Showing posts with label literary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label literary. Show all posts

Monday, June 4, 2018

"The Water Rabbits" by Paul Tarragó

The Water Rabbits
by Paul Tarragó

The Water Rabbits by Paul Tarragó

The Water Rabbits by Paul Tarragó is currently on tour with Kate Tilton’s Author Services. The tour stops here today for my review and an excerpt.

The Water Rabbits features fourteen short fiction pieces. The approach is pretty similar to my previous short story collection (The Mascot Moth), and to my film work in general: formally venturesome rather than hard line experimental, taking pleasure in narrative and its plasticity; engaged with not-quite-our-worlds, but ones which are still close enough etc.
So, if you’ve enjoyed any of my moving image work then there’s a strong likelihood that this will appeal i.e. it’s similar… but still (and on paper). None of the material is related to my films or performance pieces – it’s all new – so if you’ve never seen any films by me that’s not going to be a problem either!
Narratively, the scenarios include: the reappearance of monsters in a town that has long since stopped believing in them; a plague of sinkholes; an experiment in saying yes; a sound-artist who specializes in recording bone growth; a drift through the streets of a city where the local authors have run out of things to say; and an awful lot more.
The shortest piece runs to 347 words; the book’s 172 pages long and weighs 248g; one piece has pictorial accompaniment, three dress up in verse.
A handful of these works have recently appeared in The Wrong Quarterly, DecomP magazine, Leopardskin and Limes, and Ink, Sweat and Tears.

Excerpt from “The End of the Expert”
I've been invited to a panel discussion in my role as an expert, only this isn't the term they'll be using. The conference convenor explained that they're currently between words: expert is out, and they've yet to find a replacement. I was surprised, believing ideas and objects stepping-stoned labels at their convenience, graduating and post-graduating from word to word; that's what language did, and we loved it for that.
So I was flattered, but bothered. It seems unlikely that a thing could exist for too long without a label. It would be like a snail without a shell. Or an astronaut floating in space without a tether: how do you get them back?
You just move the space vehicle a bit closer, explained the convenor. If you really want it, you make the effort. With the snail: the shell's attached - it's part of the snail - so if it's missing then something very traumatic must have happened; there probably is no going back. Maybe you meant hermit crab?
Let me change the analogy: If you dropped your house keys down a drain then walked away - to get help - you wouldn't forget about the keys: the concept of your house keys would still exist, even if you didn't physically possess them. And one day you'd be reunited with the keys, or copies, or would have had a new lock put in and so have new keys. So you'd either have the original, a copy, or an entirely new set and yet they'd all be your house keys.
This seemed different, but at that moment I couldn't exactly say how, and so gave the appearance of not disagreeing.

Praise for the Book
The Water Rabbits is a unique, and extremely well written collection of unusual stories, and poems that are written to get readers thinking. I found that this book is best when read not just in one setting, but read in small batches, that way the reader can take a break and process what it is that they just read. Some stories I found to be more enjoyable, and relatable than others. I found the particular story entitled, ‘The new old’ to be amusing as it pertains to being social, and what were to happen by simply saying yes to everything. I think most readers might have a little trouble understanding what some of the stories are about, and following the writing style. The overall pace of the book itself is not slow, but it can take a while to get through because the stories are meant to get the reader to ponder the meaning behind the stories that they just read.” ~ Amber
“Reading The Water Rabbits by Paul Tarragó is something like the literary equivalent of touring an exhibition of contemporary art, at which we are made to confront the unfamiliar, the secretive and the inscrutable. We wander through the galleries, alternately perplexed and intrigued, distracted and stimulated, occasionally consulting our watches and wondering if that fire extinguisher attached to the far wall in magnificent isolation is in fact an exhibit. Afterwards, probably over a meal and a drink, we struggle to process the experience and find things to say that sound remotely insightful and intelligent.” ~ Jack Messenger
The Water Rabbits was different, absurd and experimental and it made me think which is more than what I can say for a lot of other books that I have recently read.” ~ Ananya thefoodandbooklife

My Review
I received this book in return for an honest review.

By Lynda Dickson
This is a collection of eleven stories and three poems populated by characters with wild imaginations.
In “The End of the Expert”, a man is asked to speak at a conference, but things don't quite go as planned.
“Absence of Monster” reflects on the changing face of monsters.
“Arguments for an empty room” is a train of thought on what constitutes the concept of being “empty”.
In “Under ground and over thought”, strange things occur above ground while stranger things occur underfoot.
“history lessons” is a poem about the things we can learn from the past.
In “The water rabbits”, we meet the inhabitants of a small island community where a writer’s imagination is sparked after witnessing an unsettling incident with the water rabbits. As it was the last day of autumn here in the Southern Hemisphere as I read this, I found this passage suitably apt: “Autumn passes quickly, like it has a pressing appointment elsewhere. It's never really settled, has been looking like it wanted to go from the moment it arrived. So, as soon as the temperature starts to drop, it makes its excuses and is off and out. Did you meet Autumn? No, I didn't, didn't even know it was here.”
“pep talk” is a poem I’m not sure I understood. A pep talk given to traveling coffee salesmen?
“OPPORTUNITIES” explores the process of coming up with the next new fad.
In “The new old”, we find out what happens when a man decides to say “yes” to every request.
“The Orphan” questions the reality of what we see in print.
“Pattern recognition” is a story that is three pages long but consists of just four sentences, one long, one short, one long, one short. I’m not sure if this is the pattern we’re meant to recognize.
“The Bombardier” takes a humorous look at the slow cooker.
“Tight” studies the effects of wearing a high-tensile bodysuit.
“The long game” is a poem that looks at how the glut of books on the market - due to the self-publishing phenomenon – is leaving authors destitute. (I think.)
The stories and poems are all well-written and eloquent in their use of language. The stories are more about introducing ideas and commentary than providing a narrative. Some are even structured like essays. They are the literary equivalent of a farce, in which high-brow and educated people sublimely discuss the ridiculous. As you can see from my descriptions above, I found it hard to understand some of the pieces and had to read some of them more than once to make any sense of them.
Still, if you’re willing to put in the effort, you will reap the rewards.
Favorite pieces: “Arguments for an empty room” and “The Bombardier”.

About the Author
Paul Tarragó
I’m a filmmaker and writer, using both video and celluloid, living in London. My work? A mix of underground experimentation and metafiction, tugging at the leash of (film) language but with narrative often held close at hand.
My moving image work has shown widely on international film festival and gallery circuits (including the South London Gallery, Brooklyn Museum of Art, National Review of Live Art, Pompidou Centre (Paris), Moscow + Rotterdam International Film Festivals) and includes several award winning experimental narratives, video installation, a collaborative feature film, moving image + live soundtrack performance work, etc.
In recent years much more of my time has been spent on words, besides scripts and performance texts. Some of these writings have appeared recently in The Wrong Quarterly, 2HB, decomP magazinE, Leopardskin and Limes, Ink, sweat and tears, SO MUCH FOR FREE SCHOOL, ETC. (Five Years), as well as in my short story collection – The Mascot Moth and several other pieces – which was published in 2013.
I currently work as a lecturer at the University of the Arts London.


Tuesday, May 22, 2018

"ARK" by Jesse Miller

by Jesse Miller

ARK by Jesse Miller

ARK by Jesse Miller is currently on tour with Bewitching Book tours. The tour stops here today for a guest post by the author, an excerpt, and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

For another book by this author, please check out my blog post on Unwrap Your Candy.

Imagine the son of Cinderella and Noah. That's Alabaster Ash, professional window washer and amateur foot fetishist, thrall to his three physically fit, brutally aggressive stepsisters.
After polishing foot after foot of glass in the gingerbread city of Candyland and cleaning up after the “wicked stairmasters,” he haunts the bars and streets looking for love and appreciation -or a really nice pair of feet.
Like it or not, Alabaster finds himself reliving and reimagining his parents' lives as he roams from bar to bar, from thrill ride to stunt show in the linguistic funland that is ARK.

Ground squirmed past the windows, shuffling racks of bones and skulls under the soptoil as clouds crept along the horizon. On the bus, all the windows let in cold air and hung like a racked row of ice cubes in a tray, but I barely cracked the bottle.
Out I poured when the doors opened, unable to feel my legs, unable to see the ocean, but I could smell the salty marsh marching wet blue harridans, swiping and batting the spit, pushing the blood and saltboxing up fatjuices into my sinuses.
Jammed a kwata in the belly box and engaged the line.
–I’ve arrived. I’m here.
–That’s great. I bet a little walk will feel like a little slice of heaven, eh?
–I suppose.
–Well, I’ll leave the light on for you, Buddy.
I slid on my gloves and tried not to flinch at the sudden mustering of prickly discs skipping to my face. I leaned in hard and clacked through town, blackened and boarded and unblinking, barely wicklit. Smatter rooms to let. Ingrown hairs. Offseason. Unseasoned in the savorless in and out drag of the tonguetide. I dashed through a carless parking lot and into an astralamped glass meadow jotting down quivering blue starlight ink- puddles into suckshifts of snowhunchbanks humpbacking the outermost stretch of tideland. To the left, a skit of cloven unguals stirred it seemed, crunchy, but I only got half an ear worth and couldn’t noctoscop the goings-on of could be caribou or elk or deer bowing their head, bowing their head before the almighty peering down hard and in, like the retractable Polton and Crane lamp in the dentist’s office that hangs my mouth open.
Inside the blackness, the stickiting, ricketing pickets of thickets wiggle on their dicot studs without me seeing, while they shot out the other side and stitched a black curtain against the edge of the rest of the world. I clacked another mile stretch as brine wafers tickled my ears and swizzled my nos- trils while Lawrence Welk drift popping jollyjawdropping orbs uncorked across my field of vichy.
Estrella’s was a lighthouse, though not the vertical variety. But it glowed.
Light hung out over the glass and flabbed fat, hotwhite dough out the sides as I took up her street. This was another gingerbread house, hundreds of miles from home, though this one in earshot of the beach. I rang and rang and rang and then just opened the door.
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
“Miller’s prose is alliterative, acrobatic and revved up like a portmanteau-generation machine. It is a first-person account, unreliable and highly idiosyncratic, the stream of consciousness of a window-washer who addresses himself as Yours Drooling and the reader as a fellow Droolie. Those in love with language will drool, those looking for linearity of more staid prose should look elsewhere, like now. This is a travelogue of the imbiber whose journey is through the day that reeks and sluices with the past.” ~ Dr. Wm. Anthony Connolly, author of PKgrrl
“Viewing the world through Alabaster Ash's eyes is like entering a realm that is parallel to our own. There are hints of familiarity that seep through from time to time (The Red Sox), but the time on these pages is spent mostly in the foreign waters of the mind of Alabaster. It is quite the journey.” ~ Karissa
“It’s a book that always wakes your feelings, you can expect surprises with this book for that reason I recommend to you. It’s easy to read and you are always expecting more.” ~ Janeth
“There is no doubt the writer is a wordsmith of some skill, no doubt too, to be entertaining to those who enjoy writers who play with words on this way.” ~ Lynda Stevens

Guest Post by the Author
Writing ARK
Hello and bienvenue, my name is Jesse Miller and I am the author of two novels. Today I’d like to discuss my interest in two tales that have been cycling through my head since childhood - the Cinderella story, as well as the flood narrative of Noah’s ark - and how these two stories ultimately found their way aboard my novel ARK.
Some of what led me to this book is from my earlier life right out of grad school, trying to pay bills and figure out how a creative life fits with a professional life - this is, of course, the enduring struggle. I had a number of odd jobs, both over and under the table. One of those under gigs was as a kind of factotum in the resort town of Saratoga Springs. This became interesting because it allowed me access to a number of these massive, overelaborate Victorian mansions I’d never otherwise get inside. When I think back to that time now, I realize how valuable those experiences were to inform this book - I needed to inhabit those spaces, know those interiors, understand the way those houses felt from the inside. Fiction grows out of real places, and many of these real places helped me to make up the make-believe. And, too, psychologically and emotionally, I needed to be in some wealthy person’s home, and clean up after their young, wealthy college tenants to help me see how this book might work - there’s a kind of architecture to the psychology, I think. There’s a certain kind of darkness to the way we leave things behind for others to deal with, even if it’s their “job” to do so. What’s left behind and what’s collected became a big ponderable concept to chew on, and it fits in my mind with the deeper themes in the Noah narrative and the Cinderella story. To me, the psychology of the abandoner and the collector, that’s the invitation, at least intellectually, into the great boozy ball of the book.
Back then, I didn’t have beer money, but I had kind of fancypants and impractical writing degree, and it was really informative to see how people with power, money, and immense social capital interacted and viewed those without much of anything. As Charles Bukowski reminds us, the artist is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich. I suppose he, Bukowski himself, was a bit of a lodestar for me as I was working on the book.
When I began working on my novel, I read an interesting book on Cinderella stories from different countries and cultures with widening and narrowing versions of what the happy ever afters might look like. In many of these Cinderella stories, I recognized that birds played such a critical role in transforming the Cinderella character. From there, I let myself drift on some things, and I thought about birds a lot, and birds in other stories. I remembered the Sunday school stories of my youth, and the end of the world, and the dove as the bearer of hope, but also as a kind of catalyzing event of rebirth. And then I thought about Noah and his ark, his big collection of everything. And that felt so very Joycean to me, the everythingness in the idea of the ark, and I’ve always been thinking of Joyce. James Joyce gets me really excited and sometimes I feel like my head is going to pop off.
From there I meditated on the central importance of Odysseus - a man of many turns - and how that played out for Joyce in the many dizzying turns of that novel. And there was my huckleberry: what if in my book there were TWO centrally important tales, these swirling dynamos baked in, these birds sweeping along the elliptical orbit of these two throbbing focal points, foci - Noah’s story and Cinderella’s story plaited and married - and the book started to evolve from there.
After a number of other jobs, I’d eventually find myself as a teacher of writing, which I think is my true self. You can check out some of the images of these obscenely big and beautiful homes in Saratoga Springs. Once a year I usually teach the short story “The Jockey” by Carson McCullers which takes place in Saratoga Springs. For my students, I put together a kind of gallery for them so they can get the look and the feel of Saratoga Springs as we discuss the story. It suppose it can work for my novel as well. Check it out here.
Anne Sexton’s Transformations was another work that led me to ARK. I’m thinking about how she was playing and rebroadcasting these stories, modernizing and bending these myths around. It’s incredibly seductive stuff, some of the same kind of seduction in Ulysses for me. And that got me thinking about some of my favorite films that have been updated or retold - in many cases the retelling of significantly older stories - in new and provocative ways. So then, what are some of your favorite films that retell or modernize an older story?

About the Author
Jesse Miller
Jesse Miller is the author of Unwrap Your Candy and ARK, both available from Common Deer Press. He is a Visiting Assistant Lecturer in English at the University of New England. He lives in the great city of Portland, Maine, with his wife, two cats, and dog. Jesse roots for the Red Sox.

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win one of five print copies of ARK by Jesse Miller.


Tuesday, April 10, 2018

"Lies in the Wind" by Judy Bruce

Lies in the Wind
(Wind Series Book 5)
by Judy Bruce

Lies in the Wind (Wind Series Book 5) by Judy Bruce

Today we feature Lies in the Wind, the fifth book in the Wind Series by Judy Bruce. The author stops by to share an excerpt from the book. Keep an eye out for my review, coming soon. Also available: Voices in the Wind (read my blog post), Alone in the Wind (read my blog post), Cries in the Wind (read my blog post), and Fire in the Wind (read my blog post).

Alone in the Wind by Judy BruceCries in the Wind by Judy BruceFire in the Wind by Judy Bruce

For another book by this author, please check out my blog post on Death Steppe: A World War II Novel.

In the fifth book in the Wind Series, two Dexter residents die in an apparent murder-suicide. Sensing great evil, Megan seeks the truth. When another murder occurs, Megan and the police understand the mortal danger to others, including a young autistic.
Meanwhile, Megan’s love life falls apart. Again. With the help of Edgar Allan Poe, she uncovers fraud, betrayal, and lies, thereby exposing the killer, and forcing a fight for survival. Again.

Excerpt from Chapter 1
Life calmed down a bit—I hadn’t killed anyone for several weeks. And I didn’t intend to shoot my new boyfriend, Jay. I spent a horrible day in jail falsely accused of murdering my last boyfriend, but I made bail and was later dismissed from charges. I continued to wallow in grief and guilt over the death of my unborn child; otherwise, life was good.
Still, as I rode my black stallion across a swath of buffalo grass, I sensed the roiling in my guts meant something was coming to invade my desolate corner of the world, also known as western Nebraska. I’d been shot at, divorced, knifed twice, and I’d solved murders and family mysteries; yeah, I knew about trouble. After I slowed Strider to a canter, I checked my smartphone for messages, but found none. I turned my horse around and spurred him to a full charge certain of one thing—the calamity now brewing would find me.
The next day passed normally, though my clients shocked me with their punctuality; still, my barometer of danger, my guts, percolated. Late in the afternoon, I stood chatting with Eldon Strumple, a retired minister, in the doorway of my law firm office when pounding sounded at the front entrance. Glenda, my receptionist, asked through the intercom who called.
Glenda turned toward me and said, “It’s Celeste Percival. She’s rather excited.”
“Let her in,” I said as I shook Eldon’s hand.
As Eldon wandered over to chat with Glenda, who was preparing to leave for the day, Celeste burst through the door, paused, spotted me then ran toward me.
“Megan! My aunt and uncle are dead and they’ve arrested my dad!”
Well, that got my attention. I ushered her into my office and closed the door. Celeste was early twenties, with dark hair and a medium build. I met her during my jail stint.
“Okay, now take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”
“Well, my mom called me and that’s what she said.”
“So your father was arrested for murder?”
“Hang on,” I said as I dialed my phone. Within a few minutes, one of my law partners, Rich Dewey, entered the room.
“Now, let’s go through this step by step,” I said. “Your dad has been arrested. Do they think he killed your uncle?"
“And my aunt. He went to their house because no one came to get Mitch and they didn’t answer the phone.”
“What police department was at the scene?” asked Rich.
“Ah, the county sheriff. But this makes no sense. My folks and my aunt and uncle always got along. Now they’re dead. My God.”
When she began to blurt and sob, I summoned Glenda, who brought a root beer and a cream cheese pastry.
After Celeste took a few swigs of the root beer, she said, “No sense, no damn sense. Those Redmonds always hated the Goblets and my mom is a Goblet and my aunt Val is a Redmond and Shiny Goblet would kill anyone for a buck.”
Rich looked at me in utter confusion then turned to Celeste and said, “I’ll go the sheriff’s office to see your dad. I’ll be in touch.”
Rich closed the door behind him.
“Who’s Shiny Goblet?” I asked.
“Fred Goblet.”
“Oh, right, he operates an insurance agency in Kimball. He seems respectable enough.”
“Oh, he’s a snake, a’right. A slimy cheat. Got divorced because he was foolin’ around on his wife. That was years ago.” She heaved a great sigh. “My aunt and uncle…just can’t believe it…finally getting’ that room built on…and now they’re dead.”
“Celeste, I want you to go home. Mitch is there, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. Van brings him about quarter till four.”
“Then go home…help take care of him. I will go to the scene. You’ll hear from me or Rich, or maybe Gus, my other partner.”
“But I want to go with you,” she said.
“They’ll never let family get close. I don’t even know if I can get in even as the family attorney. Listen, your family needs to keep Mitch, at least for now. I’ll try to collect clothes and things and bring them over.”
Celeste nodded as she rose and walked stiff-legged to the door. It occurred to me that I hadn’t smelled smoke on her, which pleased me.
I rang Melanie Sundstrom, my Nordic-blonde paralegal, who quickly appeared at the door. I gave a quick sketch of the situation then told her to follow Celeste home.
“Wait, take this.” I walked over and gave my National Geographic floor globe a spin. “Mitch loves this…the colors and the texture of the mountains. I can get a new one.”
“I saw Junior and Valerie at Custer’s just last week,” she said.
“I’s horrible. Oh, let Gus in on things when his meeting ends. Thanks.”
On the way to the Percival house on this chilly November day, I thought about Edward  “Junior” Percival and Valerie Percival. Last week, they’d brought in Mitch, their only child, a profoundly autistic, mentally retarded, nonverbal youngster of fifteen. That poor boy—he struggled greatly with change, so the permanent disappearance of his parents would hit him hard. As I neared the Percival house, my hands began to sweat. I’d never visited a murder scene—well, except for the ones I’d participated in. Three Cheyenne County cruisers were parked in the street blocking traffic. So I parked a block away. Onlookers gathered in the yards. An ambulance was parked backwards in the single-lane driveway behind a silver pickup truck I assumed to be Junior’s. The Dexter police car was parked directly in the front of the house—the presence of our chief of police heartened me.
Chief Tate McNeill met me as I approached the sidewalk of the narrow, light beige, single-story house.
“Megan, I don’t know if they’ll let you in,” he said.
“Well, let me try.”
The moment I approached the front porch, the county sheriff and one of his deputies crowded me to a stop.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said Sheriff Stan Smythe.
“Do you know Mitch?” I asked.
“I know about him,” said the burly cop.
“Then you know he’s epileptic.”
“Ah, right.”
“Now that boy is going to suffer greatly over a loss he’ll never understand. I don’t think he needs seizures on top of the deaths of his parents, do you?”
The sheriff scratched his late-day whiskers.
“I’m here to collect meds and clothing for Mitch. I’m also his attorney and the attorney for the Percival estate. Now, I’m asking that you allow me to enter this house. Chief McNeill can supervise me.” I handed him my card.
“You will not disturb or take photos of the crime scenes,” said the sheriff.
“I have no legal interest in the criminal aspects of the case. I do plan to bag up several of Mitch’s toys and DVDs, with your permission and inspection, of course.”
“All right, make it quick,” said Sheriff Smythe.
As soon as I stepped into the front room, I heard him—a gasp of surprise then a grunt. And I felt it—evil. Cold and terrible. Then I saw him—flat on his back, blood had run down from the bullet hole under Junior’s chin onto his neck, staining his sweatshirt collar dark. Blood had pooled beside him on the wood floorboards and the edge had been smudged. Blood was splattered on the taupe wall behind him. A rifle lay on the floor next to him, but not in his hand. My God.
I knew this man. He was no more. Why?
Chief Tate gently tugged my arm and I walked with him. But leaving the room gave me no relief—the house was thick with menace and pain; fear hung in the air as we entered the kitchen. The second death happened here—I knew it before I saw her.
A scream jolted me to a stop. She had screamed in terror, gasped, and then gurgled. I stepped forward and peered around the kitchen table. Val was slumped against the door to their bedroom, a dark hole in her forehead. She wasn’t bloody, but a dark smudge was visible on the left side of her neck. Her head was propped up by the frame of the door, her arms hung down at her side, and her left leg was straight out in front of her as the other was bent so that her foot rested against the inside of her left knee. Along the inside of the pant leg was a dark spot and the sole of her gray slipper showed a dark smudge. Like Junior, she wore jeans, but with a royal blue fleece pullover, probably the clothes they changed into after work. My phone buzzed inside my purse, but I ignored it.
“The evil just hangs in the air,” I said.
“Um, right,” said Chief Tate. “The Sheriff says Junior must have shot her, shoved her against the door…she’s got bruises on both sides of her neck. Then he went into the front room and shot himself.”
“But that can’t be. I know these people…I mean, not close…but it doesn’t seem right.”
My whole body went to lead. Chief Tate pulled me to a cupboard in the kitchen.
“Ah, right. Meds.” I started opening the cupboard doors.
“Here,” Tate said as he looked into a cupboard beside the sink.
On the inside of a door was a list of medications, their dosages, and the schedule of times for administration. Prozac, Seroquel, Risperdal, Depakote, multivitamin, Miralax, melatonin—no wonder they needed a list. I found a box of plastic bags. I started loading the stash of bottles into the sack. Tate gently pulled down the list from the door and added it to the bags. I took it to the front door where I set it down for the deputies to investigate. The sheriff walked over to me.
“Judge Shelton is a family friend. I’m going to tell him of your good judgment in allowing Chief and me to get these items for Mitch…or would that get you in trouble?”
He nodded to me. “That would be fine, Miz Docket.”
When I walked back to the kitchen, Tate was grinning at me.
“Quite the diplomat,” he whispered.
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
“I’m a huge fan of the Wind Series and this one is by far, the best! Judy Bruce pushes Megan, already reeling from the loss of her unborn child and many other lives, to the very limit and we’re left to watch as Megan picks up the pieces. Emotional roller coaster wrapped up in a brutal double-murder is the crux of Lies in the Wind. While there was quite a bit more characters to keep straight, it added to the depth of the mystery and I enjoyed trying to figure it out before Megan did. An edge of your seat thriller with a flawed female protagonist who puts her life on the line to help solve the crimes in her town. Highly recommend!” ~ N. N. Light
Lies in the Wind is a murder mystery with just enough romance sprinkled in it to give it a real down to earth feel. This novel is evenly paced and is a well-written whodunit. Bruce covers all her bases on this one keeping the reader involved, tracing over the clues and the characters woven into the story. Bruce will keep you guessing who the killers and if Megan Docket will be able to prove the guilt of the real murderer? The mix of deduction, intuition, and well, quiddity kept the pages turning. I just could not wait to see what happened next. So if you’re up for a ‘who done it’ with a little Western/American Indian twist you could easily get hooked with this latest in Judy Bruce’s Wind Series. You can rest assured you will not be able to set it down.” ~ AuthorsReading
“Bruce keeps up a crackling pace in her fifth Docket novel, helping the reader keep track of a large cast through good exposition and a cast list. Megan’s psychic abilities help nudge her in the right direction but aren’t overly convenient, giving her room to demonstrate her lawyerly and investigative chops. As with the previous novels, Megan’s personality interestingly blends compassion and practicality. She’ll kill if she has to but pleads with God, ‘Please don’t let me be evil.’ A few clever surprises keep readers guessing with a satisfying outcome. Another fine series entry, featuring a well-rounded heroine whose psychic abilities are just some of her gifts.” ~ Kirkus Reviews

About the Author
Judy Bruce
Judy Bruce is a novelist and screenwriter. In addition to her acclaimed novel, Death Steppe: A World War II Novel, five stories have been published from her Wind Series: Voices in the Wind, Alone in the Wind, Cries in the Wind, Fire in the Wind, and Lies in the Wind. Judy maintains a website and a blog. She is a wife, mother, and sister residing in Omaha, Nebraska, and a Creighton University law school graduate. Her autistic son keeps her in touch with her quirky side.