Editorial Reviews for Nominees
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 Score: 90+/100 (9.0+ out of 10)
Mysteries At School is a cozy, mellow YA fiction novel by Robert Gilbert. It is the second book in The Ryan Griffith Adventures series, following the prequel titled Forgotten Summer. The story is set in the academic year 1966-1967 at a fictional school named The Village School (VS) located in Greenwich Village, New York City. It chronicles the life of a teenage protagonist, Ryan Griffith, who experiences mystery, interpersonal dynamics, and the transitional anxieties of moving toward high school. Ryan, seemingly convinced by his father, has his mind set on getting accepted to a top-end high school, specifically McBurney School, a prestigious and academically rigorous prep school. We also get the tidbit that Ryan's older brother also attends McBurney, giving him some added motivation. However, along the way, he becomes entangled in a series of private investigations. One of them involves him trying to get to the bottom of the money that has gone missing from the school's coffers. This eventually leads him on the heels of Frank, the school’s shop teacher, whose suspicious behavior and secretive financial dealings raise red flags. As Ryan pieces together clues—from overheard arguments to clandestine observations at a neighborhood store—he uncovers a troubling web of gambling debts, hidden past crimes, and potential motives. His sleuthing not only deepens the mystery but also forces him to confront the moral weight of accusation, trust, and the responsibility that comes with knowing more than he’s supposed to. He also attempts to get to the bottom of Helen's illness and the prospect of potential poisoning. This prompts him to confront the possibility that his favorite teacher, Carl, may be implicated as Carl is the only one with access to the chemical(s) in question. Also, along the way, he develops a huge crush on a girl named Rachel, a smart and kind classmate who’s always shown a special interest in him. As they spend more time together—working on class projects, sharing quiet moments during after-school activities, and dancing at a Halloween party—Ryan begins to see her in a new light. Their connection grows subtly but meaningfully, adding a layer of emotional complexity to his already eventful final year at The Village School. We're torn about how to feel about this book. On one hand, it's very calm, cozy, and mellow. Ryan's budding relationship with Rachel is particularly cute and charming as the two get to know each other's likes and dislikes with a sensitivity that only comes from really caring about another person. One of our favorite moments was when Ryan realized that Rachel loved ballet and sought out to buy some $10 ballet tickets to a performance across town. Everyone remembers their first big crush, and that whole dynamic resonated with us. The problem we have with this book is that the rest of it didn't resonate with us very much. A lot of this book seemed flat and uneventful—too calm, too cozy, too clean. Ryan's problems just don't seem like problems. At most, they're first-world problems. Gosh, I'm graduating from middle school and want to get into the best high school. Do 13 to 14-year-olds actually worry about that stuff? What private high school they're getting into? This whole plotline falls flat in our opinion because it's so unrelatable to the grand majority of people. If his concern were about which college or university he was getting into, then we might be able to relate. But this really made us think of an old story we read about two parents arguing about which top-tier daycare to put their infant in, stressing about them growing up developmentally delayed or behind everyone else. Now, we get it... Ryan isn't just some typical kid. Ryan is a bit of a savant. He's extra-intelligent (probably a genius) and curious. He's fixated on/preoccupied with things like how a switchboard works throughout the book. But that's also another example of how Ryan and this plot come across as hard-to-relate-to. How many people do you personally know who are obsessed with learning how switchboards work? The grand majority of people just take them for granted or treat them like artifacts. Maybe Ryan is on the spectrum (in fact, he likely is). His behavior and demeanor comes across as strange and almost mechanical for much of this book. And many of the things he wants and needs just don't seem consequential or important to the grand majority of people. It always seems like this book is... missing something. Call it what you want: Weight. Consequences. Stakes. Oomph. It often just seems like it's coasting. Even in The Noble Adventures of Beryl & Carol by Jeremy Sherr, which also followed young people who were a bit naive, there seemed to be actually stakes. Beryl & Carol stood to lose their homes. One of them might have to live next to the bullies who made her life a living hell. Oh, and there were also some really nasty people who were out to steal the town's legendary hidden treasure. At no point in Mysteries At School did we say to ourselves, "Gosh, Frank (and/or Carl) is a terrible, bad, evil dude who needs to be stopped at all cost" or "Gosh, if Frank (and/or Carl) isn't stopped, there's going to be an inordinate amount of pain and suffering of characters we know, love and care about." No, we were half convinced that Frank (and/or Carl) was going to show up at the end of the book with Ryan's next birthday present that he's been saving up for. That's how little emotional investment we had in Frank (or Carl's) potential antagonism. And that's another thing about this book that didn't hit with us. Yes, there are suspects and potential villains, but there doesn't seem to be a clear-cut villain or even a problem that's actually a problem. A lot of the time, it's just Ryan jumping to conclusions or blowing things out of proportions. Granted, kids do that. One of us thought that our teacher had a bomb in the classroom because there was a black box (which turned out to be a recorder) in the reading area. So, that's somewhat understandable and relatable. With all that said, this book does have some redeeming qualities. First and foremost, it has some of that childlike wonder, naivety, and innocence that we saw in The Noble Adventures of Beryl & Carol, one of our favorite books to ever come through our contests. Ryan is clearly a curious and caring person. He's so curious that everyone's problems become his problems since he always wants to figure things out and fix everything. And Ryan is a good person with a sense of honor. How do we know this? Well, because the book tells us: "I couldn’t ignore what I took as a threat. Was Frank going to harm the school, or someone at the school? He seemed to be mad at everyone." In other words, his moral compass tells him that he needs to find and stop the culprit not for his own personal gain but because he perceives that person as a threat to the school, classmates, faculty, and staff he loves. That's admirable and noble. Another good thing about this book (that you could argue in its favor) is that it's a respectful portrayal of someone on the autism spectrum. Ryan demonstrates a lot of the signs: hyperfocus, flat speech, intense interests, fixations, etc. So, a lot of the things that seem foreign, alien, weird, or strange to the average person are special and important to Ryan—things like his school's finances, getting into his preferred high school, and how switchboards work, for example. If you want to join a noble teenager on his quest to uncover his school's mysteries... Check it out on Amazon!
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 Score: 94+/100 (9.4+ out of 10)
Not Everyone Walks the Stage is an ambitious, fun, educational, and—at times—humorous children's book by Sierra Andrews & Nicholas Seidler! It is colorfully illustrated by Alisa Tverdokhleb, who truly does an exceptional job (as we'll get to later). This book provides much-needed representation for disabled and wheelchair-bound individuals, specifically children. This book is actually broken into two halves: the story-half and the educational-half. Both have something unique and interesting to offer. The first half follows a character named Sophia who is anxious about her first day of kindergarten. Sophia gradually learns that kindergarten is like a lot of things in life—there are ups and downs, good days and bad days (and days in between), mean people and supportive people, and lots to see, learn, and experience! It is eventually revealed that Sophia is disabled (wheelchair bound) and has been experiencing everything that the other students are experiencing despite this. The one thing she doesn't experience—as the title alludes to—is literally, physically walking the stage for her kindergarten graduation. However, this doesn't take the importance, significance, and meaning of this moment from Sophia. If anything, it adds to it. She may not be able to physically walk the stage, but she can still live, achieve, and experience the moment—to know that she accomplished and completed something just like the other kids. The story portion of the book is great in concept. It is elevated by colorful and eye-catching illustrations by Tverdokhleb. The framing and presentation of the story itself is a bit odd and clunky. First and foremost, who takes kindergarten graduation seriously? Sure, the kids might learn a song or a little interpretive dance to perform for their parents, but graduating from kindergarten is really not that big of a deal. It's not like graduating from high school, college, or even from middle school—it's literally just completing a year of school. So, there's an issue with stakes. This issue is exacerbated by the very strange plot-point that not everyone graduates from kindergarten—something that's repeated and reiterated throughout the book. Wait a minute, do kids really fail kindergarten?! Like, really?! Kindergarten!? Based on what? Not being able to say their ABCs, count to 10, and color inside the page? What, did No Child Left Behind make the standards for passing kindergarten that unobtainable? Even the prospect of not letting little kids participate in the graduation ceremony seems silly, absurd, and ridiculous. So, that's when we considered that this whole plot point might actually be humorous and comedic. Like, maybe it's supposed to lighten the mood and to have readers view this story as more of entertainment than something to take overly seriously. Maybe it's supposed to be silly, like when Ella from Why? (by Elena Kayne) thinks that her grandma is wrinkled because she spend too much time in the water. Now, that's cute, funny, and relatable. But keep in mind: it's the adult teacher, Ms. Brown, who keeps telling the students that not everyone will get to walk the stage for kindergarten graduation. Emphasis: the adult teacher is telling little kids they can fail kindergarten or not get to take part in the ceremony. On one hand, maybe she's lighting a fire under them to get them to perform better in school and pay attention more in class? We get it. But... that's also quite mean. Heck, it's not just mean, it's inappropriate for that age group. It would've made so much more sense if Sophia were a 6th grader in her final year of elementary school or an 8th grader in her final year of middle school. It would have made a TON MORE sense if she were a senior in high school. As it's presented here, it just doesn't seem realistic or plausible. If Ms. Brown actually decided to keep Sophia and other students from walking in their kindergarten graduation, she would be inundated with parent complaints and investigated by the administration and possibly the school district. Sophia and the other students might not know that, but they have rights, and one of those rights is the right to age-appropriate education and expectations. The other issue we had is how scattered, fragmented, disjointed, and out of focus much of the story seems. It goes from talking about how Sophia is better at some subjects than others, then starts talking about how another student named David is mean, then starts talking about how Sophia studies different subjects at home during the holidays, then starts talking about how Sophia shares her studies with her grandpa and learns geography from him, then starts talking about how Sophia helps David with his schoolwork, then starts talking about her friends at the school talent show, then starts talking about the school science fair and Sophia performing well in it, etc. It just keeps shifting focus. It doesn't seem smooth or like it flows naturally at all. Oh, and by the way... Is this book saying that there are kindergarteners competing in and winning science fairs with projects about subjects like cartography? That sounds more like something a 6th or 7th grader would experience. Well, anyway, that's how we felt about the story segment. As revealed in the educational second-half of the book, the story is partially based on co-author Sierra Andrews's life and experiences living with a disability. She is actually paralyzed from the waist-down due to a car accident when she was 18-years-old. Her story is remarkable and inspiring! This second-half of the book really won us back. It serves sort of like an interview about Sierra—her experience with mobility impairment, her insights about life in a wheelchair, and the realities of accessibility and representation. It's honest, candid, and educational without being preachy. What really stands out is how Sierra emphasizes the importance of autonomy and consent, especially when it comes to how others treat disabled individuals. One of the most impactful anecdotes is when a man insists on pushing her up a hill despite her repeated “no’s”—a situation that made her feel dehumanized. These moments ground the book in real-world truth and foster empathy in ways that fiction sometimes struggles to do. There’s also a practical, how-things-work section about wheelchairs—from their maintenance and mobility to customization and decoration. This is exactly the kind of everyday knowledge that’s often left out of children's literature and even many adult conversations. And it’s delivered in such a way that kids and adults alike can understand and appreciate it. The book doesn’t stop there—it continues with an engaging Q&A with the illustrator, Alisa Tverdokhleb. Her insight into the visual storytelling process—from digital sketching to color palette choices—makes this a great read for aspiring artists or those curious about picture book creation. We're not sure what that has to do about the themes of the book, but it's interesting and reveals some insider information on creating art like Alisa does. Finally, the book closes with educational tidbits and fun facts about graduation traditions, and a playful scavenger hunt inviting readers to go back and look for hidden objects in the illustrations. It encourages rereading and deeper engagement with the material. Speaking of educational tidbits, there are also recommendation about how to treat and accomodate people who have disabilities, which is nice. This is one of those books that has a lot going for it—a great premise, nice illustrations, and a lot of heart and soul—but it could have used more refinement in terms of how its story was presented. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 90/100 (9.0 out of 10)
What if the Phantom of the Opera didn't die under the Paris Opera House as popularly believed? What if his legacy lived on, creating problems for those who knew of the secret genealogy of his bloodline—a lineage interwoven with supernatural abilities, empathic gifts, and a voice that could stir the soul or shatter stone? What if, buried beneath centuries of myth and manipulation, the truth about Erik’s descendants threatened to unravel the careful lies of a powerful council determined to keep history silent? And what if that truth—resonating through music, memory, and magic—finally found its voice in the unlikeliest of people? If you are a fan of urban fantasies, Gothic fiction, unique magic systems, unorthodox detective mysteries, and The Phantom of the Opera, you may find something to enjoy about this book. You might enjoy this book more than we did. This book is truly a mixed bag! On one hand, we really love The Phantom of the Opera--the titular character (for all his faults and misdeeds) and the play itself. We love the idea of expanding on the character's back story and on his life after Christine Daae, Raoul, and being left in the catacombs of the Paris Opera House, presumably to die alone. On the other hand, this book seems to lack... something. It's hard to put a finger on it, but we think it has something to do with the writing and the pacing of this book. It's missing a certain... oomph. We wouldn't exactly say it's boring, but it came across as flat and drawn out to us. This plot just doesn't warrant filling 500+ pages of content. Yes, we know they're small pages, but this book really feels like 500+ pages because it meanders and spins its wheels so much. There are so many descriptions of mundane things like the complex magic system and genealogy. Is it supposed to be an epic? Because we didn't perceive it that way. If you are coming into this book expecting fantastical, epic action and adventure with witches, warlocks, and wizards throwing hands, you might find yourself underwhelmed. Yes, there's adventure, but it's mostly contained to Paris, France and Pyreshore, New Hamshire. Yes, there are scenes in here in which characters use their unique supernatural/superhuman abilities/powers, but they're far and in between. Most of this book reads like a cozy detective mystery. You need to brace and prepare yourself for that. Yes, this is a book about a banshee, a witch, and some folks born with special abilities, but it's also a book about a geneticist. You're basically on board for an investigative research project. You're either going to jive with that or you're not. That's either going to excite you or it's not. Essentially, this book follows Deirdre Gale, a banshee with empathetic abilities and a geneticist invited to contribute to supernatural research on behalf of the Division of Sciences (DoS). DoS operates under the governance of the Keepers of Knowledge, a powerful supernatural organization that oversees magical affairs and knowledge preservation. It pretty much operates like the Bureau in The Alpha's Hunter by Lily Redd. The Keepers of Knowledge are headquartered in the supernatural community of Pyreshore, a secret, warded coastal town in New Hampshire. This hidden settlement serves as the central location for the organization’s governance, research, and archival operations, including (as mentioned) the Division of Sciences (DoS). Deirdre is joined by her husband, Sean—a witch with an affinity for air magic—and their two children, Finnegan ("Finn") and Orla. Orla's empathic magical abilities emerge from time to time as she exhibits empathic sensitivity (particularly to music), emotional broadcasting, and spontaneous magical resonance. Finn, on the other hands, shows himself to be the more grounded of the siblings, demonstrating more of a logical, intellectual leaning. In a lot of ways, the two siblings seem to represent the two halves of the human brain. Fiona is here and cool sometimes. Sean is here existing and being Sean. You know, honestly, a lot of these characters just seem to be here and get mixed up and lost in the shuffle. Maybe it's because we couldn't read the previous books in the series? Maybe these characters do more and stand out more in the other books? Deidre's banshee powers are sporadically cool. They reminded us of what Sindel does in Mortal Kombat. Deidre's powers include things like banshee screams, sonic manipulation, and what becomes known as "warding." Warding is the creation of invisible barriers or enchantments that shield people, places, or objects from danger, surveillance, or magical intrusion. Later on we get to learn about "empathic tuning" and about how to make a spell with chicken soup. You know, maybe that's it... Maybe that exemplifies how tacked on, fluffed up, and mundane a lot of the things seem in this book. There are so many scenes in which the characters are standing or sitting around, deliberating and explaining things. We get moments like the aforementioned chicken soup scene. We also get lines like: “I’m sorry if I hurt you little baby plant. You’re a nice plant. I hope you and your mommy find a good home." Yes, we know it's supposed to make Orla seem childish and cute, but it also killed any sense of tension. People who are in serious, life-or-death situations with real stakes don't talk like that. She should be like: "Mommy, we need to hurry up and solve this mystery about Erik before we end up like the flat squirrels and deer on the road!" Now, that's some tension. Those are some stakes. Much of the book revolves around Deirdre’s slow-burn investigation into supernatural genetics, particularly the legacy of Erik—the Phantom of the Opera—whose supposed death beneath the Paris Opera House may have been a lie concealed by one or more members of the council. What begins as a research assignment turns into a full-blown genealogical mystery that spans generations, leading Deirdre and her sister-in-law Fiona to uncover a long-suppressed bloodline intertwined with empathic magic, trauma, and the corruption of those who govern supernatural knowledge. Taking special interest in this investigation is Vic, who may or may not have motivations of his own. So, yes, it’s a book about supernatural and magical elements—but it’s also a book about data, bloodlines, encoded music, and political cover-ups. If you love methodical world-building, magical bureaucracy, and emotional mysteries wrapped in Gothic aesthetics, you might feel right at home. If you're looking for fast-paced action or high fantasy spectacle, this may feel more like poring over case files than racing through spell duels. There are a few memorable lines like: "Time is an illusion, and death is a doorway." There's also a twist on the classic "butterfly dream" story in which the butterfly is replaced by a fish metaphor: “I felt like a fish that worried so much about the shadow of a cloud being a bird that it missed the silhouette of a fish coming up to eat it from below." But a lot of the things we loved about this book aren't so much the original story, original characters, original world-building, or original magic system, it's really just the time-tested story of the Phantom of the Opera, Erik. Yes, we learn a little bit more about Erik, Christine, and Raoul and a secret character (we won't spoil) after the play. However, Erik's whole back story with the circus and Madame Giry is basically the same back story as the play just with a magical/supernatural twist added. That's cool and all, but as a standalone, original story with standalone, original characters, we felt this left a lot to be desired. Raise the energy level, improve the pacing, and don't get so caught up in the weeds of having to explain everything. Check it out on Amazon!  Audiobook Score: 96/100 (9.6 out of 10)
Paperback Score: 95+/100 (9.5+ out of 10) Worldwide Crush by Kristin Nilsen is one of the most charming, relatable, and fun novels and audiobooks we've had the pleasure of experiencing this year! Do you remember your first celebrity crush? Do you remember the euphoria, enchantment, and hysteria surrounding them? What about the powerful, mysterious, unexplainable feelings you felt for them? How did it impact your home, school, and social life? This book follows a middle-schooler named Millicent Jackson (commonly just called "Millie") as she wrestles with her obsession over a pop star named Rory Calhoun, the performer of a chart-topping song called "Worldwide Crush"--thus giving the book its name. With a sharp wit and a heart full of daydreams, Millie navigates the rollercoaster of seventh grade—complete with awkward lunchroom moments, quirky family dynamics, and the thrill of chasing her idol. Nilsen masterfully captures the intensity of a tween’s celebrity obsession, blending humor, nostalgia, and the poignant journey of self-discovery. Millie’s story is a love letter to every kid who’s ever plastered their walls with posters or scribbled a star’s name in a notebook, making Worldwide Crush a must-read for anyone who’s felt the magic of a first crush. There are so many things about this book that resonated with us. No, it's not just the whole celebrity crush thing, which is a compelling enough premise in and of itself. This is a book about so much more than that. It's a book about coming of age. It's a book about finding reasons to wake up every morning. And, perhaps most importantly, it's a book about FAMILY. Millie's family is perhaps the most entertaining and charming group of people we've read about in a book in a very long time! Like, they're up there with the likes of the farm animals from The Great Animal Escape by Linda Harkey. They're so cute, funny, and charismatic. Each of them has a degree of depth and relatability, which is also a plus. So, where do we even begin? Well, the character who really made us laugh a lot was Cheryl, Millie's grandma who refuses to be called "Grandma" or "Grandmother" in some misguided, superstitious belief that it will age her (particularly her cherished hair/perms). Speaking of her cherished hair, Cheryl’s quirky habit of wearing a Target bag as a “turban” to prevent frizz had us in stitches. There's one particular scene involving Cheryl, still wearing the Target bag turban on her head, waving to Millie while she's leaving on the school bus. So much for Millie keeping up appearances for the early days of school! And, yes, this grandma loves her Mountain Dew! Oh, yeah, she also calls Google "the Google" (saying things like "ask the Google"), Facebook "the Facebook," and Flutter "the Flooter." Gosh, she's so funny. She's like Betty White mixed with Cloris Leachman—just an epically comedic grandmother figure who does and says things grandmas aren't supposed to. Speaking of saying stuff grandmas aren't supposed to... it's strongly implied that Cheryl is responsible for all the foul language that Billy is learning and that it's not, in fact, coming from school or TV. On that note, Millie also has a super cute and endearing little brother named Billy, who immediately stole our hearts when we first heard him in the audiobook (portrayed by the author), calling pitifully and shyly to Millie for attention. Despite seeming small and timid, Billy is actually trying to be a hockey player. Billy’s wide-eyed innocence and sad baby deer expressions when he’s upset add a layer of charm that balances Millie’s tween angst, making their sibling moments some of the book’s sweetest. His kindergarten journey, complete with a giant backpack and a Darth Vader mask he almost wears to school. In a lot of ways, Billy is growing too, and his character mirrors Millie’s own navigation of seventh grade, tying their stories together in a heartwarming way. Something we noticed about their relationship is how Billy will often call to and snap Millie out of her being distracted by thoughts of Rory Calhoun, reminding her that there's someone who thinks the world of her and looks up to her, all while she's idealizing and looking up to Rory. Next, there’s Pringles, the family’s overweight bulldog, who adds another layer of charm to this already vibrant household. Pringles’ heft makes her a comedic challenge to walk, especially when Cheryl’s dragging her along in that iconic Target bag turban scene. Pringles isn’t just a pet; she’s a symbol of the family’s endearing chaos, waddling through their lives as Millie navigates her Rory Calhoun obsession. Oh, and she also gives Millie another thing to bond with Rory over since Rory also owns a bulldog. Pringles also helps give us one of the funniest and most endearing asides in the audiobook when Millie just nonchalantly mentions: "I tiptoe back into my room and climb into bed with my clothes on. Then I get up again and scoop Pringles up off my rug, which is not easy because she is so fat..." The comedic timing and subdued way in which this line is performed in the audiobook is perfect. You can practically feel the character rolling her eyes and going out of her way to tend to her overweight pup. You'll really need to listen to the audiobook to hear what we mean. It's funny how we don't have as much to say about Millie's dad, who is probably the most normal person in the family. With that said, he does love AC/DC and apparently makes a habit of blasting it. The way that Millie describes it is hilarious: "that band from the eighties that is beloved by middle-aged white guys everywhere, including my dad." With all that said, the relationship that really forms the heart and soul of this book actually involves Millie and her mom. We could argue that it's even more important than Millie's relationship with Rory (the celebrity). Millie's mom really is the perfect mom. She's loving, supportive, encouraging, sensitive, and incredibly funny (ok, maybe not as funny as the grandma, but still funny). Similar to Millie's relationship with her little brother, Billy, Millie's relationship with her mom seems to exemplify one of the book's core messages: look at all the love that's right in front of you. Very often throughout the book, Millie will often say or think that Rory is "the only person I ever truly loved." However, it quickly becomes clear to the reader that this isn't entirely accurate. Rory isn't the only person she's ever truly loved. Far from it. She clearly loves her little brother, Cheryl (grandma), dad, and mom. Let's go back to talking about Millie's mom for a bit... There are a few scenes with her that really stood out to us. Perhaps the one that stood out to us the most is when Millie's mom goes with her to some sort of church retreat/interventionist program and Millie's mom actually helps her to skip the dodgeball activity, knowing that it's not something either of them are interested in. Millie's mom acts like a kid sometimes (very relatable from Millie's perspective), and this scene exemplifies that. Another scene that stood out to us is when Millie is trying to get her mom not to smother her so much with love and attention, especially in public. This is something that kids commonly go through as they mature and grow up—the desire to, well... be seen as mature and grown up. Ultimately, they want to be seen as independent from their parents. Millie's mom is sensitive and understanding enough to know this, so she tries to comply in the most endearing and humorous way, saying, "Well . . . then . . . Godspeed, girl. Be on your way-- independently. Have a very plain day. I have neutral feelings for you." How sweet and funny is that? Similarly, when Millie expresses not wanting to be smothered with affection in front of people (back at the retreat), Millie's mom sweetly says, "Don't worry... I won’t hug you in front of all these people. But I want to!" There are several other noteworthy characters in this book including Shauna, Millie's best friend, who gets introduced to the reader in the most humorous way. People are constantly mistaking her as Chinese despite her being Filipino. Millie then goes on one of her many stream-of-conscience tangents saying: "She’s the only Filipino kid in our school, and she always gets lumped together with the Korean kids and the Vietnamese kids and that one Chinese kid. And apparently Japanese kids too, even though we don’t have any." This isn't racist at all, it's just Millie being a young person who hasn't quite developed a more tactful way of grouping people together in her mind. She's still innocent and naive, which is one of the most charming aspects of her character and this book. Shauna also proves to be a fantastic friend, constantly supporting Millie and serving as a voice of reason a lot of the time. And, lastly, there's the celebrity in the book: Rory Calhoun. This book truly accomplishes something with Rory that we appreciated—making him seem so distant yet so close and relatable all at once. To Millie, Rory is the perfect boyfriend and future husband, because... of course he is. She falls in love with him from a distance and pretty much stalks his accounts online to learn more about him and keep up with what he's doing. She often justifies this by thinking things like, "I just want to love him" and that her attention to him is a form of love. While this might seem creepy to some, don't be too quick to judge her. Don't you look up actors and actresses on IMDB or Wikipedia after they catch your attention in a movie or TV show? Don't you want to know who they are, who they're dating/married to, and/or what other movies or TV shows they're in? It's really not that foreign or alien. That's not to say you should stalk people and become obsessed with them. In fact, one of the key messages of this book is how fandom can blind us to the flaws of the celebrities we idolize and idealize. The fact of the matter is that they're still human. They have flaws. They have weaknesses. And, yes, some of them smell and have acme like the rest of us humans do. You know what they say: never meet you heroes. Well, one thing we really loved and appreciated is how this book didn't try to villainize Rory and try to make him seem terrible or reprehensible. Rory is, in fact, portrayed as a good, relatively-normal, and caring person. He loves him mom and his dog just like Millie does. Those are actually some of the things they have in common. He also has little character perks that make him stand out like his love for aquamarine despite it not being the gemstone of his birth month. He has an explanation for why that is very touching and understandable. We're so glad that Rory didn't undergo a character assassination in this book since we were really expecting it. Lastly, the best thing about the book is the writing and how it really captures that teenage curiosity, naivete, and innocence/ignorance. It's a really unique voice, and one that's perfectly portrayed and performed by the author in the audiobook. Gosh, we fell in love with the coyness and cheekiness of the writing in this book and how it's read in the audiobook. Bravo to the author/narrator. Seriously! Good job! The asides and side-tangents are especially funny. We already mentioned how funny it was to read Millie bring up how fat Pringles is or how Shauna's race keeps getting mistaken. It's so entertaining to read Millie's thoughts and thought-process. For example: "The first time I saw him was a concert in Paris. Or maybe it was Venice? Or Rome or something? Whatever, I’m not sure... Oh yeah, ti amo is Italian for 'I love you,' so it must have been Venice. Or Rome. Anyway . . . " The book also does a good job at helping both Millie and the reader to understand the exciting and—at times—troubling experience of fandom. We're all fans of something or someone. The key is to not have it negatively derail or distract. Believe it or not, there are positive things about being a fan. We can be inspired, encouraged, or even distracted from the darker/difficult things in our lives. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 95+/100 (9.5+ out of 10)
We were pleasantly surprised by The Blessing Book by Francis Shaw! It's eloquent, impactful, inspiring, and deeply comforting—offering thoughtful reflections that gently encourage readers toward greater self-awareness, gratitude, and emotional healing. This is so much more than the paint-by-numbers, formulaic Christian non-fiction book we were expecting. This is a phenomenal self-help book that emphasizes healing, authenticity, and self-compassion, inviting readers of all backgrounds to confront their inner struggles, celebrate their journeys, and discover transformative meaning in everyday experiences. Oh, yeah, and it has a lot of unique and interesting things to say! For example, the author highlights a fascinating observation about birds not bumping into each other even after 100 or more flights, drawing from research conducted by Queensland University in Australia. Birds naturally follow two key guidelines to avoid collisions: they fly at different heights, instinctively adjusting their altitude to pass safely above or below each other, and they consistently veer to the right approximately 84% of the time, creating predictable movement patterns. Shaw metaphorically applies these insights to human interactions and internal struggles, suggesting that people could similarly avoid conflicts by consciously adjusting their emotional "altitude" to rise above disagreements or negativity. Additionally, when dealing with inner conflicts, consistently making positive and predictable choices—like metaphorically turning to the right—helps individuals steer clear of destructive emotional collisions. In essence, Shaw advocates for emotional mindfulness and intentional decision-making, emphasizing that harmony, both within oneself and with others, comes from thoughtful adjustments and cooperative behavior. Shaw also expertly and eloquently confronts how we view and approach challenges and problems. Shaw says: "How we interpret is powerful. If we see life as a maze, we believe everything the maze contains. We make choices, have experiences, and accept much we find unsupportive, because the message of the maze is always that we must get lost and we believe it’s part of why we are here. If we see life as a labyrinth, we believe everything the labyrinth contains." This says a lot about the importance of framing our challenges and problems in a productive (rather than destructive or inhibiting) way. Speaking of framing, this book also tells us something along the lines of: “When you change the questions you ask, you change the answers you get.” In other words, you can get better, more fulfilling results by pursuing a better, more fulfilling state of mind. This is important because so much of this book is about solving problems and overcoming challenges/obstacles. One of our other favorite quotes in this regard is: "...avoidance hadn’t proved to be a beneficial tactic and I needed to change resistance into existence; one, not just of being and accepting, but growing and embracing my lessons like a long-lost friend." This is a beautiful simile. The analogy of the "long-lost friend" is a recurring metaphor Shaw uses to describe the author's relationship with life's lessons, struggles, and inner truths. When Shaw refers to life's challenges and painful experiences as "long-lost friends," they're highlighting a perspective shift from seeing difficulties as threats or unwanted burdens to embracing them warmly, with curiosity and openness, as if reuniting with someone familiar yet distant. This metaphor emphasizes the idea that our hardships and personal lessons, though often uncomfortable or difficult, can offer profound value and insight when accepted willingly and openly, much like the unexpected joy, comfort, or understanding one experiences when reconnecting with an old friend after a long separation. Rather than fearing, avoiding, or resenting these difficult moments, Shaw encourages the reader to embrace them, recognizing that they provide essential opportunities for personal growth, self-discovery, and emotional healing. Shaw repeatedly alludes to the "long-lost friend" as something familiar that keeps returning to remind us of a positive part of ourselves and our lives. The way that we interpretted this is the idea of being grounded and tethered in something that brings us comfort and security while being willing to venture out to take on the unusual and unfamiliar things in life. A "long-lost friend" could be God or his son, Jesus. It could be a parent, grandparent, husband, or wife. It could be a memory or an epiphany, like the moment you decided to never smoke, drink, or do drugs. One small thing we really appreciated about this book is how it acknowledges that people and lives aren't one-size fits all. Yes, we need some of the same things (like food, air, and water), but we're all individuals. The author provides a great analogy about how a burger can mean different things to different people. It depends on who they are, what their tastes are, and what their preferences are. Some people love ketchup on their burgers. Some hate ketchup. Some want tomatoes and lettuce while others don't. Some don't even want the bun (we've encountered a few on low-calorie diets who actually don't eat the bun). You wouldn't try to force a vegetarian to eat a hamburger, right? Or force someone who hates pickles to put pickles on their burger? We have to be sensitive and sympathetic to the wants, needs, and preferences of others. It's a great skill. The author also talks about the concept/concepts of "Catalyst and Curiosity." It's what gets a toddler wandering off to explore the world. It's what gets people thinking about what major or career they should pursue. We loved how the author talked about the power of imagination in this regard: "...remind yourself now…that unlike structure, imagination is a messy business" The author blends Catalyst and Curiosity with a third concept in this trio: Compassion. Catalyst, Curiosity, and Compassion—together, they form a powerful framework for growth, discovery, and connection. The catalyst is what stirs us to move, to change, to question the status quo. Curiosity drives us forward, urging us to seek, explore, and understand. But without compassion, the journey can become self-centered or disconnected. Compassion is what grounds our growth in kindness and our exploration in empathy. It’s what allows us to not only pursue our own path but to walk alongside others as they pursue theirs. In Shaw’s view, this trio invites us to live more awake, more aware, and more human—always learning, always feeling, always caring. Another part of this book that was a pleasant little surprise was how the author talked about the different kinds of time that the Ancient Greeks supposedly believed in: Chronos (the linear, measurable time that governs clocks, schedules, and deadlines) and Kairos ("opportunity time"--the time of meaning, presence, and divine timing; the kind of time that can’t be measured by a watch but is felt in the heart). Kairos is the moment when everything aligns, when insight strikes, when you're truly there in an experience. Shaw uses this distinction to gently remind readers that not all time is created equal, and that the most important moments in life aren’t necessarily the ones that show up on a calendar, but the ones that show up in the soul. It's a call to shift from merely counting minutes to making moments count. If there are areas in which this book could be improved, it's the formatting and overuse of things like ellipses, which just don't look professional. Other than that, this is an outstanding book! Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 94+/100 (9.4+ out of 10)
Evangelism is tough work! The human heart is a tough nut to crack. Thankfully, there are books like Jellybean Gospel and the Born Again Bunny by Wanda Roush to help introduce kids to the subject of salvation through Jesus Christ! First and foremost, Jellybean Gospel and the Born Again Bunny is one of the best-illustrated Christian children's books we've seen! It's one of the best-illustrated children's books of the year PERIOD! Why? Well, let's start with the traditionally-styled illustrations (which appear hand-drawn) that incorporate what appear to be color-pencil and watercolor with digital refinement. What really does it for us are the colors. The pastel colors in this book—blue, pink, yellow, and green—perfectly match the Easter theme. It also helps that the characters look cute, beautiful, and adorable. Little Larva (the baby butterfly) is one of the cutest characters we've ever seen. She looks a bit like Tomo from Marky the Magnificent Fairy by Cynthia Kern Obrien, yellow with cute, chubby cheeks and little stubby arms. The other butterflies also look terrific, so does the Easter Bunny. This book is a bit clunky, featuring two key stories that we're supposed to accept are complementary. We felt they didn't quite mesh together (in fact, they kind of clash, in our opinion), but we're willing to overlook that because of all of this book's other positive traits. The opening of this book follows a butterfly larva called "Little Larva" as she awakens in Egg Land, a magical place inhabited by the Easter Bunny and butterflies who (apparently) add all the Easter eggs to the Easter Bunny's Easter baskets. Little Larva, somewhat inexplicably, travels off on her own. We're not quite sure if she does this because she doesn't want to go down the same path as the rest of her kin/kind or if she does it because she's unable to progress to her butterfly stage in such a hectic environment. We're actually told that she leaves for "reasons not clear." Little Larva forms her new cocoon right outside the window of a little boy named "Little Lad" and his Christian family. Little Lad becomes the focus for most of the remainder of the book. In fact, Little Larva's character and arc pretty much get brushed to the side beside a brief mention of her sleeping better when Little Lad is not home. Little Lad is a prodigal son—rebellious and disobedient. He doesn't do his chores or clean up after himself. He stirs trouble ("discord") and fights with his sister. He talks back to his parents and throws things when he's upset. Then, one day, he has a change of heart. At Sunday school, he engages in a jelly bean activity that opens his eyes and serves as an epiphany, helping him to realize the error of his ways and turn his life over to Jesus. This jelly bean activity is the crux and turning point of the entire book. Not only does it lead to Little Lad's change of heart, it also converts Little Larva and even the Easter Bunny! We're not quite sure that it was adequately explained or presented. We're not quite sure that it hit the way the author intended. In fact, we really felt like Little Lad's arc and the whole jelly bean thing was rushed. It also seemed really contrived and inorganic. Yes, people have epiphanies. Sometimes, it's when someone in the family passes away (or they survive illness). Sometimes, it's from seeing an impactful scene in a movie or reading a book. But jelly beans? Ok, we'll try to play along. Little Lad instantly becomes a completely different kind of character. He's polite. He's well-behaved. He says his prayers. It's true that Jesus changes lives. He can open eyes. He can open doors. He can work miracles. Yes. But... this seemed rushed. Like, when Saul was converted, by some accounts he got hit by lightning. In other words, he almost died. That's something that speaks to everyone. A lot of us are afraid of dying. A lot of us are afraid of the sight of lightning and the sound of thunder. Heck, he saw and heard Jesus post-resurrection. That's enough to wake anyone up. But... jelly beans? It would help if the activity itself were more digestible, easier to understand, and explained better. What's strange is that there are multiple panels in this book that attempt to explain the jelly beans and what each of them means. There's actually a whole section at the end with Bible verses and all corresponding to each jelly bean. Unfortunately, the dark-blue text in that section makes it hard to read against the light-blue background. Thankfully, the rest of the text in this book is easy to read. The writing is adequate. An attempt is made at simple rhyme scheme like (AA and ABAB). However, sometimes it can read as contrived or clunky. We also had to wrestle with the whole idea of a bug and a bunny being converted to Christianity by the blood of our savior, Jesus Christ. That's... a lot to buy into. When Phil Vischer talked to his mother about creating Veggie Tales (perhaps the most successful Christian animated series ever), his mother gave him a great bit of advice: Just don't push the idea that the vegetables can get or are seeking salvation. Why? Well, because human beings were made in the image of God. Vegetables, butterflies, and rabbits were not. But we digress. Obviously, this story is meant to be symbolic. The Easter Bunny represents a human person who may be outside the faith and whom it is possible to reach/evangelize to. It should also be noted that, despite us saying that Little Larva's story and Little Lad's story don't seem to mesh well, they do parallel and mirror each other. Both, in a sense, are prodigal children who abandoned what their parents wanted for them. Both have their eyes open to Christianity and change their lives for the better. So, we're a bit torn about how to score this book. We loved the illustrations, we thought some of the characters were cute, and we love the overall message, but we're not quite on board with the framing and how the message is conveyed. It seems contrived and a bit shoehorned in. But if you're trying to introduce your children to Jesus during the Easter holiday, this book may be worth a try. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 94+/100 (9.4+ out of 10)
Trust on Trial is a thought-provoking book by G.S. Gerry that explores issues like faith, religion, business, relationships, and more—all under the umbrella concept of TRUST. This is a unique philosophical and allegorical tale in which the abstract concept of Trust is personified, placed on trial, and judged for its role in human suffering. Blending courtroom drama with theological discourse and cultural commentary, the narrative is structured around testimonies, exhibits, and dramatic turns that mirror a high-stakes legal case. The reader is not just a passive observer but is cast as a member of the jury, responsible for delivering the final verdict, making this a rather engaging affair. You can think of Trust as being sort of like the abstract entities in Marvel Comics like Eternity, Death, Lord Chaos, and Master Order—except instead of cosmic power, Trust holds sway over hearts, relationships, and belief systems. In Trust on Trial, Trust is not a deity or a force of nature, but something more vulnerable: a reflection of human intention as well as its role in God's universe. Like Eternity (in Marvel) embodies time, Trust embodies the fragile, invisible thread that binds people to one another—and to their belief systems, governments, families, and futures. So, let's set the stage for this courtroom drama centuries—no, millennia in the making! Trust (called by the somewhat-cheesy, somewhat fitting name "Earnest Trust") is put on trial by humanity itself—the very people who once depended on it. Betrayed lovers, defrauded investors, abandoned children, and disillusioned believers all rise up as witnesses. The courtroom is filled with those who feel wronged, their pain sharpened into prosecution. They no longer see Trust as a virtue but as an accomplice to suffering, an enabler of false hope. This is the People v. Trust—a symbolic trial where humanity demands answers for every heartbreak, broken promise, and failed leap of faith. But as the arguments unfold, the deeper question emerges: Was Trust truly the traitor? Or did we simply place it in unworthy hands? It's similar to the argument: Is it the weapon that's to blame or the person wielding it? Trust is specifically charged with fraud and breach of contract. Now, like much of this book, these charges are both fitting but also a bit silly. Like, you have to wrap your mind around an abstract concept being charged with "fraud and breach of contract" and try to keep a straight face, avoiding laughing or face-palming. It's honestly tempting to laugh during some of this book. As we'll eventually get to, this book gets really goofy, over-the-top, cliche, and cheesy. Oh, gosh, there are parts of this book that get so cringe and cheesy. There are lines like "no takebacksies" and things like Hannibal Lecter showing up to testify. Like, you can't tell us with a straight face that this isn't a bit ridiculous and silly. Now, those aren't necessarily bad things. It's great to have comic relief from time to time. It's just that... it can become a bit much and distract from the more serious things in this book. For example, there are people in this book who have had their lives irreparably damaged—they've lost their livelihoods or even loved ones. Yet there's always this strange, abstract distance we felt toward these characters and plot-threads due to the more ridiculous things and the framing of this book. We have to be honest: it was kind of hard for us to take this seriously. It's a REALLY great sounding concept, but we're not sure if it really hit the way the author intended, especially since it becomes really slanted toward its religious messaging. And we're religious. Even we felt preached to. We're essentially told that trust and faith (in God) are inseparable. And we get a multitude of examples that mostly resonate with things you'll commonly hear in the Christian faith, like how Jesus' death and resurrection prove that God loves his creation and fulfills his word. We also get evidence that the events of the Bible actually happened (like the place of Isaac's binding being real according to archaeology and Josephus' unbiased historical testimony). So, just know: this is a Christian book that blends fiction and non-fiction elements. And, by the end of it, a lot of the philosophical and ideological debate (which eventually includes things like the 2020 race riots and the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict for some reason), all gets boiled down to Judeo-Christian theology. This is either going to jive with you or it's not. We loved the overall message, but it seemed really Trojan-horsed and shoehorned into this trial setup. Hey, we hope it reaches people and introduces them to God. For us, as believers, it had us thinking, "Hey... wait a minute..." To be honest, it kind of made us feel bait and switched. Like, we thought we were about to read a John Grisham-styled novel, instead we got a mid-90s Cloud Ten Pictures movie like Judgment. Hey, it didn't quite become Bibleman, but it was getting there. It wouldn't be such an issue if it didn't become extremely one-sided and heavy-handed by the midpoint. In fact, it was already pretty clear by the introduction of the obviously-evil prosecutor that the anti-Trust (pun intended) people were wrong. Think of it: how in the blue heck is any reader going to say you can live without trust? Like, yes... there are people who exist who have trust issues. That's different from having zero trust or believing trust shouldn't exist. Trust is a fundamental aspect of being human—of human existence. It's almost like arguing against air, food, and water. Trust is literally the first stage of Erik Erikson’s psychosocial stages of development (trust versus mistrust). To deny it and reject it is to deny and reject being a living, breathing, social human being. So, it really does seem like a foregone conclusion. It's like waiting for God to win at the end of the Bible. Of course God is going to win at the end of the Bible. Now, you could argue: yes, you are given the choice as a juror in this case to go to chapter 9 or chapter 10 depending on how you vote, but... most people are either going to choose "Innocent" instinctually (and because the narrative HEAVILY pressures/pushes you to do so), or you're just going to vote "Guilty" to be a contrarian or out of curiosity (or perhaps a completionist like us). The book simply does not give a strong enough argument for why Trust is solely to blame for any of the charges. In other words, the tension that should exist simply doesn't seem to exist, at least not to the extent the author was probably hoping. You need that tension and drama to keep things interesting and entertaining. The arguments and narrative of this book become like an avalanche—it's incredibly one-sided and unbalanced. At least that's how we saw it. You might see it differently. Maybe we should talk about the very first moment we realized Trust was more than likely going to be exonerated. From a narrative perspective... It's when you learn that Trust's first name is "Earnest" right at the beginning of the trial. Earnest, huh? A very noble-sounding name. That's not a name you give a villain or a wrongdoer. It's like calling the defendant "Good Guy" or "White Knight." It automatically lets the reader know that this guy, at the very worse, is misunderstood. But then we find out that Trust's defense attorney is named Shield. Another noble-sounding name. To be fair, his first name is Harvey, perhaps evoking Harvey Dent before he was Two-Face from the Batman franchise. But he is known simply as Shield for the rest of the book. And then we're introduced to the prosecutor, the villain, Curtis Reed. Hmm... now, that name doesn't quite fit the melodramatic naming convention of the other two, at least not at first glance. However, if you know the Bible, you know that reeds symbolize weakness, fragility, unreliability, and false strength—things that appear supportive but fail when tested. In Isaiah 36:6, we get: “Look! You are trusting in the staff of this broken reed, Egypt, on which if a man leans, it will go into his hand and pierce it. So is Pharaoh king of Egypt to all who trust in him.” This is also echoed in 2 Kings 18:21. Even Jesus himself gets in on the reed-talk, saying Matthew 11:7: “What did you go out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken by the wind?” Even from a literary perspective, think of the Reeds (the Reed family) from Jane Eyre. The Reeds are Jane's cruel relatives who raise her after the deaths of her parents. They are essentially the main antagonists of the beginning portion of Jane Eyre, negatively impacting her and inhibiting her character's journey. In fact, think of them like reeds in a body of water like a river: slowing the flow, choking, inhibiting. So, Curtis Reed does immediately come across as villainous. Furthermore, the way that he's described really makes that obvious. From his slicked-back hair and blood-red tie to his smug courtroom strut and condescending tone, every detail screams performance over principle. He’s not just prosecuting Trust—he’s relishing it, treating the courtroom like a personal stage where ego, control, and theatrical flair take center spotlight. His custom-tailored navy suit, his choreographed pauses, and even his diction are all carefully engineered to project dominance and manipulation. In fact, let's look at the character's introduction. “The attorney for the prosecution, Curtis Reed, struts around the courtroom like a peacock... His navy blue suit is sharp, tailored to perfection. It radiates intimidation and smugness... Reed is a walking ego trip, and the jury eats it up.” These descriptions scream cocky, pompous, and obnoxious without stating it outright. Add disingenuous to that list of adjectives. Words like “struts,” “smugness,” “walking ego trip,” and “peacock” all point to a character who is brash, arrogant, and theatrically self-important—all hallmarks of a cocky, antagonistic persona. Reed is less a seeker of justice and more a high-powered predator, expertly baiting the jury with emotional appeals, cheap shots, and symbolic exhibits. Like a televangelist or a used-car salesman turned prosecutor, he thrives on appearances—dripping with charisma, but hollow in sincerity. In contrast to the quiet, principled demeanor of Harvey Shield, Reed’s villainy isn’t hidden—it’s packaged, polished, and proudly on display. And before you go thinking that you can't judge a book by its cover and that Curtis Reed might not be such a bad guy, he quickly squashes that thought when he becomes like a heel (in pro wrestling) and repeatedly mocks, threatens, and disparages Trust and Shield. Curtis Reed is a bad guy through and through, and it's made abundantly clear and obvious to the reader. You know who he reminded us of? Guy Pearce's prosecutor character from Rules of Engagement. In fact, he could be Guy Pearce in any film in which he played a villain (i.e. Count of Monte Cristo). You just want to punch him in his stuck-up, pompous, long-nosed face. What a snake! And then the trial happens, and, oh boy, is this a mixed bag—a can of worms! We already talked about how there are times when it's hard to take this trial seriously. It kind of reminded us of one of those Phoenix Wright trials/cases—like, it's really cartoonish to the point of absurdity at times. We talked about how Hannibal Lecter shows up at one point, but it's not all so over-the-top. In fact, one of Reed's first arguments uses (well, after the Garden of Eden/Serpent stuff) is that of Bernie Madoff—the infamous Ponzi schemer whose deception devastated thousands. Reed presents Madoff as the perfect example of what happens when people place their trust in the wrong hands. But he doesn’t stop at blaming Madoff. No, Reed pushes it further—he names Trust as the real accomplice. He shakes a burlap bag of silver coins, labeling it Exhibit D, and dramatically proclaims that it wasn’t just Madoff who stole from the innocent, but Trust itself that whispered in their ears, convincing them to invest, to believe, to hope. And then—snap—everything vanished. “Madoff had a partner,” Reed declares, pointing directly at the defendant. “That partner was Earnest Trust.” And then he actually uses victims of the Ponzi scheme as witnesses testifying against Trust. Can we briefly go back to that Garden of Eden/Serpent stuff? Could you imagine being in a courtroom and someone just starts using that story in their argument—not in a symbolic manner, but in a dead-serious, this-is-historical-fact-and-actually-happened manner? Christians reading this might jive with that, but what about the rest of the audience? Like, if this is a work meant to reach out to nonbelievers and evangelize to them, you might not want to start with something that could be perceived as abstract or mythical like the Garden of Eden and the Fall. Just a thought. But then we get repeated references to Judas and—the one that made us cringe the most—Benedict Arnold. Benedict Arnold gets mentioned a boatload of times in this book. Judas is referred to as the "OG Benedict Arnold" which is, honestly, a bit cringe-inducing. Gosh, there's some really cheesy stuff in here. But Looney Tunes and pro wrestling are cheesy, and we still love them. There are also some good lines like: "Trust didn’t just break himself. He was broken. If goodness has an architect, doesn’t that prove evil has an author? And his greatest trick? It’s deception. Convincing you he doesn’t even exist and trying to manipulate you into believing that Trust is the real issue." We especially love the line that "evil has an author." There are some things in here where you really have to suspend your disbelief, and that's probably one of the challenging things about this book—the suspension of disbelief gets pushed to the limits. Not only do you have to buy into an abstract concept like Trust being on trial, and not only do you have to buy into Trust and Faith being synonymous, but then you have to somehow wrap your head around things that happen in this courtroom that probably wouldn't be allowed in a typical American courtroom. For example, the Bible is admissible as evidence. At first, this really suspended our disbelief, but at least the book provided an explanation later on. When the defense uses it in their testimony, it is challenged and objected to by Prosecutor Reed. Thankfully, the judge (Steel) and the narrative of the book reminds us that the prosecution had earlier referenced the Bible in its own argument and as evidence. So, there's that. Another example of bizarre courtroom behavior, and one that really stood out to us, is how the judge keeps overruling objections because he "wants to hear" what the witness is saying. Can this happen in real life? Yes. Does this happen in real life? Yes. But should it happen? No. A judge wanting to hear testimony just for the sake of wanting to hear it is usually not a good enough reason to overrule an objection unless the prosecution or defense can qualify, explain, or substantiate the reason for the testimony. Otherwise, it's at major risk of being challenged in appeals. In short: evidence and testimony was admitted that shouldn't have been. This tendency weakens the credibility of the courtroom structure the book tries to maintain. It shifts the tone from a tight legal drama to something more symbolic or theatrical—almost like Law & Order crossed with The Twilight Zone. And while that may be intentional given the allegorical nature of the work, it does force the reader to accept a legal system that operates more like a stage for philosophical duels than a realistic justice process. Another thing that got to us about this book is how it keeps reminding the reader that what's coming up is big, huge, and important. We think this was because the author was really trying to keep the reader engaged, but that's the narrative's job. So, we get reminders like: “Tomorrow, the final showdown for the fate of Trust begins. Everything hangs in the balance." "Everything thus far had been groundwork for what was about to unfold." “What comes next will test not only the court but every belief you’ve held about Trust itself.” "This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for." “This is what it all comes down to—the fate of Trust now lies in your hands.” “Everything has led to this point, this moment when we must confront the truth.” “The moment of truth has arrived, and Trust will either stand or fall by what happens next.” “The time has come to decide if Trust can be salvaged.” “Everything is about to change—and not just for Trust.” “We’ve all been waiting for this: the testimony that will either redeem or condemn.” “From this point forward, nothing will be the same in this courtroom.” How many times can we be told that this is "the moment of truth, it's all on the line, this is the place, this is the time" before it starts to lose its meaning and effect? If everything is the moment of truth, then nothing is. In theory, these lines are great at building suspense and tension (despite the aforementioned foregone conclusion), on the other hand... it almost feels like the narrative keeps promising and promising, dangling a carrot in front of you only to get you to the next treadmill/hamster wheel and the next carrot. Does that make sense? Well, you could argue: that's how cliffhangers work. And you'd be right, to an extent. All in all, what this book tries to do is really ambitious and admirable. We're not quite sure if it hit the way that the author intended it to hit, especially with its more absurdist and one-sided aspects, but it was a valiant and well-meaning attempt. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 94/100 (9.4 out of 10)
Adventures Are Everywhere is a wry, witty, and imaginative collection of short-stories by Elizabeth Horst! Horst makes quite a splash with what is (apparently) her debut book! While it's not a perfect short-story collection, it more than accomplishes what it needed to and—as we'll get to—included two truly standout and memorable stories! So, one thing we'll say is that you need to be patient. This book doesn't start off particularly strong. There's some growing pains in this book, perhaps because (we're assuming) it was frontloaded with the author's older works when she hadn't quite developed her craft yet. Or perhaps it's because the more comedic, slapstick, hard-to-take-serious stories were relegated to the front of the book. Either way, we did connect somewhat with "The Sheriff’s Discovery" because Sheriff Tom Hutchinson and Deputy Steve are actually quite relatable, or at least their dilemma is. Do you have people in your workplace, community, or household who do nothing but complain and trigger false alarms? So, when actual bad stuff actually goes down, you don't take them seriously at all. It's like the old story about the boy who cried wolf. He cried wolf so often that when the wolf actually came, no one believed him. So, we really resonated with Tom & Steve. Actually, they resonated with us in different ways. Tom is idealistic and seems like one of those new employees that hasn't been grinded down by the system (and time) yet. Steve is the opposite. You could argue that Steve is lazy, but you could also argue that he's just jaded and disillusioned. He has seen the law be used and abused too many times. If you put yourself in his shoes, who could blame him? The first three or four stories have a Western tang to them. Think: sheriffs, bandits, and robbers. The next few seem to take place in more Middle-Age/Medieval settings. The remainder of the stories have more a modern psychological edge to them. And that's where this anthology shines. We don't mean to be dismissive or to gloss over the other stories in this book, but they pretty much all get overshadowed by "Night Journey to Sanity's End" and "We're All Gonna Die." These two stories—especially "Night Journey to Sanity's End"—are some of the most captivating, engaging, and enthralling short-stories we've ever read! "Night Journey to Sanity's End" is a surreal and disjointed tale told from the perspective of a narrator named Johnny McDuff who is experiencing a descent into madness. The story reads like a fragmented dream or a stream-of-consciousness unraveling. The protagonist embarks on a journey—possibly physical, but more likely psychological—seeking something undefined: meaning, safety, truth, or identity. Along the way, they question reality, sanity, and even the reliability of language itself. As the story progresses, coherence deteriorates. The text becomes increasingly abstract, blurring the lines between dream and delusion, sleep and wakefulness, memory and fiction. Imagery of darkness, stillness, and internal torment dominates. By the end, it's unclear whether the narrator has found peace, lost themselves completely, or simply fallen asleep. What's magnificent about this story is that it's unsettling, ambiguous, mysterious, terrifying, and—shockingly—quite funny. The range of emotions, feelings, and interpretations of this story can't be put into words. Where do we even begin? Well, what makes such a dark story (about death, mental illness, and potentially even suicide) so funny? Well, part of it is when the narrator conscripts the audience, referring to them as "Dear reader" or "Dear Readers." That in itself isn't funny, but what makes it comedic and humorous is when the narrator starts telling the reader(s) that what they are seeing, witnessing, and experiencing is the worst thing in the history of ever—something the reader(s) cannot even begin to comprehend. Something that all the words in the English language cannot explain or begin to describe. There's so much hyperbole and melodrama in this story! It’s that over-the-top dramatization that catches you off guard. The narrator doesn’t just express suffering—they melodramatize it to absurd extremes, comparing their agony to abstract, ridiculous metaphors like “the death of all joy,” “the betrayal of the stars,” or “the collapse of the very fabric of sanity.” These flourishes are so exaggerated that they almost become a parody of suffering—inviting the reader to laugh not at the pain, but at the ridiculousness of its expression. What’s more, the narrator assumes that the audience is completely incapable of grasping their turmoil—making statements like, “Dear reader, you could not possibly understand the depths of this abyss,” or “No, dear readers, not even in your wildest dreams have you suffered as I have suffered.” This mock grandiosity turns despair into something performative. The voice becomes a kind of tragic theater character—equal parts Hamlet and emo teenager—and the humor arises from that theatricality. In that sense, it’s not unlike Douglas Adams or Kurt Vonnegut—where the comedy doesn’t come from dismissing dark subjects, but from amplifying them into something absurd, inviting readers to chuckle at the extremity of human emotion while still feeling its weight. It’s a mix of self-pity, cosmic wailing, and eye-rolling exaggeration that somehow becomes relatable in its sheer absurdity. And in a twisted way, it’s comforting: if this narrator can make a punchline out of a mental breakdown, maybe we can too. Furthermore, there is so much suspense, intrigue, and mystery in this story—even despite the goofy, ridiculous, absurd humorous and exaggerated stuff. We are continuously confronted with the question: "Where do the tram cars go at night?" On the surface—on a superficial reading—this seems like a bland question for the narrator to keep asking. However, on a deeper reading, this question is haunting. To us, this is actually asking: "What actually happens to us (and our souls) when we die?" It's so dark and eerie! The repetition of that question just gives this story a creepy, unsettling, disturbing feel. It's almost like someone whispering in your ear: "I saw what you did yesterday" then retreating into the shadows every ten minutes. Creepy! It's creepy even when it seems like the narrator is more a victim or a witness, not a perpetrator. He doesn't seem to want to kill or harm others, yet his words cut and stab and slice at the reader. He dangles the carrot in front of us—the mystery: What's going to happen? Is it really as bad and terrible as he keeps hyping it up to be? It's tantalizing! The next story that really impressed and wowed us was "We're All Gonna Die." The story is told from the perspective of a character named Nathan Levy who seems to live in an active warzone. As the enemy approaches—their weapons sounding closer and closer—the village that Nathan was staying in evacuates in a panic. We thought about the wars going on in the world (like Ukraine-Russia and Israel-Gaza) and this hit extra hard. This story hit us like a bag of bricks, highlighting the human costs of war—the greatest and most tragic cost of them all. We see as these peoples' lives get upended and, in many cases, ended outright. What's remarkable about this story is that we don't really get to spend much time with Nathan. This story is quite short. Yet we really get to know him. He is loving, caring, and compassionate. He is a good man in a terrible situation. This story is also incredibly sad and heartbreaking, perhaps even more than you might expect. Perhaps the most powerful moment in this entire story is the grim fate of the blonde-haired girl. The blonde-haired girl is never named (that we can remember), yet she's such an impactful character. You can tell that Nathan wants desperately to save the innocent blonde-haired girl despite being in hiding and every cell in his body screaming to him to stay low. His eyes and his heart reach to her and plead for her safety. That makes what happens all the more heartbreaking and tragic. And the way it is described is so beautiful yet horrifying and powerful. Just the description of blonde hair and "sharp green eyes" mixed with blood just hits differently from outright saying, "She was shot" or "She succumbed to mortar fire." The descriptions are visceral. There's a description in here about how much Nathan's shoulder aches from the shoulder strap of his bag being in place for so long. We get lines like: "I still craved existence. To live! To breathe! To exist!" And "Agony. Pain. Torture." We get descriptions of the flies and the stench of death. Nathan laments leaving the bodies of innocents to rot—unburied—and yet considers how that can send the enemy, humanity, and the world a message: that war is truly hell. Furthermore, this story is incredibly poetic, especially when it comes to the theme of life and death. A baby inchworm crawls on Nathan after he witnesses so much death, and Nathan is torn about this. On one hand, the inchworm represents new life and even hope. On the other hand, it seems like death or the universe is taunting or mocking him, almost as if to say: We've killed everyone in your village but let a bug live. This fills Nathan with rage and he even considers killing the inchworm, which is ironic because he continuously laments how people can be so cruel to take the lives of others. There's a real tug-o-war for Nathan's humanity in the midst of such inhumanity and inhuman conditions. So, did we only enjoy the books with grim and dark stories, characters, and circumstances? Not quite. There's another charming story in here that focuses on three dogs named Shelby, Bayley, and Simon who are waiting for a gift for their owner in the mail. What's humorous and entertaining about this story are all the canine shenanigans like going off to drink from the toilet bowl. Furthermore, there's a childlike innocence to these pups. It reminds us of children on Christmas day anxious and eager to open their presents. It's especially fun to hear them debate about UPS, USPS, and the delivery process in general. Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 95/100 (9.5 out of 10)
Blood of the Raej by Hayley Rae Johnson is a compelling and inspired fantasy novel that reminded us of a blend of Harry Potter and Avatar: The Last Airbender—with its richly imagined magical world, elemental powers tied to legacy and identity, and a young protagonist navigating destiny, oppression, and hidden heritage amidst a fractured society. We were hooked from the beginning! This book kicks off with one of the most thrilling and incredible opening sequences we've ever read in a novel! It's up there with the opening of Magic, Mystery, and the Multiverse by Aurora Winter. In fact, it's probably a superior opening. We start in medes res (middle action) during what seems to be a climactic final battle or siege between indistinct parties, one of which is led by a king (King Mason) who appears to be on the losing side. The tide of the battle has turned against him, and he is informed that his beloved wife, the pregnant queen, has been captured by the enemy. King Mason's chancellor, advisors, and others plead with him to surrender, sparing them and the kingdom from prolonged suffering. However, King Mason refuses due to stubborness and the staunch desire to preserve the Raej bloodline. This is key to the book (and series) as the Raej and their bloodline are truly special—the sole bloodline that can use magic without the need of pebbles (essentially magic rocks) and the dynastic rulers of the land. We then cut to Queen Mellany's desperate yet futile attempt to escape with her unborn child in her womb. The peril and the stakes are paramount and meaningful. And, in the midst of all of this chaos, our protagonist is born: Terhese. What a doggone epic friggin' opening! Unfortunately, none of the rest of this book really ever rises to that level of epicness again. We wouldn't say that it falls flat or falls off a cliff, but it does become significantly more tame. It's ironic we say that because we just read Republic of Mars by Dr. Sam Sammane—a book with a really flat, generic, and lifeless opening that eventually "got good" about 70-80 pages in. This book, on the other hand, is almost the reverse: a book that started with a BANG then meandered into a relatively paint-by-numbers witchcraft & wizardry book. At the same time, this is still a compelling book from beginning to end, despite its flaws and loss of momentum, if for no other reason than we care about Terhese, the Raej bloodline, and want to see some for of rectification for what happened in the beginning. This book—again, similar to Republicof Mars--decided to inexplicably become a mystery novel. It's so funny comparing the two books. Republic of Mars gets you to believe that it's going to be a sci-fi/space-colonization novel only to become more of a mystery, unraveling the truth of this Mars colony in which the powerful have seemingly rewritten history. Similarly, Blood of the Raej gets you to believe that it's going to be an epic fantasy novel only to become more of a mystery, unraveling the truth of this world in which the victors have seemingly rewritten history with the Raej as the villains. In Blood of the Raej, the narrative of Terhese's bloodline and the Raej has been twisted and warped to the will of those who overthrew them. This is totally realistic. Look at all the dynasties in China that talked crap about how bad the previous dynasty was. Or just look at Washington D.C. today. Everyone is always blaming the previous administration. We really liked and appreciated this angle. In fact, it was one of our favorite aspects of the book. Those in power have clearly wiped or changed some of the history involving the Raej. They are painted as genocidal tyrants who are responsible for the mass-deaths, endangerment, and/or extinctions of creatures like the Mermaids/Merman, the Aeon Bill (which kind of sounds like a giant griffin-like or dragon-like creature), tree goblins, and Moon Wolves. What's interesting is that we actually already had a feeling that Terhese's dad, King Mason, wasn't exactly a sage king or perfect leader/guy. In fact, when we first met him, we were already asking ourselves: what did this guy do to become so hated? Did you execute a ton of people? Did he ransack cities? Tax the people into destitution? You also see how tightly he clings to power despite it seeming disadvantageous at that stage in the conflict. So, King Mason wasn't an angel. Yet, a huge part of us still wanted Terhese to reclaim her royal status and restore the family honor as its rightful heir to the throne. Is that wrong? Well, that's part of the beauty of this book. Right and wrong are perspectives. The victor writes history. That doesn't make it true (or absolute truth). Truth becomes subjective—something based on the feelings, opinions, desires, and motives of the one creating and propagating it. Anyway, this book really becomes a lot more like Harry Potter as Terhese (in a sense "the one who lived") finds herself in a kind of wizardry school, sort of. Though it's not filled with wands or spellbooks, the Academy functions much like a magical military academy—rigorous, hierarchical, and brimming with secrets. Terhese is tested, trained, and sorted, all while discovering hidden aspects of her identity and power. Like Hogwarts, it's a place where alliances form, rivalries sharpen, and the mystery of who she truly is begins to unfold. There are even a few characters that seem to be homages to the Harry Potter series. For example, there's Professor Hadritch, whose name reminded us a lot of Hagrid but whose personality is a lot more like a mix of Snape and McGonagall—stern, commanding, and ruthlessly competent, yet not entirely without a buried sense of fairness or unexpected moments of insight. Oh, and let's talk about the Pebbles—pretty much the things that encompass and enable the magic system of this book. The Pebbles essentially work like the crystals in Labruula Awakens by Paul Wood—they're the items or objects that enable certain types of magic to be used. Actually, they reminded us a bit of materia from Final Fantasy VII. And similar to those magical items, they actual have a physiological effect on the user. The Numbing Pebble, for example, The Numbing Pebble, for example, dulls the user’s pain receptors, allowing them to push through injuries or extreme conditions without feeling the full extent of the damage. However, this comes at a cost—users can easily overexert themselves, tear muscles, or worsen wounds without realizing it, leading to long-term harm once the pebble's effect wears off. There are also some OP (overpowered) Pebbles like the Earthquake Pebble. By the way, we're also told about the awesome power of the Raej including being able to cause earthquakes, so it makes you wonder how fall they had to fall to, well.. fall. Anyway, as alluded to before, Terhese's bloodline is said to be able to use magic without the use of Pebbles, a unique and (potentially) very useful trait. Oh, and by the way, this magic system is also organized into different specialists: Pebble Makers and Pebble Pinchers. Beside Terhese, there are a few other characters worth mentioning including Chloe, who serves as a bit of a surrogate mother to Terhese after she's orphaned. She's likable and lovable enough. There are also Natalie, who kind of reminded us of Hermione but was still a pretty original character, and Nathan, who becomes a bit of a love interest. So, the romance with Nathan is supposed to be a huge part of this book (it's marketed as a "romantasy"). But that's not the impression that we got from reading it. Yes, Nathan is often discussed as being hot and attractive, and yes there are some intense scenes involving him, especially near the end, but this really seemed more like a witchcraft & wizardry book to us. In other words, it's a lot more like Harry Potter than it is like Twilight, which is a plus (in our opinion). Another character who we appreciated was Lenetta, the charming little fairy Helper who seems to be assigned to watch over Terhese. Hilariously, Lenetta kind of acts like a virtual assistant or alarm app, always reminding her when it's time for her next class. There's a lot to love, find, and explore in this book. This series has a lot of promise! Check it out on Amazon!  Score: 94/100 (9.4 out of 10)
Feral Fables is a thought-provoking, dense, and symbolically rich collection of short-tales by Dr. Lucy Jones, a therapist and storyteller with a deep interest in feminine archetypes and spiritual healing/transformation. Incredibly, due to a combination of factors including the relative short length of the book and its complicated nature, we've read this book numerous times with a variety of experiences. During some readings, we felt confused, bewildered, and even bored. However, during other readings, we felt enlightened, intrigued, and even motivated. So, that goes to show the multilayered, nuanced, and mercurial nature of this book. It also goes to show that different people can have dramatically different takeaways from this book depending on mood, time, circumstances, and other factors. Normally, we'd say that's excellent and outstanding, but we also had trouble shaking off the times when we felt like outright closing the book and taking a break from it. We couldn't agree on if this was a book that should score a 9.0-9.2 or a 9.3 to 9.5. Regardless of opinions, what's undeniable is that this book really gets you thinking. It gets you wondering things like: What the heck is this even about? And: How does this relate to me (the reader) and my circumstances? It might also make you think: Is this story even supposed to make any bit of sense? Thankfully, there are sections at the end of each story like "Play the Fable" and "Your Notes" that try to guide you toward an answer to those questions. There's a mixture of eloquent and sophisticated writing in here, but there's also writing in here that seems excessively flowery, wordy, and superfluous—like a gordian knot of words, phrases, idioms, and symbols. So, again, it's a mixed bag. You'll likely have your own unique experience with this book from the ones we had. Anyway, let's dive into the specific content... How about the writing? It's very poetic. It's poetic prose, much like parts of Her Wild Body by Noa Raveh. And it's steeped in mythos and lore. Every single one of these stories has its own mythos and lore, existing in its own little microcosm/micro-universe. And each of these stories teaches or guides the reader toward some sort of lesson, a state of mind, and/or a better frame of thinking about a situation. One of Jones's favorite poetic techniques is the use of alliteration. There's a ton of alliteration in this book. For example: "...bottomless Bedlam..." "...burdened body..." "...to become the caterpillar that crawls..." "The village square echoed with the chorus of comedy... and Rattler recites an infinite promenade of power." "Choke cherries simmer in the pot for jam... She digs Desert Mallow roots when she wants to regulate birth. She learns the curative capacity of desert vegetation." "The One does not ask her to choose between Logic and Lust but allows her divergent thinking to lead her to the depths of her destiny. " "...she feels only the frailty of her faltering feet... " " She genuflects and gives homage to the Heavenly Husband." "She hovers silently during those ceaseless shadowy struggles within my soul." "...this world of water and wave..." "...stir them into soup for stamina." "She consults the universe with the mind of a million years." "...taste the texture of words.." "She knows nights of anxiety when the piercing wail defers to a treacherous tranquility. She knows the grappling of erotic greed, as she bolts toward a haven of quiet harmony." Now, honestly, all the alliteration kind of seems overused and also highlights how flowery the language in this book is—almost to the point of: What the heck are you trying to say? Was there a clearer, more simple way to say it? Does the economy of language not apply? Ironically, the economy of language becomes an issue in the complete opposite sense: most of these stories are incredibly short. They start and stop, sometimes abruptly. There doesn't seem to be much time for the story to breathe or for characters to develop. They just... happen. That's kind of a miracle of literary achievements: stories that seem too wordy are simultaneously too short. Anyway, alliteration isn't the only poetic technique the author employs. There are also end-rhymes like: "'There will be no sailing today,' Teak said. 'It takes more wind to send us on our way.' It was a day to explore the harbor around the dock. With careful steps, Teak walked..." Oh, and how about the beautiful, vibrant use of flower imagery in the following passage? "In my dream, I enter a lush and elegant garden, filled with scentless camellias and mammoth magnolias, radiant azaleas, fragrant gardenias. I come to watch the gardener paint white roses red." A similar thing happens with the fish in "The Mermaid": "Schools of clown fish wiggle through their anemone playground, while angel fish glide quietly in their heavenly realm. Turkey fish compete for space with stone fish." Those last two examples (about the flowers and fish) may be our favorite passages in the whole book! Well, what about the stories and lessons themselves? Well... we can tell you that a lot apparently happened in these incredibly-dense yet too-short stories. We forget a lot of these names of these characters. We forget a lot of what happened. We didn't know exactly what the point was half the time. However, that doesn't make these stories bad necessarily. They just tended to tangle our brains into a pretzel—into knots—until steam and fumes came out of our ears like a teapot. Like we said before, there are sections like "Play the Fable" which help to guide you toward an understanding and perhaps an epiphany for each story. Let's discuss a few. "Are you the armadillo, or the one who crushed it?" is prompted after the story titled “The Armadillo" (also called "Boundaries of the Armadillo" in the table of contents). In “The Armadillo,” a woman discovers a crushed armadillo by the side of the road. This small, armored creature—symbolizing defense, vulnerability, and survival—mirrors her own emotional state. She approaches it not out of curiosity, but in a fit of anger and despair. The story suggests that her boundaries have been trampled by others under the guise of liberation, leaving her overexposed and emotionally invaded. The image of the armadillo, with its “soft underbelly” destroyed, becomes a metaphor for her own damaged inner self. But instead of remaining a victim, she begins a transformation. She takes medicine from a healer, reclaims the spirit of the “warrioress,” and embraces the lessons of the armadillo—not as a helpless creature, but as a source of protection and strength. She cradles the fallen animal as a shield, using it as inspiration to rebuild boundaries, reclaim power, and reconnect with the sacred. By the end, she doesn’t march—but she crawls forward with intention, seeking only those she will allow into her protected space. She withdraws into a cave to commune with Spirit and reflect, vowing never again to let her defenses falter. The haunting final prompt—“Are you the armadillo, or are you the one who crushed it?”—is not meant to accuse but to provoke self-awareness. The story challenges the reader to consider their own patterns of boundary-setting, violation, and healing. It's a powerful fable of personal sovereignty and the painful, necessary journey toward self-defined safety. There's an especially strange story in this book (and that's saying a lot) called "The Hot Fight" which uses bull fighting (from what we understand) as a metaphor for taking on the big challenges in our lives, especially the ones that stand in the way of our goals and the things we desire most. “The Hot Fight” tells the symbolic story of a woman preparing to face el Toro, a notoriously-dangerous bull (treated almost like a monster in the story) who represents seductive danger, primal temptation, and overwhelming trials. The woman is transformed into la Torera—a female matador—dressed by attendants in ceremonial armor: a girdle for truth, armor for chastity, slippers of peace, a salvation-offering sombrero, and a sword representing Spirit’s truth. Despite the weight and burden of these preparations, she walks into the bullring alone, without applause, without rescue, and without the option of retreat. The moment is hers alone—she must confront the Toro, not just as a threat, but also as a deep personal longing. As they circle, the bull and woman engage in a sensual, psychological dance. She begins to desire the bull’s assault, to submit to its power, even fantasizing about becoming his lover and martyr. That's right, we get strange lines about la Torera desiring the bull and wanting him to pin her to a bed (or something like that). What, is she the Queen of Crete (the Minotaur's mom) or something? Anyway, when the Spirit reenters her, the woman remembers her mission: to overcome—not to surrender. Even when five more bulls appear, larger and more tempting than the last, she gathers her resolve, draws her sword, and charges them. She grows stronger and more fearless in the process. Still, the story ends with ambiguity: she has not totally conquered el Toro, who lingers in her dreams. The battle of temptation and self-mastery is not over, but she is no longer unprepared. She now sleeps with the sword beside her, armored and vigilant. She is la Torera—the woman who faces the heat of the fight. As weird as this story is, it's also one of the ones that stood out to us and that we remembered. It actually made us think. Often the things that give us the most grief, the things that hurt us the most, and the things that give us the biggest challenge and times of struggle are the things we want and care about the most. For example, if you want to be a world championship boxer, you need to suffer months and years of intense training and receiving punches. If you want to be the CEO of a big company, you need to suffer years and years of getting your education and getting your experience as a businessperson under high-stress situations. If you want to be married to the hottest man or woman in your city, it's very likely they're going to put you through a grind—requiring you to prove yourself to them constantly. That's life. There's also an interesting prompt after "The Lovers": Are you enough? Can you allow yourself to be enough? Who else do you need or desire? This story explores sensuality, longing, fantasy, and the emotional complexity of desire and intimacy—often through vivid metaphors involving the Wind, the Sun, and the Moon as lovers. The quoted reflection prompts readers to examine their own sense of wholeness and whether they seek external validation or partners to feel complete. It's a meditation on self-acceptance, eroticism, and emotional vulnerability. So you can read these stories and possibly come away with a completely different message from us or even the one that the author intended. Check it out on Amazon! |
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