” Dara regained her composure, adding, “I suppose so.”
“They are degreed and qualified.”
The two siblings gazed at each other. Dara closed her eyes to show how she felt. Their bodies yearned across the void to reach each other, but they remained motionless. Aspera clenched her teeth.
“Until we meet again.”
Dara drew in her breath. Her voice was cracked with emotion as she replied, “Until then.”
Aspera sighed as she and her smile disappeared.
Author Bio
Born in the Midwest, raised in the Northeast, E. Robert Dunn began writing at the age of 14 and continued through his higher education in the Southeast where he currently resides. In addition to penning the science fiction series “Echelon’s End”, E. Robert has also written two off-Broadway plays, “LipSync” and “A Dragged Out Haunting”, and solo-penned the short-play entitled “VOiCES”. Additional works include, “The World We Live In”, The Life Of Another”, and “Are You Happy?”.
Robert was a contributing writer to the online STAR TREK: Odyssey’s Season One Finale webisode [featured in STARLOG Magazine, January 2008, “Beyond Hidden Frontiers”, p.89]. E. Robert has become a regular at SuperCon events on panels and participating in book signings/readings.
Besides being a produced playwright and published author, E. Robert has had articles printed in local newspapers as well as medical newsletters. He has also graced many a stage by his given name: Eston Dunn. He is the founder of the nonprofit organization artsUnited, Inc. A recent project is founding another non-profit online webcasting charity to educate while entertain through programs that unite those that are separated by the walls of stereotyping, prejudice, and bigotry (www.watchoutweb.org).
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A man who fled war-torn Lebanon questions God’s existence and searches for answers from history’s greatest minds after developing a nano hadron collider in authors Dana Dargos & Said Al Bizri’s “Einstein in the Attic”.
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The Synopsis
Set against the backdrop of the war between science and God, reason and faith, Einstein in the Attic is the story of one scientist’s search for truth and meaning when faced with the ultimate question: Is there a God? Fleeing war-torn Lebanon, Adam Reemi’s faith is shaken by the hardships he has endured, but when he and a colleague successfully construct a nano hadron collider, and using sound waves, Adam finds unheard-of power at his fingertips. To help him answer the greatest question mankind has ever posed, he zaps the best philosophical minds of all time–namely Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton, Soren Kierkegaard, and Baruch Spinoza–from the past and into his attic. Not all goes according to plan, however, and Adam finds himself in a race against time to formulate an answer to the question of intelligent design… or risk losing everything.
The Review
This was such a fun and thought-provoking read. The balance the author found with the sci-fi, witty conversational aspects of the narrative with the more grounded, heartbreaking, and thoughtful storytelling of the main character’s arc was amazing to see come to life on the page. The world-building and scientific nature of the narrative was gripping, and powerful imagery felt very cinematic in the writing itself.
The heart of this narrative rested in the character development and the philosophical discussion that happens both in the book and within the reader’s mind as a result. The way the authors take the time to really delve into Adam’s backstory and the childhood experiences that shaped his life was heartfelt and truly emotional, keeping a sense of relatability for the reader as the more sci-fi elements of the story came to life. The attention to detail the science aspect of the narrative brought to life was enlightening and thoughtful, and the impact of these historical figures on Adam’s journey was thrilling to read.
The Verdict
Memorable, engaging, and thought-provoking, authors Dana Dargos and Said Al Bizri’s “Einstein in the Attic” is a must-read sci-fi novel. The adventure and science behind the tech that brings these figures into the modern day and the rich and emotional backstory that shapes Adam’s philosophical and intellectual dilemmas will keep readers glued to the pages of this book as the narrative takes shape. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
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About the Authors
Dana Dargos is an award-winning Lebanese-American writer born and raised in the Bay Area. From the moment she created adventurous, crayon-scribbled tales in kindergarten, she knew writing would forever be a part of her life. She graduated from UC Berkeley with a degree in English Literature. Einstein in the Attic is her debut novel.
Said Al Bizri is an award-winning writer, existentialist thinker, and avid researcher with a BA from the American University of Beirut. He works as a business development director in a number of countries. Together, Said and Dana conducted five years of research to ensure plausible and accurate scientific and historical information. Einstein in the Attic is also his debut novel.
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
Author Gordon C. Chang takes readers on an academic journey to discover the powerful influence ideas and specifically “idea systems” have on people utilizing three powerful historical periods as examples in the book “Revolution and Witchcraft: The Code of Ideology in Unsettled Times”.
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The Synopsis
Ideas influence people. In particular, extremely well-developed sets of ideas shape individuals, groups, and societies in far-reaching ways. This book establishes these “idea systems” as an academic concept. Through three intense episodes of manipulation and mayhem connected to idea systems—Europe’s witch hunts, the Mao Zedong-era “revolutions,” and the early campaign of the U.S. War on Terror—this book charts the cognitive and informational matrices that seize control of people’s mentalities and behaviors across societies. Through these, the author reaches two conclusions. The first, that we are all vulnerable to the dominating influence of our own matrices of ideas and to those woven by others in the social system. The second, that even the most masterful manipulators of idea programs may lose control of the outcomes of programmatic manipulation. Amongst this analysis, sixty-plus central conceptual terminologies are provided for readers to analyze multiform idea systems that exist across space, time, and cultural contexts.
This is an open access book.
The Review
I will be honest with you all and say this was one of the most profound, thought-provoking, and educational reads I’ve had the honor of reading. The author’s brilliance shines through every page, giving readers a glimpse into the scientific and philosophical findings of the author’s research that clearly showcases the various systems at work here in regard to how ideas impact people’s thoughts and viewpoints. While this is definitely a book for those looking to push themselves intellectually and philosophically, the author does a great job of writing in a way that allows all readers to get lost in the narrative the author developed.
For me, it was the balance of historical accuracy and the sheer volume of detail the author provided that made this such a compelling read. The way author was able to showcase both the circumstances that allow these ideas to congregate together and inform how people behave or act and the means by which those who implement these ideas can quickly lose control over a situation. One of the best examples came in the examination of the Salem Witch Trials, which highlighted the combination of religious fervor in small-time settlements with the mistrust and politics that guided those in the town to launch this coordinated attack to get people to believe in the emergence of witches and demonic forces possessing people they all knew. The tragedy of so many people’s lives being lost to this idea system not only showcases the author’s theory and research perfectly but showcases how ideas like that can take a life of their own, spiraling out of control until it reaches a fever pitch.
The Verdict
Enlightening, insightful, and thought-provoking, author Gordon C. Chang’s “Revolution and Witchcraft: The Code of Ideology in Unsettled Times” is a must-read nonfiction and educational book on sociological and psychological impacts of ideas and idea systems. The attention to detail, from graphs and terminology to in-depth discussions of the events that brought these theories to life throughout history, will create compelling education and fascinating conversations that will drive readers to pick up this book over and over again. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
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About the Author
Gordon C. Chang is Associate Professor at the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at Western Illinois University, USA. He has taught political and cultural sociology classes at both Western Illinois University and University of California, Davis. His works in discourse analysis have appeared in Pragmatics, Discourse and Society, and the Journal of Language and Politics.
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
Author Julian Sher shares an intimate look into the good and bad impact Canada had on the American Civil War in the book “The North Star: Canada and The Civil War Plots Against Lincoln”.
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The Synopsis
A riveting account of the years, months and days leading up to the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln, and the unexpected ways Canadians were deeply involved in every aspect of the American Civil War.
Canadians take pride in being on the “good side” of the American Civil War, serving as a haven for 30,000 escaped slaves on the Underground Railroad. But dwelling in history’s shadow is the much darker role Canada played in supporting the slave South and in fomenting the many plots against Lincoln.
The North Star weaves together the different strands of several Canadians and a handful of Confederate agents in Canada as they all made their separate, fateful journeys into history.
The book shines a spotlight on the stories of such intrepid figures as Anderson Abbott, Canada’s first Black doctor, who joined the Union Army; Emma Edmonds, the New Brunswick woman who disguised herself as a man to enlist as a Union nurse; and Edward P. Doherty, the Quebec man who led the hunt to track down Lincoln’s assassin, John Wilkes Booth.
At the same time, the Canadian political and business elite were aiding the slave states. Toronto aristocrat George Taylor Denison III bankrolled Confederate operations and opened his mansion to their agents. The Catholic Church helped one of Booth’s accused accomplices hide out for months in the Quebec countryside. A leading financier in Montreal let Confederates launder money through his bank.
Sher creates vivid portraits of places we thought we knew. Montreal was a sort of 19th-century Casablanca of the North: a hub for assassins, money-men, mercenaries and soldiers on the run. Toronto was a headquarters for Confederate plotters and gun-runners. The two largest hotels in the country became nests of Confederate spies.
Meticulously researched and richly illustrated, The North Star is a sweeping tale that makes long-ago events leap off the page with a relevance to the present day.
The Review
This was such an insightful and fascinating read. As a history buff, it was so interesting to get a look into how Canada played a role in the events of the American Civil War. The way the author balanced out the heroic actions of those who helped the Union with the shocking revelations of those who worked for or supported the Confederacy was so well done and helped highlight the complex nature of Canadian influence on the war. The biggest thing I always know about was Canada was a safe haven for runaway slaves. Learning of the agents that lived in and worked in Canadian terrorizes added a level of knowledge and shock that I never knew existed before.
The author’s writing style and unique tone really did an excellent job of painting an image of the events of the stories found within this book. The book does a wonderful job of delivering the history of this book’s subject matter, and yet also adds a personal touch to the writing, giving readers a feeling of honesty mixed with powerful imagery to deliver an almost cinematic, documentary-style narrative that highlights the information in a fresh and exciting way.
The Verdict
Memorable, engaging, and thought-provoking, author Julian Sher’s “The North Star: Canada and The Civil War Plots Against Lincoln” is a must-read nonfiction history book and one of our most anticipated nonfiction reads of Spring 2023. The thoughtful approach to the subject matter and the rich amount of insight that the author’s work brings to this era of history will keep readers picking up this book over and over again as people’s perceptions of the impact our neighbors to the North had on the direction that bloody war took drastically change forever. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
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About the Author
MONTREAL, QUE.: November 2, 2022 — Julian Sher, the director a new documentary Kings of Coke about the Irish Mafia in Montreal, in Montreal’s Point St-Charles neighbourhood Wednesday November 2, 2022. (John Mahoney / MONTREAL GAZETTE)
JULIAN SHER is an award-winning journalist and the author of six widely-acclaimed books, including White Hoods: Canada’s Ku Klux Klan and “Until You Are Dead”: Steven Truscott’s Long Ride Into History. As an investigative reporter, he worked for the Toronto Star and the Globe and Mail. He was the Senior Producer of CBC’s the fifth estate, Canada’s premier investigative TV program, for five years. He has directed and written major documentaries, covering wars and intrigue across the globe. His documentary Nuclear Jihad, produced for the New York Times and CBC, won the broadcast equivalent of the Pulitzer Prize. His latest film, Ghosts of Afghanistan, won three top Canadian Screen Awards, including Best Documentary. He is also active in protecting media freedoms, as a Senior Fellow at Toronto Metropolitan University’s Centre for Free Expression and working with Journalists for Human Rights. More information at www.juliansher.com
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
A former US Army combat veteran takes on the injustices of his own hometown after witnessing too much injustice in the world in author Bob Brill’s “The Tattoo Murder”.
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The Synopsis
“The Tattoo Murder” is the story of a U-S Army combat veteran who became a police officer back in his home town after he’d seen enough injustice in the world.
A different kind of cop, Det. John Potenza travels to the tune of his own drum, the waves which he loves to surf, the women who occupy his life and the music which drives him. All this is secondary to getting it right when it comes to justice. An Italian-American who knows his way around the kitchen, the fit and trim with comic book hero good looks catches the eye of almost every woman he meets. If he were British he’d probably be in “her Majesty’s Secret Service” with a Double-O in his name.
Many of the characters in the book are derived from Bob Brill’s own past and acquaintances and friends and while the book is a work of fiction, the people are real – well sort of.
The Review
This was a very cinematic, captivating crime thriller. The author does a great job of finding that perfect balance in character development with the buildup of the narrative overall. The gritty nature of the criminal underworld serves as a perfect juxtaposition to the almost dreamy vibes of the setting, and the tension that builds as the investigation goes deeper and deeper into elements of corruption and brutality will keep the adrenaline pumping as the narrative takes off.
The core of this narrative has to be in the dynamic character growth in the story, especially with the protagonist. In many ways, John hits like a classic police procedural hero, in the same vein as characters from Lethal Weapon or Dragnet, with his proclivity for being a lady’s man and being much like a rock star on the force. Yet his dedication to the truth and fighting for justice speaks to his moral code and gives readers a new literary crime hero to root for in his quest to bring light into the shadows that criminals create for themselves.
The Verdict
Memorable, action-packed, and entertaining, author Bob Brill’s “The Tattoo Murder” is a must-read crime thriller. The nuanced way the author highlights the character’s journey and the almost noir elements of the narrative helped add depth to the twists and turns that will have readers eager for more of this modern-day gumshoe. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
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About the Author
A native of Pittsburgh, PA and a hardcore Pirates and Steelers fan, Bob began in radio career in 1972 and worked all over the western US, several times in the L-A market. He’s currently a news anchor at CBS Radio LA; KNX 1070 News Radio.
Bob has won multiple broadcast awards including an Edward R. Murrow Award (among others) for anchoring KNX’s storm coverage in 2011.
A baseball historian, Bob writes the very popular weekly column found at http://www.baseballinthe1960s.com. He also is a podcaster who has teamed with former NFL Quarterback Erik Kramer for a weekly Fantasy Football Podcast called Kramer and Brill, which can be found where ever you get your podcasts or at their website http://www.kramerandbrill.com. Both are always posted on Facebook as well as Twitter.
Bob made his mark with the UPI Radio Network when a gunman went crazy in a San Diego fast food restaurant and Bob covered the story. It was his first big break. He later became a UPI National Correspondent and Bureau Chief. He has interviewed presidents, covered Super Bowl games and Hollywood as well as major news stories.
He lives in L-A. He has survived earthquakes and a beating during the 1992 L-A riots while covering the story, which was recorded on audio tape.
Bob is considered to have an excellent voice and has not only done many voice overs and radio spots, he’s starred in television commercials. Bob authored “Fan Letters to a Stripper: A Patti Waggin Tale” from Schiffer Publishing and “NO BARRIER: How the Internet Destroyed the World Economy.” His third book “Al Kabul; Home Grown Terrorist” is sure to be a controversial novel as well as a great read. “Lancer; Hero of the West – The Prescott Affair” is the first in a series of western novels set in the 1880’s, centering on the central figure; Lancer. Lancer is a gun for hire, good guy, who works the West out of Tombstone.
