Space Vault: The Seed Eclipse (Sci-Fi Galaxy)

Jeremy Clift’s Space Vault: The Seed Eclipse is the kind of book that makes you want to turn off your phone, forget the outside world, and lose yourself in a future that feels both terrifying and hopeful. As a twenty-eight-year-old who grew up loving both space epics and grounded, character-driven stories, I found this book to be a compelling fusion of big-idea science fiction and intimate human drama.

The story kicks off in Lagos, Nigeria, April 4, 2102, with “The Ragtag Army,” a chapter that immediately sets the tone, which is chaotic, desperate, and alive. The prose doesn’t waste time easing you in; instead, it throws you into a future Earth struggling with decay, power struggles, and a looming question of survival. Clift doesn’t just build a futuristic world; he roots it in our current anxieties about climate collapse, inequality, and the race for resources. It feels eerily plausible.

One of the most fascinating elements is Clara’s Seed Bank, a literal vault of life and biodiversity. As Clift writes, “Love is space and time measured by the heart," a Proust epigraph that echoes throughout the novel, especially in how the characters wrestle with survival versus compassion. Clara’s mission isn’t just scientific; it’s deeply moral. Do we save plants, DNA, and heritage for an uncertain future, or do we focus on surviving the present moment? That tension carries through the entire narrative.

The villains, particularly Zaun, are more than just one-dimensional threats. His recalibrations and control over others speak to the dangers of unchecked technological power. He isn’t evil for the sake of being evil; instead, he’s terrifying because his logic makes a certain cold, utilitarian sense. For me, that made the later chapters, especially “Outsmarting Zaun," all the more satisfying.

What I appreciated most was how Clift balances large-scale action with deeply personal stakes. Teagan’s storyline, from giving birth to dreaming of a different future, hits with emotional weight. Amid battles, abductions, and political machinations, we’re reminded that survival is also about family, grief, and hope. When Noel grieves, it doesn’t feel like a side note; it feels like the emotional spine of the story.

The novel grapples with extinction, legacy, and the question of whether humanity deserves to endure. “Terms of Extinction” feels particularly haunting, forcing readers to consider not just how we survive, but whether our survival has meaning if we lose what makes us human along the way.

Clift’s writing is dense with tech and futurism, but it’s never dry. He has a way of layering action, like the Draxid attack, with big questions about trust, loyalty, and resilience. As someone who grew up with Star Wars and later devoured more cerebral sci-fi like The Expanse, I felt this book bridged those two modes beautifully: cinematic enough to thrill, thoughtful enough to linger.

In the end, Space Vault: The Seed Eclipse is more than just a sci-fi adventure; it’s a meditation on survival, love, and the seeds we plant (literally and metaphorically) for the future. For readers like me who crave both action and meaning, this book delivers on both fronts.


Space Vault: The Seed Eclipse

As a long-time reader of science fiction and fantasy, I look for stories that not only entertain but also expand the imagination. Jeremy Clift’s Space Vault: The Seed Eclipse succeeds on both counts, delivering a bold vision of humanity’s future while weaving in themes that feel timeless.

One of the most striking sections comes early on in “The Glass House." The setting isn’t just a futuristic construct but a metaphor for fragility, both of human society and the ecosystems that sustain us. In the same way that fantasy worlds often use magical artifacts to symbolize power, Clift employs technology as a mirror of our own vulnerabilities. His attention to atmosphere, describing environments on the brink of collapse, recalls the best speculative world-building.

The novel thrives on its ensemble cast, each character embodying a different response to survival and ambition. Gabby’s sense of calling stood out to me as particularly resonant. In her, we see not just determination, but the almost mythic notion of destiny, a theme more often found in fantasy epics than in space-based narratives. It’s this blending of genres that makes Clift’s work distinctive.

Shiko’s transformation provides another memorable thread. His arc from doubt to belief parallels the classic “conversion” or “redemption” journeys found in epic fantasy. Yet here it unfolds against the backdrop of future science and alien encounters, underscoring how belief systems adapt and endure across time.

The action sequences are executed with precision, and I particularly enjoyed the momentum of “The Chase” and the unsettling spectacle of “The Masque." These moments reminded me of why I love science fiction: the ability to stage scenes that are both imaginative and intense, while also carrying allegorical weight. Zaun’s influence, particularly in his moments of control and recalibration, provides the kind of layered antagonist who could stand alongside the great villains of speculative fiction.

Clift also balances these dramatic arcs with quieter but profound moments. “A Mother’s Love” is one such example, grounding the narrative in deeply human emotions. For all the galactic intrigue and alien threats, the novel reminds us that survival is about relationships, sacrifice, and care. That insistence on the human heart at the center of vast cosmic stakes is what gives this book its enduring power.

By the final chapters, particularly “The Reckoning” and “Outsmarting Zaun,” the story comes together in a satisfying way, blending tension, strategy, and moral choice. For me, the experience was akin to reading an epic fantasy saga reimagined in space: battles fought not only with weapons and machines, but also with conviction, sacrifice, and cunning.

Space Vault: The Seed Eclipse offers a sweeping vision that should appeal to fans of both hard science fiction and character-driven fantasy. Jeremy Clift has written a story that dares to look outward into the cosmos while never losing sight of the inner struggles that define us.


Speak with the Dead

Speak with the Dead is one of the more enjoyable fantasy novels I’ve come across this year. Taylor’s novel takes a world which could become another grimdark saga—the story opens with debt collectors coming after the protagonist’s widowed mother and goes on after the protagonist practically sells herself to be a soldier—and instead becomes a Dungeons & Dragons-inspired romp, with a little political drama tossed in for flavor. At times, the modern tone of it threw me off a little, but on the whole, I greatly enjoyed the read.

Anna, the aforementioned protagonist, quickly goes from being a baker’s daughter who hunts in the woods and scavenges ruined houses to supplement her mother’s income to being a soldier called on to fulfill a potentially deadly mission. She is a delightful character to follow, filling the mold of a classic fantasy protagonist with enough freshness to keep her familiar rather than stale. The story keeps that same feeling; it reminded me of the fantasy novels I grew up with, and I greatly enjoyed seeing the places it broke from the patterns, along with seeing old patterns I remembered.

What interested me most was the hints of worldbuilding that came through in the narrative. Taylor focuses mostly on the action of the book, but does a good job making it feel as though that action is taking place in a wider world, one which has not only a variety of people in it but a rich history behind it.

My one complaint about the book (and the reason for giving four rather than five stars) was that some of the scenes dragged on. They never became a slog, but I recall a few that seemed to be more for the purpose of amusing the reader than anything else. Some may enjoy these scenes, but I felt the amusement could have appeared just as easily in the scenes that also explored character dynamics or the wider world. Those parts of the book that did focus on those elements were much more enjoyable.

On the whole, Speak with the Dead was a lot of fun to read, and I found myself speeding through it! I recommend it to anyone who has fond memories of Tolkien knock-offs and wants something that has a lighter touch, or who never really saw themselves in what was often a male-dominated genre. I’m eager to read more of Taylor’s work when I get a chance!


Fade In: A Thriller

Kyle Mills’ Fade In hooked me from the first chapter and didn’t let go. Not because the hero is perfect, but because he’s not. Salam “Fade” al-Fayed is a mess in the best way possible. He’s a former Navy SEAL and covert operative with the skills to dismantle an elite strike team, but also the cynicism, bad habits, and self-destructive streak of someone who’s been through too many wars, both literal and personal. His flaws aren’t just window dressing; they drive the way he approaches every fight, every decision, and every relationship.

The opening sequence alone is worth the price of admission. Fade wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of intruders and handles it with equal parts tactical genius and improvised chaos, armed to the teeth but wearing next to nothing. The action here isn’t glossy movie choreography; it’s gritty, fast, and unpredictable. Bullets tear through plaster, homemade explosives take down walls, and at one point, the soundtrack to The Go-Go’s “We Got the Beat” plays over the carnage. Mills balances the adrenaline with just enough humor to make you smirk while you’re gripping the book.

What makes these action scenes pop is how grounded they feel. Mills writes them with a tactician’s eye: angles, timing, cover, and movement all matter. But he never loses sight of the fact that fights are messy. Fade gets lucky sometimes, makes mistakes, and takes hits. It’s never “cool guy” invincibility; it’s survival at its most raw.

And that’s where Fade’s flaws make him interesting. He’s not on a noble crusade. He’s broke, tired, and often operating on pure instinct. He’ll admit he doesn’t believe his actions will change the world for the better, and that moral detachment can be uncomfortable to read. But it’s real. His cynicism is earned, and every so often, it cracks just enough to show that maybe, deep down, he still wants redemption.

The supporting characters add to the tension, especially Matt Egan, a former CIA operator now working for billionaire Jon Lowe, a man who thinks in cold, global chess moves. Lowe is the kind of character you can’t help but watch closely; he’s smart, dangerous, and convinced he’s doing the right thing, even when it means blackmail or unleashing autonomous killer drones. Egan, stuck between loyalty and pragmatism, makes a great counterweight to Fade’s lone wolf mentality.

What I enjoyed most was that Mills doesn’t pull punches with his hero. Fade’s past is ugly, his present is unstable, and his future is uncertain. He screws up. He makes questionable calls. He’s a professional at keeping people at arm’s length. But in the middle of chaos with bullets flying, smoke filling the air, and enemies closing in, he comes alive. That’s when his flaws stop being weaknesses and start being the thing that keeps him breathing.

If you want a thriller with non-stop action and a protagonist who’s as frustrating as he is fascinating, Fade In delivers. It’s not about saving the world, it’s about surviving it, and that’s exactly what makes it such a rush to read.


Fade In: A Thriller

Kyle Mills’ Fade In is a smart, high-octane thriller that hits the sweet spot between pulse-racing action and razor-sharp character work. As someone who devours espionage fiction, I was prepared for firefights and close calls, but what I wasn’t expecting was how much I’d enjoy watching a protagonist think his way out of trouble. Salam “Fade” al-Fayed isn’t just quick with a trigger; he’s quick with his mind, and that makes all the difference.

From the very first scene, Mills sets a tone that is both intense and surprisingly witty. Fade wakes up to the sound of an approaching strike team, and within minutes, he’s turned his house into a lethal playground of traps, camera feeds, and improvised defenses. This isn’t just action for the sake of spectacle. Every move he makes feels calculated. Mills gives us the perspective of someone who’s been in the field long enough to anticipate not just the next shot, but the next five moves ahead. I love that kind of competence in a character. It’s not just about muscle; it’s about using the brain as the most dangerous weapon in the room.

The action scenes are some of the best I’ve read in a while. They’re dynamic without ever feeling overblown. Mills writes with a precision that makes you feel like you’re moving through each firefight alongside Fade, ducking behind walls, watching angles, and counting steps. In one particularly memorable sequence, explosives take out part of his home, flames lick the air, and yet, amid the chaos, Fade is coolly orchestrating his next attack. It’s the blend of adrenaline and deliberate planning that makes these moments addictive. I found myself rereading certain passages just to enjoy the rhythm of the action again.

What elevates the book for me is Fade’s intelligence paired with his moral complexity. He’s not a spotless hero; rather, he's far from it. His cynicism runs deep, and he often makes choices that live in a moral gray zone. But the more I followed him, the more I understood the logic behind his decisions. Something is fascinating about a man who doesn’t pretend to be righteous, yet still can’t fully abandon the idea of protecting people when it counts. His ability to adapt, anticipate, and manipulate situations isn’t just a skill; it’s survival, and Mills makes it clear that survival in this world requires both brains and brawn.

The supporting cast amplifies the tension. Matt Egan, a former CIA operative, and Jon Lowe, a billionaire with a taste for strategic dominance, provide both allies and foils for Fade’s sharp mind. Lowe, in particular, is a fascinating counterpoint—another intelligent man, but one whose ethics are slippery and whose resources are seemingly limitless. Their interactions highlight the difference between tactical brilliance used for personal survival versus global manipulation.

Ultimately, Fade In delivers the kind of thriller I crave: action that makes sense, stakes that feel real, and a lead character whose intelligence is just as thrilling to watch as his gunfights. Fade is a man who can dismantle a kill team in his underwear, then outthink a room full of dangerous power players. And that combination, brains, skill, and just enough unpredictability, makes him a protagonist worth following anywhere Mills wants to take him next.


Ellie Ment and the Material Matter

Okay, so first things first: this book is a blast. Ellie Ment and the Material Matter isn’t your average “kid genius saves the world” story. It’s fun, it’s quirky, and it somehow manages to sneak real science lessons into a story that never feels like homework. Honestly, if my middle school science class had been even half as entertaining as this, I might have paid a lot more attention.

Ellie, the eleven-year-old scientist at the center of the story, is equal parts brilliant and chaotic. She’s the kind of kid who sneaks out at 2 a.m. with a backpack full of jam jars to collect rainwater samples. You can’t help but root for her. I mean, the girl sees her brand-new school go up in purple flames, and instead of panicking, she’s like, “Wait a second, that doesn’t add up.” That moment had me grinning because it shows exactly who Ellie is: curious, stubborn, and not about to take any lazy explanations from adults.

The book has a lot of important messages as well. On one hand, you’ve got the pure joy of science: Ellie geeking out over the periodic table, explaining static electricity with her brother’s balloon and a feather, or turning spilled lemonade and charcoal into a mini-experiment right in the middle of her art exam. On the other hand, there’s a bigger message about the environment. Plastic waste, litter, and rainwater pollution. It all sneaks in between the adventures. It’s not heavy-handed, though. The story keeps it light with jokes, weird side notes, and hilarious characters like Lucas, the kid who builds a trash castle that literally collapses on him.

And let’s talk about Michael, Ellie’s best friend. He’s nicknamed “Upcycle Michael” because he’s always building these random inventions out of junk. At one point, he basically cobbles together a makeshift pencil from a postcard, gum, and charcoal. It’s gross, but genius. Their friendship is one of my favorite parts of the book. Ellie’s the brainy scientist, Michael’s the creative tinkerer, and together they’re unstoppable (well, kind of).

What really hooked me, though, was the tone. The narrator talks to you like a buddy, cracking jokes, tossing in asides, and making science feel like something you’d actually want to mess around with. I laughed out loud more than once, which isn’t something I can usually say about books that have diagrams of the water cycle hidden in them.

Bottom line? Ellie Ment and the Material Matter is smart, funny, and way more exciting than I expected. It’s the kind of book I’d happily pass along to my younger cousins, but also one I had no problem enjoying as a grown-up who just likes a good adventure. Think Horrible Histories meets Stranger Things, but with jam jars, explosions, and a whole lot of heart.


Ellie Ment and the Material Matter

Bertie Stephens’ Ellie Ment and the Material Matter is a delightful blend of adventure, science, and environmental awareness, wrapped in a story that is equal parts playful and thought-provoking. As someone who appreciates books that manage to both entertain and teach, I found myself quickly immersed in Ellie’s world, a small English town, a curious young scientist with endless jam jars, and a mystery that crackles with purple flames.

At its heart, this is a book about curiosity and the courage to ask questions. Ellie, an eleven-year-old who proudly declares herself a scientist, refuses to accept explanations that don’t add up. Early in the story, she muses, “Magic isn’t science. But science is magic. And more importantly, Ellie can do science”. That line struck me as the book’s true thesis, an invitation to young readers (and the adults reading alongside them) to see wonder not in the fantastical, but in the tangible mysteries of the natural world.

The novel weaves together several important themes. Foremost is the joy of scientific discovery. Ellie’s experiments—meticulously burying jam jars to collect rainwater in different seasons, or testing her theories on carbon and combustion—show children that science isn’t confined to a laboratory. It’s everywhere, accessible with nothing more than a notebook, patience, and a willingness to get wet in the rain.

Environmental awareness is another strong undercurrent. The story brims with playful but pointed commentary about waste, pollution, and our relationship with the planet. Lucas, the local litterbug who builds a castle out of rubbish only for it to collapse on him, offers both comedy and critique. More poignantly, Ellie’s experiments with rainfall and the presence of plastics around Hapsie reveal how human actions seep into even the smallest details of nature.

Ellie herself is wonderfully imperfect. She’s brilliant with numbers but hopeless at drawing, endlessly curious yet sometimes impatient, brave but still very much a child. Her friend Michael, nicknamed “Upcycle Michael,” provides a balance—less precise, more inventive, and constantly tinkering with discarded objects. Their friendship highlights the theme that intelligence takes many forms, whether it’s through equations or creative problem-solving.Ellie Ment and the Material Matter succeeds in something rare: it makes science feel exciting without being intimidating, and it threads environmental themes into a story without preaching. Children will enjoy the quirky adventures, the jam-jar experiments, and the mysteries Ellie stumbles into, while adults will appreciate the book’s gentle encouragement to nurture curiosity and responsibility in the next generation.

For me, the joy of this book lies in its balance: it is both fun and meaningful, both silly and serious. Ellie’s world is full of purple flames, fizzing experiments, and unanswered questions, but above all, it is filled with hope, the hope that one curious child with a backpack of jam jars really can make a difference.


Calypso Blue: A Len Buonfiglio/Caribbean Mystery

Brian Silverman’s Calypso Blue is an atmospheric, smartly plotted mystery that blends the easy rhythms of island life with a darker undercurrent of secrets, suspicion, and island justice. Set on the fictional Caribbean island of St. Pierre, the novel follows Len Buonfiglio, a former New York City bar owner who now lives a quieter life running a sports bar called The Sporting Place, until the death of a local legend, Lord Ram, upends the calm.

Silverman’s greatest strength lies in his immersive setting. The island is as much a character as Len himself, with its winding roads, heavy air, gossip-filled streets, and vibrant music scene. From the opening pages, readers are pulled into a world where news travels faster by taxi driver chatter than social media. When beloved calypsonian Lord Ram is found gravely injured, later dead, rumors ignite like dry brush in the midday sun. Was it a fall? Or did his longtime companion Sassy have something to do with it?

One of the most energetic and colorful scenes occurs early in the book, when a spontaneous island-wide celebration (or mourning, depending on who you ask) breaks out at Len’s bar. Within hours, music promoter Rondell Myles has hijacked the bar to host an unofficial tribute fete for Lord Ram, complete with grilled chicken, pounding calypso, and dancers in barely-there shorts. The scene is vibrant and chaotic, the kind of local moment that feels wholly real. “We put on a true bacchanal,” Rondell boasts, and he’s not wrong.

But Silverman doesn’t stop at carnival flair. Beneath the lively drinks and music are creeping suspicions. Was Ram’s death really an accident? Why are strange gifts, like a case of exotic vermouth, appearing at Len’s doorstep? And what is Superintendent McWilliams really trying to tell Len when he delivers the news of Ram’s death with an oddly timed warning not to trust the gossip?

The mystery unfolds slowly but deliberately. Len, a reluctant sleuth, becomes involved not out of duty but out of instinct and care for his adopted home. “You still don’t understand us,” Tubby, Len’s loyal partner, tells him, and much of the novel explores that gap between native and newcomer, insider and observer.

While Calypso Blue leans more toward character-driven intrigue than fast-paced thrills, there are moments of genuine suspense, particularly when Len begins connecting dots that others would rather leave scattered. The conclusion offers resolution without tidy simplicity, much like the island itself.

For readers who enjoy mystery wrapped in rich culture, colorful characters, and a touch of Caribbean noir, Calypso Blue is a rewarding escape. It’s a reminder that paradise isn’t without shadows, and sometimes, even rum punch can’t drown out the truth.


The Sky of Sacrifice

Rich with emotion and high-stakes fantasy, this novel deepens its world while raising the personal and political consequences for its characters. Rosalia Aguilar Solace weaves romance, mystery, and danger into a story where knowledge is power and secrets carry devastating weight. As Nu steps fully into her role as the Sage of Truth, her internal conflict between love and duty adds poignancy to the unfolding crisis.

The setting of the Great Library of Tomorrow remains a captivating anchor, its promise of wisdom contrasted sharply with acts of violence and the return of long-buried truths. Multiple storylines unfold in tandem, from realm-spanning quests to journeys through darkness that test loyalty and resolve. Each path is distinct yet thematically linked, creating a strong sense of momentum and scale. The author excels at exploring friendship under pressure and the cost of confronting evil. Thoughtful, immersive, and emotionally resonant, The Sky of Sacrifice is a compelling fantasy that rewards both character investment and a love of richly imagined worlds.


A Ferry Merry Christmas: A Novel

A Ferry Merry Christmas is the perfect book to get readers into the holiday spirit. When a ferry to Seattle breaks down, the people on that ferry must deal with the various situations they find themselves in. Avery is supposed to meet her brother Reed and Harrison is supposed to meet his sister Kellie. What happens is both exciting and serendipitous. On the other hand, James’ wife Lilly is about to give birth. With no family to help, will he make it back in time for the birth of his child?

Debbie Macomber writes stories that are so easy to read and follow that it’s almost impossible to put the book down. Her characters each have their own personalities and the dialogue flows naturally. I love how almost the whole story took place on the ferry. Macomber also does a great job of describing the city of Seattle as the people on land wait for their loved ones who are stuck on the ferry. From the fish-throwing market to the Ferris wheel, this book gives readers a small scenic tour.


Leila and the Voice

Leila is a little girl who must face the mad cloud that grows and grows. Leila runs until she is lost and alone in a very dark space. Soon, however, she hears a quiet voice. Leila asks if the voice needs help, but the voice is too frightened to speak, so Leila works to free the voice. Then, they sit, and Leila talks about the mad cloud. As they walk in the dreary jungle, the voice expresses fears, and Leila finds solutions. Eventually, Leila battles the cloud by turning the voice into a sea serpent. Still, the cloud will not stop, and Leila becomes too afraid to speak. Now, the voice reminds Leila she is mighty. Together, they fly into the wind, and Leila promises to never forget the voice.

Shahrzad Maydani has written a deeply meaningful book about confronting one’s fears, finding one’s voice, and realizing that we are, in fact, mighty. The illustrations beautifully capture the intense energy of the mad cloud and the darkness that seems to descend everywhere when we feel afraid and alone. In a world that can be frightening even to adults, this is a beautiful book to help young readers navigate their fears.


Confessions of a Junior Spy (Confessions of a Junior Spy, 1)

Bea lives in a hotel, but not just any hotel, the Pangean Hotel, which is a hotel for spies! Bea wants to become a spy like her mom,  but her mom wants her to go to “Normal” school (like normal people). Everything is as normal as it can be for a spy hotel until a family arrives by helicopter. When Bea is tasked with cleaning the room the family stays in, she finds Chantal holding a kitchen knife. They become fast friends, along with Bea’s other friend, Tommy. The kids join forces to solve the agents chasing Chantal’s family and avoid Normal school at all costs!

I like a good espionage story, and Confessions of a Junior Spy by Rosaria Munda is really good. At the back of the book, there’s a map of the Pangean Hotel, and I love a good map too. Bea is interesting. She’s relatable, especially in how kids think that adults make all the important decisions without them. This book has exciting twists and surprising turns, and kids save the day, which is always great. I liked Bea because she knows what she wants and doesn’t let adults convince her otherwise.


Grizelda the Green Hates Halloween

Grizelda is a witch who hates rude children banging on her door on Halloween, so she hatches a plan to use magic to destroy Halloween. First, she explodes all the pumpkins, but the kids think it is a prank. Next, Grizelda shatters the lights, but the kids use flashlights. Finally, she casts a spell, making all their candy disgusting. Still, her plan fails when the children become fascinated that she is a real witch. One brave girl even tells her that Grizelda has given them the best Halloween ever. This changes Grizelda, and she chooses to do good magic. All the children’s costumes become real for the night: superheroes can fly and cowgirls ride real horses. Best of all, Grizelda becomes a witch who loves Halloween.

Grizelda the Green Hates Halloween is a fun read that celebrates the upcoming holiday. A.A. Livingston’s use of rhythm and rhyme makes the text delightfully trip off the tongue. At the same time, this story provides a subtle reminder about the power of attitude to change whether something is seen as good or bad.


The Sorcery of White Rats: A Novel

Having read decades of fantasy and science fiction from Tolkien and Le Guin to newer voices like Jemisin, I find myself less dazzled by spectacle and more intrigued by how stories use the fantastic to probe human truths. Adam Bertocci’s The Sorcery of White Rats struck me as just that sort of novel: not merely a tale of visions and world-ending prophecy, but a layered exploration of how fragile lives intersect with forces too large to name.

The story follows Bristol Volavaunt and her roommate Monroe Fisher, two women in their twenties who find their unremarkable lives shaken when Monroe experiences a vision of apocalypse so vivid it rattles her sense of reality. What stood out most to me was not the chaos of the vision itself, but the aftermath: Monroe muttering over and over, “We have to get out of the city.” That single refrain captures the dread of knowing something is deeply wrong, while the rest of the world carries on as usual.

As someone who has lived through decades of upheaval, I appreciated how the book portrays that uneasy gap between private terror and public indifference. When Monroe collapses, speaking in tongues and declaring herself “Empress,” bound to bring about destruction, I couldn’t help but think of countless historical moments when people dismissed prophets, only to later realize they might have glimpsed a truth too terrible to confront.

The speculative heart of the novel is most evident in its treatment of dreams and consciousness. I enjoyed the sections with Xochitl, the neuroscientist, who frames Monroe’s visions not as supernatural but as part of the slippery overlap between dreaming, psychosis, and prophecy. That interplay reminded me of classic science fiction’s fascination with perception and reality; Philip K. Dick in particular comes to mind. When Xochitl muses that REM sleep might itself be a form of psychosis, the book dares us to wonder if all of human consciousness is a fragile, negotiated hallucination.

I also admired the symbolic touches. Bristol’s fixation on discarded objects like the picture frame she salvages from the trash early on represents her desire to give shape and meaning to her own life. The white rats she greets at the pet shop downstairs echo the novel’s title and serve as a living metaphor for humanity: small, overlooked, scrambling in cages of our own making, yet still subject to cosmic currents beyond comprehension.

If I have a quibble, it’s that the narrative’s structure, shifting between testimony, personal accounts, and more traditional narrative, occasionally diluted the emotional impact. At times, I longed for more immersion in the characters’ inner lives rather than being pulled into their fragmented retellings. The novel demands patience, and younger readers might find its rhythms disorienting.

Still, as a lover of speculative fiction, I found The Sorcery of White Rats to be a rewarding read. It marries the intimacy of a friendship with the enormity of cosmic forces, offering both the claustrophobia of a shabby apartment and the terrifying vastness of a universe on the brink. It’s not escapism in the traditional sense; it’s too raw and unnerving for that, but it is a reminder of why I read science fiction and fantasy in the first place: to see our human struggles refracted through the prism of the unknown.


The Sorcery of White Rats

Adam Bertocci’s The Sorcery of White Rats is a wild, cerebral, and strangely heartfelt novel that blends apocalyptic visions, quarter-life crises, and the mysteries of art and friendship into a narrative that is as imaginative as it is unsettling. Reading it, I felt as though I’d been dropped into a mashup of literary fiction, magical realism, and cosmic horror, yet grounded by a story of two young women simply trying to figure out life in a city that seems to eat its young.

At the center of the novel is Bristol Volavaunt, a struggling artist, and her roommate Monroe Fisher, a bartender with a gift for charm and an eye for chaos. Their ordinary existence, scraping by in a dingy walk-up above a pet shop, dodging debt, chasing dreams too big for their bank accounts, is upended when Monroe experiences a vision of the world’s end. What begins as what might be dismissed as a drunken hallucination quickly spirals into something much stranger: a prophetic episode that hints at cosmic forces, forgotten contracts, and the terrifying fragility of existence.

Thematically, The Sorcery of White Rats operates on multiple levels. On the surface, it’s about friendship, specifically the kind of deep, messy bond two women in their twenties can form while sharing cramped quarters and shared fears of failure. Bristol’s loyalty to Monroe, even as her roommate’s visions grow darker and more dangerous, is both inspiring and troubling. It asks: when someone you love insists the end is near, do you dismiss them as unwell, or do you walk beside them into the fire?

Underneath that, the novel grapples with the artistic impulse itself. Bristol and Monroe are creative types trying to make sense of their lives through art, music, and performance, yet their struggles mirror the broader human need to find meaning in chaos. The references to music, theater, and visual art make the book feel not just like a story but a meditation on what it costs to pursue creation when the world seems indifferent.

There’s also an unmistakable spiritual undercurrent. Through Monroe’s visions and the philosophical musings of Xochitl, a neuroscience graduate student roped into their saga, the novel touches on dreams, prophecy, and neurotheology, the overlap between brain science and mystical experience. Bertocci leaves room for interpretation: are these divine revelations, psychotic breaks, or simply the dreams of young women desperate to be seen?

What struck me most was the tension between youthful optimism and creeping disillusionment. Bristol and Monroe are characters at the edge of adulthood, full of longing but already scarred by failure, and their story reminded me of how fragile and uncertain those years truly are.

The Sorcery of White Rats is not an easy read. It’s layered, experimental, and sometimes intentionally disorienting. But it’s also electric, funny, and surprisingly moving. It’s a book about art, apocalypse, and the stubborn human drive to make meaning, even when the universe seems bent on chaos.


The Sorcery of White Rats

Adam Bertocci’s The Sorcery of White Rats is one of those books that’s hard to explain, but once you're in, you’re in. Part comedy, part cosmic meltdown, part heartfelt ode to female friendship, it’s a weird, wonderful ride through the minds of two young women just trying to survive life, art, and the end of the world.

Our narrator, Bristol Volavaunt, is an underemployed artist living in a crummy apartment over a pet store, navigating a quarter-life crisis with a mix of sarcasm, self-doubt, and stubborn hope. She’s the kind of character you instantly get: awkward, observant, quietly talented, and just trying to find something that sticks. “She believed in herself, for some reason,” the narrator quips early on, and that line sums her up.

Then there’s Monroe, her wild, charming roommate who wakes up one morning after a vivid vision where she sees the world end: fire, destruction, doom, the works. “We have to get out of the city,” she repeats like a mantra, while Bristol tries to hold it all together. Is Monroe having a mental breakdown, or is she really some kind of prophet? And if it’s the latter, why her?

The story follows their search for answers, which leads them to Xochitl, an old college acquaintance of Bristol’s and a dream researcher with a sharp tongue and zero patience for nonsense. Their scenes together are a mix of awkward tension and hilarious deadpan, especially when Monroe starts channeling what might be a higher power, or something much worse.

One of the book’s biggest strengths is how it handles the messy, unglamorous parts of being a creative person. It doesn’t romanticize the starving artist life; it shows the anxiety, the rejection, the “what am I even doing?” moments. But it also captures the magic of finding your people. “This is the person who believes in me the most,” Bristol says of Monroe, and that line hit me harder than any of the apocalyptic prophecies.

Yes, there’s end-of-the-world drama, but it’s a story about friendship, deep, complicated, ride-or-die friendship, and what it means to support someone through something you don’t fully understand. Bertocci blends humor, philosophy, and some truly poetic writing (“She hummed a little tune… sweet and simple and sad”) with dialogue that’s sharp and real.

The Sorcery of White Rats is strange in all the best ways. If you like stories about oddball creatives, found family, and maybe-God-maybe-crazy visions of doom, this one’s for you. Just be ready for things to get weird and surprisingly moving.


The Sorcery of White Rats

Adam Bertocci’s The Sorcery of White Rats is one of those novels that’s hard to categorize, and I mean that both as praise and as a point of frustration. It’s a book that wants to be a story about two women navigating life in a big city, but it’s also about prophecy, neuroscience, art, and possibly the end of the world. Sometimes the blend works brilliantly; other times it feels like the author is juggling too many balls at once.

The novel follows Bristol Volavaunt, a painter struggling to hold onto her sense of purpose, and her roommate Monroe Fisher, a lively bartender whose sudden, terrifying vision of the apocalypse sets the story into motion. What impressed me most was how Bertocci grounds this high-concept premise in the everyday texture of their lives. The details are small but vivid: Bristol scavenging a picture frame off the sidewalk, or Monroe waking with her makeup smeared and hair in tangles after a long night. These little glimpses of their routine made the characters feel real, even as the plot veered into cosmic catastrophe.

I especially liked how the book explored female friendship. The bond between Bristol and Monroe is messy, funny, and deeply loyal. Bristol doesn’t abandon Monroe when her visions begin spiraling into talk of fire and destruction; instead, she carries her, literally at one point, through the city subway system in search of answers. That loyalty, bordering on stubbornness, rang true for me. It showed how women often shoulder one another’s crises, even when outsiders would label it irrational.

Another strength is the character of Xochitl, a neuroscientist who offers skeptical, sometimes clinical commentary on the strange events. I found her voice refreshing because she cut through some of the more dramatic flourishes with a reminder that dreams and psychosis can look an awful lot alike. She added an intellectual counterbalance that made me pause and ask myself what I believed about Monroe’s visions.

That said, the book sometimes worked against itself. The tribunal-style narrative, where characters seemed to be testifying after the fact, created intrigue but also made the story harder to follow. At times, the multiple perspectives felt disjointed, as though I were reading transcripts instead of a flowing novel. I also found some passages overwrought; the apocalyptic imagery, fire raining down, stars dying, locusts everywhere, was powerful, but after a while, it started to feel repetitive.

What I appreciated most, however, was the book’s willingness to lean into ambiguity. Was Monroe touched by the divine, caught in a psychotic break, or simply channeling some creative energy bigger than herself? Bertocci doesn’t force an answer, and that open-endedness lingered with me long after I closed the book.

In the end, The Sorcery of White Rats is ambitious, uneven, and fascinating. I admired its inventiveness and the way it captured the intimacy of friendship against a backdrop of looming doom. Readers who enjoy experimental fiction and don’t mind a bit of chaos will find plenty here to wrestle with.


The Sorcery of White Rats: A Novel

Let me start by saying: this book is weird. And I mean that in the best possible way. Adam Bertocci’s The Sorcery of White Rats is the kind of novel you read and then sit back like, “What did I just experience?” It’s part urban drama, part dream logic, and part “maybe the world is ending and your roommate might be the prophet of doom.”

The main characters, Bristol and Monroe, feel like people you’d know if you’ve ever lived in a big city in your twenties. They’re broke, scraping by, and still holding onto dreams that feel bigger than their reality. Bristol’s an artist who literally digs a picture frame out of the trash, because that’s the kind of broke-but-determined vibe she’s living. Monroe’s a bartender who’s all charisma and late nights, until one morning she wakes up seeing visions of the apocalypse and starts repeating, “We have to get out of the city.” Honestly, that line hit me. It’s such a simple sentence, but it becomes this drumbeat of panic that carries through the story.

What I really liked was how the book plays with the line between mental breakdown and supernatural prophecy. One second, Monroe’s collapsing on her bed, drenched in sweat, talking in this creepy, detached voice about fire, moons, and the end of the world. The next, you’ve got Xochitl, this neuroscience grad student, explaining how dreams are basically mini-psychotic episodes our brains throw at us every night. So is Monroe a prophet, or is she just someone whose brain is melting under the weight of stress and alcohol? The book never gives you a straight answer, and I kind of loved that.

Another thing I appreciated was the friendship at the center. Bristol doesn’t dump Monroe in a hospital and peace out. She sticks with her, carries her, humors her, and even defends her when she starts spouting stuff that sounds like it came out of a doomsday cult pamphlet. There’s a theme here about loyalty and how we sometimes ignore logic because we love someone too much to abandon them. That hit close to home.

Now, what didn’t work for me: the storytelling style can get messy. It’s not a straightforward novel. It’s like part testimony, part inner monologue, part stage script. At first, that was cool and different, but sometimes it felt like it got in the way of the story. I’d be deep in a scene, and then boom, another perspective shift would yank me out. I get that it’s intentional; it’s about multiple truths and how people remember events differently, but still, it was a little jarring.

I think what stuck with me most was the question of creation and destruction. The book is full of artists, musicians, dreamers, people who want to make something of themselves. But then Monroe’s vision is basically, “Nope, it’s all gonna burn.” It made me think about how every act of creation is haunted by the possibility of it being wiped out, whether that’s a painting, a song, or even just the life you’re trying to build. That’s some heavy stuff, but it’s handled with enough humor and rawness that it never feels preachy.

Bottom line: The Sorcery of White Rats isn’t for everyone. If you want something neat and tidy, this book will drive you nuts. But if you’re cool with messy, trippy, and sometimes flat-out unsettling storytelling that digs deep into art, friendship, and what it means to live when the world feels unstable, then this book’s worth the ride.


The Sorcery of White Rats: A Novel

I occasionally roll my eyes when authors get clever with describing the target audience for their books. Sometimes it genuinely is clever, and sometimes it’s just ridiculous. The Sorcery of White Rats is exactly what the author says it is, though: for “women in their twenties and everyone who remembers that terrible time”. Having just escaped my twenties, I have to admit that he’s right.

Not that my twenties were like those of Bristol and Monroe, who get wrapped up in apocalyptic prophecies. They are what my life could have been, but I was never able to follow that artistic path or make it to a big city. Instead I wound up in the suburbs, working retail and then childcare.

The vibes, though? Those ring true.

Bristol, Monroe, and their various supporting cast of artists and people hanging on the edge of what some might call “polite society” feel exaggerated, but not in an insulting or parodic way. They’re just stretched a little, brought up to 110% for the sake of making them jump off the page in places where perfect representations of young people might stumble or falter. They still feel real, and anyone who hung around artsy sorts in their twenties will recognize them.

Better still, their friendships feel real, and those are possibly the hardest things to capture about young women. Summing up the friendships of young women is an impossible endeavour, because we try to make that word cover so much territory, but Bertocci manages to show many sides to the multi-faceted, supportive, tense, difficult thing we sum up as “friendship”.

As for the rest, with the apocalyptic prophecy, the ancient ritual, and the attempts to save the world? It’s a wild ride that even I don’t know how to sum up. It’s an epic shrunk down to a reasonable size without losing anything, and a buddy comedy with weird twists and turns, and possibly a road trip story as well. It’s also a celebration of being in your early twenties, and I’m sure most readers will remember the conflicting attitudes of those years. The world is opening up around you, and at the same time there’s a chance it might come crashing down around your ears before you’re at all ready to deal with that.

I was delighted by this book and hope it’s just the first of many to come from Bertocci. This is a stunning debut and one that deserves to be a lasting favorite.


Fade In

As a longtime fan of military thrillers, I can say with confidence that Kyle Mills’ Fade In delivers the kind of hard-hitting, tactically sharp action I crave, and it does it with a protagonist worth rooting for from start to finish. Salam “Fade” al-Fayed is the kind of operator who makes you lean in closer with every chapter, not just because of his skill with a rifle, but because of the way he thinks under fire. He’s not perfect. He’s battle-worn, cynical, and occasionally reckless, but those flaws make him all the more real.

From the opening sequence, I was locked in. Fade wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of intruders moving on his property. No hesitation, no panic. He slips into SEAL mode, using a jury-rigged surveillance network and homemade traps to counter an elite black ops team. Watching him move through that fight was like seeing a chess master in the middle of a gunfight. He shifts from attic surveillance to explosive counterattacks, drops enemies with precision rifle shots, and even uses the chaos of fire and smoke to his advantage. By the time the dust settles, you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

Mills doesn’t give Fade an easy road, though, and that’s where the thrill is. In a flashback to his time overseas, Fade finds himself in a crumbling village, outnumbered and outgunned. The sequence starts quietly, moving through narrow alleys, scanning rooftops, but it explodes into violence when he comes across two men attacking a young girl. What follows is a brutal, close-quarters battle fought with knives, fists, and sheer willpower. It’s not clean. It’s not pretty. But Fade’s determination to win, even injured, shows exactly why you want this guy on your side.

Another standout scene comes during the ambush in Kazakhstan, where Fade isn’t even the primary target—but his instincts kick in anyway. As bullets rip into armored SUVs and attackers close in from multiple directions, Fade reads the field in seconds. He exploits enemy weaknesses, anticipates their movements, and acts with the decisiveness of someone who has been in this position more times than he can count. Mills writes these moments with an authenticity that makes you believe every move, every burst of gunfire, and every decision Fade makes under pressure.

What I appreciate most is that Mills doesn’t write Fade as a superhero. He gets hurt, he makes mistakes, and sometimes he wins because he’s faster to adapt than the people shooting at him. But even when the odds are stacked, you can’t help but root for him. There’s a sense that, no matter what, Fade is going to make the enemy pay dearly for every inch they take.

By the end, Fade In feels like more than just a series of action set pieces, it’s the story of a fighter who’s too stubborn to quit, even when quitting might be the smart move. For fans of military-style action, battlefield tactics, and protagonists who refuse to lay down and die, this is as satisfying as it gets. Fade is the kind of character you’ll follow through every mission, every firefight, and every bad decision, because you know he’ll make it count.


Fade In

As a 48-year-old reader who loves action thrillers, I can say Fade In by Kyle Mills hits every note I look for: tense, tightly written action scenes, a smart and dangerous protagonist, and layered interactions that make the characters more than just pieces on a battlefield. Salam “Fade” al-Fayed is the kind of lead who doesn’t just survive the chaos; he shapes it. Mills gives him an edge that’s both tactical and personal, and it makes for a thrilling read.

The book wastes no time pulling the reader into the fire. It's high-stakes action with tactical precision. The opening assault on Fade’s home is an absolute standout. It’s not just bullets flying. Fade uses a network of cameras, improvised traps, and the house’s layout like a chess master controlling the board. There’s a moment when he drops two intruders in rapid succession from his attic position, then immediately adjusts as gunfire rips through the ceiling. It’s a mix of methodical planning and reactive instinct that makes the action feel authentic and earned.

Another powerful scene comes from a flashback in a war-torn village. Fade stumbles upon two armed men attacking a young girl, and the fight that follows is pure grit: knife work, close-quarters grappling, and split-second decisions. He walks away wounded, but alive, showing that Mills isn’t afraid to give his hero scars. These fights don’t feel choreographed; they feel lived-in, as if each move comes from muscle memory and years of hard training.

As much as I love a good firefight, what elevates Fade In is how Fade interacts with those around him. His time with Lisa, for example, is charged with a mix of mutual respect and quiet challenge. She pushes him when he needs it, whether in moments of recovery or planning, and calls him out when his instinct to push too hard risks more than it gains. Their conversations, sometimes brief, sometimes sharp, carry the weight of two people who understand exactly how high the stakes are.

His exchanges with Matt Egan, a former CIA operator now under the thumb of billionaire Jon Lowe, are layered with guarded trust. After surviving the Kazakhstan ambush together, there’s a moment of unspoken acknowledgment between them. They may not be friends, but they’ve fought side by side and lived, and that creates a bond Mills uses to add tension in later scenes.

Fade In delivers both in the field and off it. The firefights are sharp and detailed, grounded in believable tactics. But it’s the relationships, the way Fade reads people, plays situations, and adapts to shifting loyalties, that keep the tension simmering between the bursts of gunfire.

For readers like me, who want a thriller that blends precision action with character-driven intrigue, Fade In is a perfect hit. Mills gives you a hero you can root for, battles that get your pulse up, and enough intelligence behind the trigger pulls to keep you hooked long after the smoke clears.


Fade In

In Fade In, Kyle Mills crafts a relentless, character-driven thriller anchored by the enigmatic Salam “Fade” al-Fayed, a man equally defined by his deadly skill set and his weary, battle-scarred soul. Once a Navy SEAL and covert operative, Fade is a survivor in every sense of the word. From the opening pages, where he fends off a black ops team in nothing but his Looney Tunes boxers, we see a man for whom survival is less a choice than an instinct. It's a reflex drilled into him until it became as natural as breathing.

Fade’s life has been shaped by betrayal, both personal and political. Once loyal to the ideals of service, he’s been hunted, vilified, and left for dead. His years of experience make him an almost unstoppable force in the field, but Mills is careful to show the cost of that resilience. There’s a bone-deep exhaustion to him, a sense that each confrontation chips away at what’s left of his humanity. His internal philosophy is as pragmatic as it is bleak. He has no illusions that killing four men in some war-torn village will make the world safer, only that it will buy a few more hours of survival.

Through flashbacks and present-day action, Mills peels back layers of Fade’s past: his missions, his mistakes, and the moments that haunt him. We see the moral calculus he performs in life-or-death situations, and how he has come to view survival not as a triumph but as a sentence. Yet even as he tries to keep others at a distance, the pull toward redemption remains, surfacing in unexpected moments when he risks himself for someone else.

Fade In uses its high-stakes espionage backdrop to explore deeper questions about identity, purpose, and the possibility of change. Fade’s journey isn’t just about outmaneuvering enemies; it’s about whether a man forged in violence can find a reason to live for something more than the next fight.

Mills’ portrayal of Fade is sharp and unflinching. He’s not softened for the reader’s comfort, yet he’s impossible to dismiss. The combination of gallows humor, tactical brilliance, and quiet moments of vulnerability makes him one of the most compelling antiheroes in recent thriller fiction. By the final page, it’s clear that Fade In isn’t simply an action story; it’s the story of a man who can’t stop moving forward, even when he’s not sure where he’s going.


Fade In

Kyle Mills’ Fade In is more than just a high-adrenaline espionage novel, it’s a story that examines loyalty, survival, and the uneasy moral ground between heroism and self-preservation. While the book delivers on the genre’s promise of gunfights, covert missions, and political intrigue, it is the thematic depth that makes it worth lingering over after the last page.

At its core, Fade In wrestles with the fragile nature of trust. Salam “Fade” al-Fayed is a man forged by service and survival, yet his history is marked by betrayals, by institutions, by leaders, and sometimes by those he’s fought beside. This recurring thread runs through his interactions with allies like Matt Egan, whose divided loyalties to both Fade and billionaire power broker Jon Lowe create constant tension. Mills uses these relationships to explore how loyalty can be both a guiding principle and a dangerous vulnerability in a world where alliances shift like sand.

Fade’s defining characteristic is his adaptability. Whether defending his home against a black ops assault or maneuvering through a war-torn village, he approaches each situation with a combination of tactical expertise and improvisation. Mills underscores a broader theme here: survival isn’t about brute strength alone, but the ability to think, adjust, and endure. This extends beyond the battlefield, into the quieter moments where Fade must navigate power plays, weigh moral compromises, and decide how far he’s willing to go to stay alive.

One of the book’s most striking subplots is the Kazakhstan ambush, where an autonomous AI drone wipes out a hostile force with unnerving precision. Jon Lowe champions such technology as a necessary tool for shaping the future, while Fade views it with skepticism. The scene encapsulates a central moral question: just because a tactic or technology works, does that make it right? Mills uses this moment to delve into the ethics of modern warfare and the blurred boundaries between government authority and private influence.

What makes Fade In stand apart is its refusal to offer simple moral binaries. Fade is neither wholly virtuous nor irredeemably ruthless. He operates in the gray areas, making decisions based on circumstance rather than ideology. The observation that “no one is completely good or completely evil” feels like the novel’s moral thesis, applicable not only to Fade but to nearly every major character. Lowe’s manipulations, Egan’s compromises, and even Fade’s own questionable methods each raise the question of whether the end ever justifies the means.

As an action thriller, Fade In is brisk, engaging, and technically sharp. But as a thematic work, it lingers in the mind for its exploration of the cost of survival, the fragility of trust, and the uneasy compromises that come with power. For readers who appreciate thrillers that not only quicken the pulse but also invite reflection, Mills has crafted a story that works on both levels, one that thrills in the moment and resonates in the quiet after.


Strange Shape of Love

Herta Feely’s Strange Shape of Love is a tender, layered, and emotionally intelligent novel that captures the ways our past shapes our present, and how love, memory, and guilt can both nourish and haunt us. Told primarily through the eyes of Charlotte Cooper, a mid-career journalist who finds herself reluctantly relocated from New York to London, the story unfolds with wit, poignancy, and quiet emotional force.

From the opening pages, the book roots us in mystery. Charlotte receives a manila envelope containing a nude photo from years ago, unaccompanied by any explanation. This unsettling moment sets the tone for a narrative steeped in reckoning with secrets, lost love, and a past that refuses to stay buried. As Charlotte tries to make sense of her new surroundings and navigate professional upheaval (her glossy lifestyle magazine being folded into an online-only British media empire), she also finds herself on a deeply personal journey back to a country and a man she abandoned under tragic circumstances.

Thematically, Strange Shape of Love explores loss, self-forgiveness, trauma, and the strange loops of memory. Charlotte’s relationship with her ex-boyfriend Russ, who cheats on her, mirrors some of the emotional dislocation she still feels from her time with Rafe, the sculptor she posed for in college, and the man who arguably saw her most truly. “Was it love at first sight?” she wonders, looking back on their electric meeting at Oxford. “Whoever loved, not having loved at first sight?” The recurring thread of the question, what love is, how we know it, and how we lose it, gives the book its emotional spine.

Feely writes women with nuance and compassion. Charlotte isn’t always likable. She’s impulsive, guarded, and prone to flights of self-doubt, but she is always compelling. Her inner life is richly drawn, and her interactions with other women, particularly her vibrant best friend Celia and the enigmatic Regina, whom she meets on a transatlantic flight, add warmth and complexity. Celia’s line, “Time to put all that behind you,” becomes a thematic imperative as Charlotte stumbles toward resolution, emotionally and professionally.

What I appreciated most was the book’s tone: despite dealing with heavy topics like grief, betrayal, and even human trafficking, it never becomes oppressive. There’s humor (the subplot involving a stolen 18-karat gold toilet is both bizarre and brilliant), charm, and genuine emotional movement. Feely’s prose is accessible but elegant, with just enough introspective depth to elevate the narrative without bogging it down.

By the end, I felt not just that Charlotte had grown, but that I had witnessed something quietly profound—how the shape of love is never fixed, and how revisiting the past can, sometimes, open the door to a better future. For readers who enjoy smart women's fiction with a blend of mystery, romance, and self-discovery, Strange Shape of Love is well worth the read.


DONNY AND  VLADDY.

"This book is absolutely bonkers in the best possible way—equal parts roast, farce, and fearless satire. Watching Donny and Vladdy battle egos while butchering diplomacy and bromancing through political chaos is like binge-watching your favorite reality show if it were written by Orwell on acid. Beneath the outrageous humor is a scathing commentary on power, propaganda, and the absurd theater of global politics. If you're the kind of reader who laughs when the truth gets too real to ignore, this one’s for you." —Kyle Eaton, Seattle Book Review


The Works of Vermin

Creatures that eat beauty, including a giant worm that is slowly devouring a city, are hunted by those who have either nothing left to lose or are in desperate circumstances; all the while, the elite spend their days relaxing in a haze of drugs and elegance while threats batter at their doors, as all details in this new work from Hiron Ennes.

Guy Moulene takes any job on offer as he is desperate to keep his sister out of debt, which is something to avoid in Tiliard, a city that is carved into the stump of an ancient tree. Guy takes on every job, no matter how foul or soul-crushing it is, for the money. One day, he is assigned to go after a worm that is not only the size of a dragon but also enjoys munching on artwork. So begins his quest to not only save Tiliard, his sister, and himself but to survive the backstabbing and intrigue along the way.

 This is a decent read, maybe just a little bit long. Fans of traditional high fantasy novels will enjoy this work as it examines class differences in a world not much different from ours.


Ivy Newt and the Time Thief

Ivy Newt and the Time Thief is the second story in the Ivy Newt series, about Ivy, a young Princess Witch, who ends up on adventures with her familiar, Tom Wolf. In this adventure, it is Halloween, and every year on this day, a mysterious house appears for only 24 hours before disappearing for the rest of the year. Ivy is curious and may bend her parents' rules a bit to explore it; she discovers a possibly impossible task of stopping time from being taken from a witch, or she'll disappear after midnight and not be seen again until the following year. Ivy and Tom have their work cut out for them and must rely on help from others to save the day!

 I enjoyed The Time Thief because it features a strong female main character (similar to my age) who problem-solves, maintains a positive and "can-do" attitude, and is the hero; I also love the magic aspect of the story. The Time Thief is perfect to read year-round, but it will always be a good story and/or series to read around Halloween and when you want to feel spooky. The story/series is appropriate for around 8-12-year-olds.


It Rhymes With Takei

George Takei, Steven Scott, Justin Eisinger

In It Rhymes with Takei, George Takei returns with a deeply personal and visually arresting memoir that explores his decades-long journey toward self-acceptance, identity, and love. Told through a graphic novel format and brought to life with expressive, emotionally rich illustrations by Harmony Becker, this memoir builds on Takei’s earlier storytelling but offers an even more intimate glimpse into the life of one of America’s most iconic cultural figures.

The narrative traces Takei’s early awareness of his sexuality during a time when being gay was criminalized and stigmatized. Growing up in post-WWII America, he quickly learned to hide a core part of himself, folding it into a secret life out of fear; fear of losing roles, fear of public shame, fear of being alienated by his community and family. But what sets this memoir apart is how vulnerably and elegantly Takei captures this internal battle, framing it within a broader journey that includes career highs, political activism, and a long path toward self-love.

The visual storytelling adds remarkable dimension to Takei’s experiences. One particularly moving sequence depicts his emotional evolution through symbolic imagery, his “closet” rendered as a literal corridor of darkness, the weight of silence made palpable with panels heavy in shadow. These artistic choices transform his story into something both specific and universal, allowing readers to feel the tension, fear, and eventual freedom he describes.

While Takei’s memoir is grounded in his personal experience, it also chronicles the evolving cultural landscape of America. The book moves through the Cold War era, the AIDS crisis, and the long struggle for LGBTQ+ rights. These moments are not presented as historical footnotes but as lived realities, shaping and informing his choices. Takei’s eventual decision to come out publicly at age 68, decades after achieving fame as Hikaru Sulu on Star Trek, feels momentous not just because of who he is, but because of the honesty and clarity with which he explains why he waited, and why he finally couldn’t stay silent.

In quieter moments, the memoir also celebrates Takei’s love story with his husband Brad. Their relationship is portrayed with warmth and affection, offering a gentle counterpoint to the earlier chapters of isolation and secrecy. These scenes anchor the book emotionally, reminding readers that visibility is not just political—it’s deeply personal. The tenderness with which their connection is portrayed adds a hopeful thread that runs throughout the memoir’s second half.

It Rhymes with Takei is ultimately a celebration of courage—courage to live honestly, to speak out, and to use one’s voice in service of others. Readers will walk away not just with a deeper understanding of George Takei’s life, but also with a sense of how layered, painful, and liberating the journey to authenticity can be. It is a story of resilience and grace, presented with honesty, humor, and undeniable heart.

For anyone seeking an emotionally resonant, visually compelling memoir that blends personal triumph with cultural insight, It Rhymes with Takei is a must-read.


Rules for Fake Girlfriends

Avery has a 4-year plan - attend Columbia, then med school, followed by a career in oncology. Then a postcard arrives from her late mother inviting Avery to a scavenger hunt in her mother’s college town in England. Avery jumps at the chance to know her mother better and shifts her plans just for a year. On the train to Brighton, Avery falls into a fake-dating deal with Charlie, who is still reeling from her break-up earlier in the summer. Avery knows all the rom-com rules, and promises she won’t fall in love, won’t break her plan to do a year at Brighton then return home to Columbia, but plans, like promises, are made to be broken, especially when love is involved.

This is a cute sapphic rom-com, laced with grief from the past and sprinkled with dreams for the future. The rom-com rules at the beginning of each chapter poke fun at romances in general and suggest a humorous hint at what’s next. Readers of romances by Lynn Painter and Jennifer Dugan will delight in this sweet scavenger hunt abroad, as Avery not only comes to terms with her mom's passing but also recognizes her shortcomings and moves toward peace.


Friends with Words: Adventures in Languageland

If you’re a fan of the radio show and podcast A Way With Words, you’ve likely already bought this eagerly awaited book. If not, you’ll definitely tune in after reading this delightful account of “adventures in languageland.” Never stuffy, Barnette’s style is approachable and direct as she brings the reader along on a word journey through America, showcasing iconic and unusual expressions found in each region.

 These chapters are interspersed with more autobiographical ones describing how her own fascination with and knowledge of words developed.

 In later pages, she explains how the radio program is created with her co-host, Grant Barrett, and the numerous hurdles it has encountered over the years.

Just two of the terms I enjoyed learning include chatoyant (to shimmer like a cat’s eye) and the sorely needed verschlimmbesserung, or dis-improvement: an attempt to make something better that actually worsens it. Such as Brexit, or certain software “upgrades.”

Word lovers should not miss this volume. (And it would make a perfect gift for the other lexicographers, onomasticians, and logophiles in your life.)


The Librarians

Hazel Lee is the newest addition to the close-knit staff at the branch library she frequented as a child. Fellow librarian Astrid is sweet, anxious, and eager to help. Program director Jonathan is boy-next-door handsome and, as an ex-military man, is as physically capable as he is kind. Composed and elegant, Sophie rounds out the group as the branch manager. All is well until detectives show up to investigate a murder. Something dark has crept into the library, and now the librarians have no choice but to expose their secrets to save lives.

Each character’s voice is distinct yet pairs well with the others, further displaying the bond between them. The librarians are clearly a close-knit family; the inclusion of their points of view underscores what they mean to each other in addition to providing a welcome look at their inner
thoughts. You never really know what anyone is going to say, and that is often delightfully funny. Thomas’s subtle inclusion of details grounds the story in more modern times, allowing the reader to better picture the library itself, which is essential considering it is very much a character. A definite must-read for mystery fans with a penchant for found family dynamics, The Librarians is a thrilling mix of cozy mystery and full-on suspense.


Cosmic Creatures: The Helpful Hootpuff

The Helpful Hootpuff is one of four books in the Cosmic Creatures series that follows Charlie and her family as they explore and learn of new creatures on the planet Vela. Charlie, her brother Maki, and their mom are with Captain Robertson in an underground cave, trying to find a different way to get electricity for their town during its cold season, as the normal method isn't working. Captain Robertson requires them to drill, but when Charlie and Maki get lost, they discover a new type of bird that they name the Hootpuff. If they keep drilling, it will harm the Hootpuff's and other creatures' habitat. Can they convince the Captain to stop drilling in time to save the animals, but still discover another way to get the needed electricity?

In each Cosmic Creatures story, a new animal is found, and each one is as cute as the last. I enjoy how the books teach readers to consider people and things besides themselves. Charlie is a good role model for young readers because she's nice, thoughtful, and good at problem-solving. There is plenty of action that is appropriate for the intended audience (6-8 year olds).


Big Kids

A little boy is facing his first day of school. There are plenty of things to worry about, but for him, it’s the big kids. They have big feet that make big noises when they walk by. They have big shadows that seem to reach out at little kids. They have big voices and big grins, and they run fast and jump high. Everyone is called to an assembly, and one of those big kids introduces himself as the boy’s buddy. And having a buddy is a great thing for a little kid. His big buddy shows him around the school and the ins and outs of the library, the cafeteria, and the playground.<ebr><br>Author K. L. Going has written a fun story that will help alleviate a lot of the first-day-of-school jitters that youngsters have. Big Buddies at schools are becoming increasingly common, so this book will be the perfect introduction for a lot of kids. The illustrations by Reggie Brown complete the story with powerful, bright illustrations, often incorporating the words into the illustrations. Don’t miss a chance to read this with the little ones before the first bell rings.


The Grace of Black Mothers

Martheaus Perkins'  The Grace of Black Mothers is a powerful collection of verse that illuminates the resilience, sacrifice, and fierce love of Black mothers, aunties, and grandmothers. Through intimate portraits rendered in poetry, Perkins captures the weight of systemic racism, misogyny, and poverty. However, he also reveals the transformative strength of maternal devotion that sustains families and communities across generations.

Perkins demonstrates a remarkable range through an inventive voice, style, and form that weaves together multiple cultural layers—locality, generation, and gender. From Houston to Center, the poet depicts the labor of Black motherhood in a Southern state. Perkins traverses devastating terrain, from lamentations for grieving children lost to racist violence, to celebrations of everyday generosity and selflessness. These poems capture both unimaginable sorrow and unbending grace, evoking a strong sense of respect and reverence for Black women.

Perkins demonstrates formal versatility throughout the collection, crafting visual poems like "Fatality" and "Optometry with Momma" that exploit the possibilities of the page through innovative typography. In contrast, pieces such as "The Verdict" and "Center, Texas" embrace traditional structures, proving that conventional forms can still carry radical and dauntless truths. Regardless of approach, each poem lands with precision and emotional force, a testament to Perkins' mastery of his craft.


Cosmic Creatures: The Snuggly Snowpop

On the planet Vela, Charlie and her family live and explore with a group of people from Earth who came to learn and expand. Charlie has had several adventures on Vela, all of them involving mysterious and silly animals that somehow affect something related to what the humans on the planet are doing. In The Snuggly Snowpop, Charlie, her dad, and their robot Random, along with the Captain and his daughter, Maranda, set off to climb an uncharted mountain for the experience and fame. During the journey, emotions and a fast and furious storm affect the outcome, but with the discovery of white, cute, and fluffy creatures, will that help or hinder the quest?

 This is my third Cosmic Creatures story I've read, and I have enjoyed them all. This story, along with the others in the series, contains plenty of action, good morals to learn from, and adorable creatures that all remind me of my favorite animal, cats. Charlie is a good role model for younger readers because she remains cool, calm, and collected during hard times, and she cares about people and animals, even when they don't treat her well.


Mama's Special Wonton Soup

Mama's Special Won Ton Soup tells the story of a little girl in Southern China. One day, her mother asks her to go to the market to purchase the special meat for wonton soup. The little girl goes on her way, meeting many people along the way. Ms. Chen gives the girl some radishes. Mr. Li and his daughters give her some shrimp. The girl then visits her grandmother and Aunt Ruby, who give her some persimmons and big hugs. She passes by women gathering nuts from a ginkgo tree. Finally, she makes her way to the market to purchase the pork. The woman also gives her a bone for her puppy.

This story is so sweet and would be perfect for elementary school-aged children. The illustrations are drawn and colored in muted colors with a mustard yellow background and are pleasing to the eye. I especially loved the end of the book where the little girl invites everyone over to share some of her mother's wonton soup.


Matisse at War: Art and Resistance in Nazi Occupied France

World War II impacted not only the everyday person in France but also artists, both French and those who emigrated to France, with the rise of Fascism, the collapse of the French state, and a state of uneasiness about the future. One artist, Henri Matisse, would use this turbulent time to create new work and get his name back into the international art conversation after decades of being a non-factor.

Matisse, at one point, was the leader of French and international art; his art was daring and provocative. But as he got older, a new generation passed him by, and his art was considered not as daring or as good. This book examines not only Matisse and the work he created while surrounded by the forces of Fascism at the coasts of southern France but also how the war and conflict impacted his life and the life of his family.

 This book, obviously, covers more than just the years of World War II in Matisse’s life; it also covers his turbulent personal life during the inter-war period and the stagnation of his art. The best bits are his experiences during the war itself.


Haven't Killed in Years

Twenty years ago, Marin Haggerty became Gwen Tanner. The transition came after her father was convicted of multiple murders when she was nine. Gwen keeps her life fairly boring, at least until the day body parts begin showing up on her doorstep. It’s clear someone knows who she really is. Gwen knows she’ll have to go to some pretty deep lengths to find out who is tormenting her. If they only knew what Gwen was capable of. Her family may be full of killers, but they Haven’t Killed in Years. It might just be time to come out of hiding.

This was a really interesting take on the classic serial killer story. Told from the perspective of the child left behind, one who had witnessed most or all of the crimes. You know you can’t help but be messed up after that. I was actually surprised by the big reveal. That character was not on my radar at all. If you enjoy mysteries that center around complicated characters with dark humor, this book is for you.


The Five Blessings of Ifá

Gabrielle Felder's The Five Blessings of Ifa is a profound exploration of Ifa, a 10,000-year-old spiritual tradition practiced in modern-day Nigeria and Benin. Felder chronicles her lifelong exploration of various spiritual traditions, including her departure from her family’s traditional Christian heritage. Leveraging her natural science background, Felder embarks on a deeply personal quest into spirituality as an apprentice to an Ifa elder. She offers her evolving understanding of the complex divination system and wisdom tradition.

Approaching the book as a non-Black reader, I was drawn to its exploration of nature-centric spiritual paths. As a Filipino American on a decolonial journey, I've been particularly curious about how other people of color from different diasporic generations engage with their lineages, especially when living away from their ancestral lands. I am profoundly grateful for Felder's earnest sharing of her journey through various African traditional and diasporic religions, as she sought to make meaning of her own experiences as a Black queer person in the United States. In The Five Blessings of Ifa, Felder expertly weaves a “uniquely Black, uniquely diasporan” spiritual understanding with her steadfast orientation toward justice movements, powerfully demonstrating how spirituality can intersect with and inspire social change. Felder masterfully illuminates the intricate interplay of history, legacy, and ancestral wisdom, offering vital solace and guidance for a new generation navigating identity, community, and purpose.


A Sword of Gold and Ruin

A Sword of Gold and Ruin continues Anna Smith Spark’s haunting, Celtic-inspired saga with a story as brutal as it is beautiful. Kanda and her daughters journey to restore the shattered kingdom of Roven, carrying the weight of both their love and their sins. Together, they shine as a fragile beacon against encroaching darkness, but their hands are stained with blood, and the ghosts that follow them are as relentless as the monsters that rise in their path. Their quest is filled with wonder and terror, joy and heartbreak, as every step forward forces them to confront not only the enemies before them but also the truths buried in their own hearts, creating a lyrical and unforgettable triumph that blends myth, horror, and the intimate struggles of family.

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Girl, 1983: A Novel

No matter how much I tried to understand all of this book, I found segments much more accessible than others. Perhaps that is because Linn Ullmann's Girl, 1983, translated from Danish by Martin Aitken, is so experimental in its format. Still, I found myself thinking of the themes long after I finished the book.

Though the book is touted as a novel, there does seem to be some crossover with Ullmann's own life in that the central character travels to Paris as a teen to model. Her personal experiences are the foundation for the central character of the novel, a girl who is given the same opportunity, which leads her into a relationship with a man 30 years he senior who promises to get her into Vogue magazine. Forty years later, the grown woman reflects on that time in her life by addressing the young girl herself and commenting on the time.

This is where I found myself lost. The narrator is the girl in 1983 and the adult woman in 2023; they talk to and about each other, and the novel loops back to this event for 260 pages. I think this choice is meant to note the profound and indelible mark this moment had on her life, but it could have been shorter and could have been far more direct. Still, if novels related to gender dynamics are your thing, you'll likely enjoy it.


The 13 Power Moves of Dark Psychology

Lena Sisco’s The 13 Power Moves of Dark Psychology is an engaging and accessible guide for readers interested in understanding how exploitative and abusive behaviors take root in everyday life. Drawing on her background as an interrogator with the U.S. Department of Defense, Sisco distills years of professional experience into a practical handbook on recognizing and resisting manipulation. She focuses on the “dark triad” of personality traits—narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy—illustrating how these tendencies can wreak havoc on relationships, poison workplace environments, and derail lives.

What makes the book particularly effective is Sisco’s reliance on real-world examples. Drawing from her own experiences and observations, she shows how manipulative patterns emerge, how they can be identified early, and what strategies can help disarm them. The advice is pragmatic and immediately applicable, offering readers tools to navigate situations with toxic individuals in both personal and professional contexts.

Though the book is rooted in the self-help genre, it avoids the overly clinical tone often found in psychology texts. Instead, Sisco blends straightforward explanations with no-nonsense advice, creating a balance between accessibility and authority. Her writing is candid, clear, and purposeful, reflecting her background in military and intelligence settings. This directness makes the book especially valuable for readers who prefer advice that is both grounded and actionable.


Best Offer Wins: A Novel

The housing market these days is ridiculous. No one knows that better than Margo. Margo and her husband are eighteen months into the search and have lost eleven bidding wars. She gets a tip about the perfect house that hasn’t even gone on the market yet. She immediately becomes obsessed with getting it before the offers come in. Margo will do anything to get this house. The Best Offer Wins, no matter who gets hurt in the process. The cutthroat housing market really can be murder. ||Margo is definitely not the hero in this story, but there is something to the dark humor of this author’s writing style. Anyone who has ever tried to buy a house in this market will certainly understand Margo’s pain, even if they aren’t quite willing to go as far as she does. Even from the beginning, you get a sense of where this story is going, yet it keeps you reading, wondering if Margo will actually do what you expect. If you enjoy modern thrillers with a dark twist, then this is one you will want to add to your reading list.


Blood Like Ours (The Blood Trilogy)

Rebecca Carter had seemingly faded into the great beyond after being killed by a relentless federal agent. Her daughter, Moonflower, was left to fend for herself, a young girl needing the comfort and protection of family. Moonflower is an atypical child; even though she walks and talks, she is undead. Moonflower’s condition led to a constant need for blood to satiate her intense hunger; her mother helped satisfy this craving by targeting child predators. Now, Moonflower walks the lands of the Southwest with packs of dogs surrounding her, a nagging voice urging her to embrace her feral nature. She encounters a pair of young men who appear friendly and offer her a gift: a bound and helpless woman to feed off of. Moonflower joins the brothers, Will and Jacob, on their westbound trip, but grows increasingly alarmed by the brothers’ delight in their bloodlust.

Blood Like Mine marked a new literary path for Stuart Neville, a brilliant writer of crime & mystery fiction ("The Ghosts of Belfast"), and this fascinating continuation proves his narrative prowess is multi-genre. "Blood Like Ours" is gripping, suspenseful, and filled with enough chilling moments that will set the reader’s teeth on edge.


Bad Bitches of Antiquity: Badass Stories from Mythology's Fiercest Goddesses, Heroines, Warriors, and Titans

The archetype of the courageous, wise, and fierce woman has existed for eons across different cultures. Myths from around the world tell stories of uncompromising and powerful women – goddesses and mortals – who have left an indelible mark on our collective psyches. Author Lorelei Wilder and illustrator Cinthya Alvarez combine forces to present Bad Bitches of Antiquity, a collection of stories and myths of influential and clever mythical women who are well-revered and often feared.

This book is a perfect read for all the wonderfully gifted, passionate, and tough girls and womxn in your life. Alvarez's captivating artwork accompanies each short essay about iconic women, bringing these legendary figures to life with vibrant and striking imagery. Wilder's sharp-witted and lively prose matches the strong and dominant women featured in the book, making ancient mythology accessible and entertaining for modern readers.

Readers learn about Aset (Isis), one of the most important Egyptian gods, described by Wilder as "a wise goddess who knew how to manage up." The Greek Hestia is described as "unbothered with big-sister energy," while fierce warrior goddesses like the Hindu Kali and Hawai’ian Hina receive equally memorable treatment. While the book features many women from Greek and Egyptian traditions, Wilder makes a commendable effort to include divine beings from Africa, the Americas, Asia, and beyond, creating a truly global celebration of feminine power and wisdom that transcends cultural boundaries.


A Monster's Meal: A Lift-the-Flap Picture Book

Tonight is the annual feast at the Rotten Core restaurant, where the scariest monsters gather for a dreadful meal. All the classic monsters arrive: the Big Bad Wolf, the Wicked Witch, the Vampire, the Giant Ogre, the Mummy, the Devil, the Pirate, the Ghost, and the Monster Under the Bed. Each receives a silver tray with a liftable flap that reveals the most disgusting, horrific food. For example, the Big Bad Wolf has fried Granny fritters and three little pigs’ feet served on hay, wood, and brick. One guest arrives late: a boy who wants to face his fear of monsters. The tables quickly turn, however, when his boy’s meal disgusts the monsters: pizza, pasta, a hamburger, chicken nuggets, and a choco-banana crepe.

A Monster’s Meal may not be the best choice for all children. For example, the Vampire is served a selection of severed princess necks, while the Pirate receives hundred-year-old aged piranha pee, and each meal is detailed in the illustrations. That said, for the child with a strong liking for the gruesome and gory, this book may prove quite entertaining.


I Deliver Parcels in Beijing

Chinese author Hu Anyan's book, I Deliver Parcels in Beijing, is delighting readers way beyond his homeland. Besides delivering packages to residents and businesses in several cities, including Shanghai and Beijing, his many jobs over 20 years have included working in a bike shop, selling popsicles, as assistant in a clothing store and more, even running his own business.

As each job failed, or he lost interest, he admits gleefully that he always found adequate pay, if not if not being always intellectually or educationally challenged. Reading closely, one sees that he aquired numerous practical skills.

Hu Anyan is introspective, with his scant self-confidence running through the chapters, but always with a contagious sense of humor. He enjoys good terms with colleagues, sharing the quirks of his personality, though not inclined to form close friendships.

His lifestyle is chosen rather than imposed and offers a rare introduction to Chinese daily life with no tinge of politics.

Once he discovered his writing talent, Hu Anyan began submitting articles to numerous publications. Today, he defines himself as a writer.

Jack Hargreaves' translation is nothing short of brilliant, skillfully replete with colloquialisms. As author, Hu Anyan with Hargreave, present a wonderful book.


Make Me a Monster

The nightmare is back. In it, Meka watches her dad trying to help her dying mother after a car accident. Though she has seen doctors and therapists, the nightmare has not only returned but evolved. Thankfully, she has earned her license as an assistant at her family’s mortuary, which, while strange for someone still in high school, is something that gives her purpose. Her friends respect her hard work, and Noah, who has become something more than a friend, is trying hard to reconcile the fact that death is Meka’s life. When a freak accident changes Meka’s trajectory, her life will never go back to the one she wanted, especially after she discovers the secret behind the mortuary’s past.

While skipping half of a book is generally not recommended, in this case, the first half is just so slow and tedious. Once readers slog through the first 150 pages, the pace picks up, and it is hard to put down. There are monsters, death, fights, a cool book, and more, all in the shadow of the original Frankenstein story. Cool concept, but too much nothing at the beginning for some to get to the end.


Tracks Across America: "Caterpillar" Tractors and the Growth of a Nation

Tracks Across America by Mark Johnson and Steve Tarter is a meticulously researched and engagingly presented chronicle of the pivotal role "Caterpillar" tractors played in shaping modern America. It’s a rare hybrid of industrial history and cultural storytelling that is both enlightening and deeply nostalgic, especially for those of us who came of age in the Midwest, where Caterpillar’s legacy remains indelible.

The book spans from the early 1900s to 1970, weaving together narratives of innovation, war, industrial might, and national identity. Each chapter highlights a key milestone from the Los Angeles Aqueduct and the Panama Canal to the construction of the Pentagon and Cape Canaveral. The authors offer not just a history of the machines, but of the men who built them, drove them, and believed in their potential to change the landscape, both physically and economically.

A standout element of this work is its ability to capture the intersection of American ingenuity and the practical power of machinery. Figures like Benjamin Holt and Daniel Best are not just mechanical inventors—they are emblematic of an era that valued hard work, persistence, and vision. As the book outlines, Holt’s 1904 prototype tractor and the origin of the “Caterpillar” name, stemming from a photographer’s casual remark, highlight how invention often walks hand in hand with intuition.

The themes explored, including industrial progress, patriotism, resilience, and community, are reinforced by a stunning visual archive of over 140 original advertisements from magazines like The Saturday Evening Post. These ads serve as historical snapshots, reflecting the cultural attitudes and economic aspirations of their times.

What makes this book particularly effective is its balance of technical detail and human narrative. It never gets bogged down in jargon, making it highly readable even for those unfamiliar with mechanical engineering. The inclusion of “Great American Construction Projects” in each chapter provides readers with a tangible sense of Caterpillar’s impact, illustrating how machinery supported American expansion, particularly during moments of national crisis, such as the World Wars.

Johnson and Tarter also provide context on advertising strategy and brand evolution: how “Caterpillar” became synonymous with durability and dependability. This aspect is particularly compelling for those interested in the evolution of corporate identity.

In sum, Tracks Across America is more than a tribute to an iconic brand. It is a sweeping industrial biography of a nation, revealing how machinery, marketing, and human effort combined to build not just roads and dams, but a shared American experience. It’s a must-read for history buffs, engineers, and anyone with a connection to the land Caterpillar helped shape.


Reading Tracks Across America feels like flipping through the blueprint of modern America, with big yellow machines penciled into every margin. Mark Johnson and Steve Tarter take what could have been a niche subject and deliver something much more compelling: a panoramic story of how “Caterpillar” tractors helped dig, build, and bulldoze the country into the 20th century.

The book covers the history of Caterpillar from its pre-merger days, when Ben Holt and Daniel Best were independently innovating in California, all the way through its role in massive infrastructure efforts like the Interstate Highway System and Cape Canaveral. And yeah, it turns out tractors are way cooler than I ever gave them credit for.

One of the things that stood out most to me was how the book ties mechanical innovation to cultural progress. For instance, the Los Angeles Aqueduct chapter doesn’t just discuss the use of Caterpillar tractors in desert conditions—it delves into how water access contributed to California’s explosive growth. “Utilizing man, mule and machine,” as one chapter puts it, these construction feats weren’t just technical marvels. They were nation-builders.

And let’s talk about those vintage ads. The authors included over a hundred full-color Caterpillar advertisements, and they’re a fascinating time capsule. You can see how the brand became iconic—not just because of the machines, but because of the messaging.

Quotes from historical figures like Theodore Roosevelt and William Howard Taft open many chapters, grounding the tech narrative in the broader sweep of American ambition. This quote from Roosevelt: “Whenever you are asked if you can do a job, tell ‘em ‘Certainly I can.’ Then get busy and find out how to do it,” perfectly captures the spirit of the book.

But what I appreciated most was the sense of purpose behind the machines. It’s not just about horsepower and hydraulics. It’s about how Caterpillar’s innovations supported wartime efforts, built essential public works, and gave thousands of workers a stable livelihood. There's a quiet, underlying theme here of how industry and identity are deeply linked.

 The storytelling hits that sweet spot between educational and entertaining, making it easy to stay hooked even if you’ve never set foot on a construction site. Whether you’re into machines, history, design, or just love a good American success story, this book has a surprising amount to offer. It’s not just for gearheads or business historians, though they’ll love it; it’s for anyone curious about how things get built and who does the building. Johnson and Tarter manage to turn a century of industrial history into something that feels surprisingly personal, almost like rediscovering a forgotten part of America’s DNA. And that’s something worth reading about.