WWII Collection of Heart-Rendering Love

A short and sweet review for my WWII romance box set, Apart from War:

B. J. Robinson

5.0 out of 5 starsWWII Collection of Heart-Rendering Love

April 18, 2019

Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

In this collection of WWII love stories, Lenny and Natasha had an unforgettable romance and love story from the 1940's through the 1970's. He was a marine. She was a concert pianist . Their story is heart-rendering. The author also includes Alzheinner Disease. If you enjoy WWII love stories, this is the collection for you, so don't miss it!

There came the sound of heavy footfalls down the corridor

He remembered how he had stood there, dumbfounded, in front of the body. Some distance away, a sailboat seemed to be floating in midair. From time to time, gusts of wind had filled her black sails.

“Bring in a sailboat.” He pointed at a spot on the blue surface that represented ocean. 

Wiggling slightly over the blue, painted surface that signified water, there it came: a huge sailboat that seemed to fill the entire space of his office. 

Its keel formed the centerline at the bottom of the hull. It extended downward as a blade beneath the vessel, increasing its stability. From time to time it rubbed against the office floor, giving a shrill sound of friction.

With a swift hand gesture, bringing together his thumb and forefinger, Michael shrunk the vessel down, till it appeared to be at same scale as the seascape underfoot. Flow vectors appeared, forming wavy blue pleats capped with foam, over which the sailboat started rocking. 

Meanwhile, Michael remembered Mr. Armstrong telling him how he had steered his sailboat away all by himself, how his muscles still ached from pulling up her sails. Just for fun, shouldn’t he place him aboard this vessel?

“Create man.” Michael pointed at the deck. “Name him Mr. Strong.”

A broadly constructed wire figure stepped out. It held on to the mast for dear life and occasionally, gave a sharp, abrasive pull to raise the black sails. 

“Let Mr. Strong wear a life jacket.”

Selected at random from some e-commerce site such as eBay, an immensely thick vest appeared, featuring large armholes for unlimited range of motion. Its bright straps and adjustable belts tightened around the waist, to keep the vest snug and in place. It wrapped over the wire shoulders, barely concealing a somewhat crooked back. 

The sailboat wiggled about over the geometrical waves when—splash!—Mr. Strong fell off, nearly sinking between one blue pleat and another. He would dutifully climb back onboard, only to fall off and climb back again.

Michael was determined to find out why this infinite loop started to play out. “Show me an internal view of the code.” 

A storm of pixels whipped across the space, settling here and there in small heaps of dust. Out of it grew long, straight links. These, in turn, produced round, hollow nodes that started to arrange themselves into a complex structure, a structure that represented logic and data. 

And just as Michael identified a broken link in the midst of it all, there came the sound of heavy footfalls down the corridor. 

His heart skipped a beat. 

“Stop,” he said hurriedly, and the structure melted away just as the office door swung open.

In stepped the real Mr. Armstrong.

Virtually Lace

(Volume I of High-Tech Crime Solvers)

Paperback ★ Hardcover

Audiobook

Haunted by discovering the body of a beautiful dancer, Michael sets out to create a virtual reality simulation of her murder. Can he bring the mystery to life? Can he solve its clues in time, before the killer turns on the woman he loves, Ash?

Witness to a Murder Becomes the Prime Suspect

Richard Weatherly is the talented author of Closed Doors. I am honored to read his thoughtful review of Virtually Lace:

Richard L. Weatherly

5.0 out of 5 starsWitness to a Murder Becomes the Prime Suspect

April 17, 2019

Format: Kindle Edition

Virtually Lace ads a new twist to the work of Uvi Poznanski. I’ve read most of the author’s work and have enjoyed each. Virtually Lace is no exception. In this novel Uvi relies on past experience as a designer and work as a software manager. This novel features extensive use of virtual reality to help clear Michael, the protagonist, of suspicion by the police.

As the story opens Michael is approaching the beach when he suddenly discovers the body of a beautiful dancer with her throat slashed.

It is sad when a person who experiences such a traumatic event finds himself the chief suspect of a police investigation. Michael repeatedly answers police questions truthfully but he becomes frustrated by their refusal to believe him.

Michael decides the best way to defend himself is to collect his memories and build a virtual reality simulation of the chain of events. He is fortunate that the woman he loves is a designer who can help with his project. Ironically, when Michael tried to enlist Ashley to assist with his projects at work, his manager refused to even consider his recommendation. As the story comes together, it seems the manager has engaged in nepotism by hiring a relative to assist Michael in his project rather than Ash.

Together, Michael and Ash eventually construct a comprehensive virtual reality simulation that is sufficiently detailed to finally convince police of his innocence.

As the book progresses, other events surrounding Michael and Ash begin to hint at the identity of the guilty party. At the same time, Ash is placed at risk of becoming a victim of the murderer who killed the girl Michael discovered. Virtually Lace is a fast paced, well crafted suspense novel by Uvi Posnanski that is sure to keep you turning pages. I highly recommend it.

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Do No Harm: The Marburg Mutation by Allen Kent

A few minutes before 3:00 a.m., the man residents of Ålesund, Norway, referred to as den Serbisk, the Serbian, slipped quietly from bed. He had showered and shaved the evening before and dressed quietly in the half-light of the Norwegian summer night that filtered through the open windows of the Hotel Brosundet. Below his window, the silent harbor mirrored the Ålesund fishing fleet like a tarnished silver mirror. In an hour, men would begin outfitting the boats. Gulls would wheel and squawk over the departing fleet. He needed to be gone by then, headed to the airport. But on the way, there was cleanup work to be done.

    Before leaving the room, he paused to admire the figure of the young woman who remained sound asleep on her side, the sheet covering her to the waist. He allowed his eyes to linger for another moment on the breasts that were so beautifully accented by the white patches of her bikini line. She had been among the best of his Ålesund conquests. He had her number and would call her again when he returned to the city.
    The Serb took the elevator to the main floor, assured the night clerk that the room should be left on his card and that the lady would check out before eleven, then retrieved his rental from the small harborside lot. Five minutes later, he descended into the tunnel that crossed beneath the fjord to Ellingsøya Island. Upon exiting, he turned right past the sleeping village of Hoffland and drove east along the coastal road until a gravel lane turned away from the water’s edge up into the pines. The lane skirted the side of a steep, rocky hill, then looped back toward its crest. Near the top, he braked in front of an ornate wrought-iron gate.
    Leaning from the window, the Serb entered a six-digit code into an electronic pad that stood on a black post beside the gate. The barrier swung silently inward. He eased the vehicle forward through the wall of heavy gray stone. The inner drive was paved and curved left through trees that circled a small lake to the front of a dark two-story country manor of the same smoky-gray rock.
    As he stepped from the car in front of steps that led to an arched portico, the wide beam of a flashlight circled him from the far edge of the house. A hoarse voice demanded in Norwegian, “Who is there?”
    “It is just me, Geir,” the Serb said in English to the caretaker. “I need to pick up a few things before flying back to Frankfurt. I will be about an hour and will close the gate when I leave. My flight is at eight.”
    The ancient caretaker grunted an acknowledgement and turned back toward a cottage that was no more than a dark impression among the trees beyond the drive. The Serb unlocked and entered the house, closing and latching the door behind him. Down the central hallway, a door opened beneath a staircase onto steep steps that descended into a musty half -basement. By the light of a single dim bulb, he made his way through a scattering of old outdoor furniture and lawn statuary to a row of rough wooden shelves. Pulling a stool from beside the stairway, he climbed carefully onto it, pushing upward on what appeared to be a section of ceiling beam. The shelves in front of him slid forward and to the side, revealing an aged steel door with a wheel-combination lock and lever handle. He lowered himself heavily from the stool and knelt before the door, twirling four numbers into the lock. As he forced the handle downward, the man rose to his feet and pushed against the massive door.
    The metal plate swung inward into a brightly lit stainless-steel prepping station with two showerheads to his left suspended over a circular drain. To his right, an open closet held three white hazmat suits and, on a shelf above, contamination masks and goggles. The Serb stripped to his underwear and donned the largest of the suits. He carefully taped his wrists and ankles, then pulled on mask and goggles. When certain he was properly protected, he pushed through a second metal door into a long, narrow observation room. A tightly sealed full-wall window separated him from another stainless-paneled cell beyond.
    This third room was a twelve-foot box, furnished with a plain metal table, wall-mounted bench, and steel toilet and sink. On the table, assorted fruit browned in a wooden bowl. A partially eaten loaf of bread and block of white cheese sat on heavy paper plates. The emaciated body of a woman faced him on a thin mattress that covered a low cot attached to the back wall, her corpse seeping thin red liquid from weeping blisters that covered most of her exposed skin. Dried blood covered her chocolate face, staining it even darker where fluid oozed from her eyes and nose. She wore only a pair of tight red shorts. What had been a white tank top lay beside her on the floor. Little of the white remained, a few unspoiled islands in a sea of reddish brown. The floor beside the cot was splattered with dark, bloody vomit.​

Excerpt from The Marburg Mutation by Allen Kent

No Longer Available

Do No Harm

Was it my fault?

Back to Betty. I don’t like her much. No, that’s an understatement. I don’t like her at all. She’s pretty enough to be envied, if not for those glued-on eyelashes, bleached hair, and bronze skin, the one you get by putting yourself at the hands of experts in the best tanning salons in town. 

Betty has a coy smile and pointy boobs, not to mention long legs, often presented in sexy tights that make her big butt bulge even more than it already does. She has been using these assets, time and again, to steal away my previous boyfriends. All two of them. 

That’s why I’ve never introduced her to the one I’m dating right now, I mean, the one I would be dating, if not for having to hang out around here. 

So no, I don’t like Betty. Even so, I must admit: her company is good for me. As long as I have visitors, I’m not forgotten. I’m still among the living.

The nurse says, “She’s just the same.” 

“Really? The same?” asks Betty, with a note of disappointment that astonishes me. Does she care? Really?

The nurse sighs. “Who knows if she’ll ever be better.”

“You mean—”

“Yes. With the trauma she’s gone through, she may never wake up.”

What? How dare the nurse say anything like that? I’m tempted to leap out of bed and scare her with a good shriek. It takes a while for me to control my temper, control it long enough to wonder, what does she mean? What, exactly, have I gone through? 

Betty clears her throat. “What, exactly, has she gone through?”

“So sorry,” says the nurse. “For privacy reasons, this is something I can discuss only with family. You related?”

“No, not really—”

“Then, so sorry. My lips are sealed. You understand, of course.”

“Of course,” says Betty, in a tone that means just the opposite. 

I bet she’s rolling her eyes. If that were a sport, she’d win a medal. Now she turns on her heels—one of them squeals against the floor—and stomps out of the room. That’s just like her, popping in when I least expect the pleasure of her company, then popping out again, even though the right thing to do is to spend some time by the side of the dearly beloved. 

I’m foaming at the mouth. But as angry as I am, how can I blame her? As far as conversation goes, there’s no way for me to amuse her, let alone keep her interested.

Meanwhile, the nurse goes to the foot of the bed, where she hangs something—my chart?—which sways back and forth a couple of times, singing on a nail. Then she leans over to straighten the blanket, while muttering to herself, “Poor girl. Not even Prince Charming can save her.”

At this point, I turn my anger against myself. So far, I’ve neglected to ask the right questions. I must start making a list. Was there some near-fatal accident? Is that what landed me here? When? Where? How? Was it my fault? 

Coma Confidential

Paperback ★ Hardcover

Audiobook

Ash finds herself in the ER diagnosed with coma. She has no memory of what has happened to her, but what she can do--despite what everyone around her might think--is listen to the conversations of her visitors. Will she survive the power outage in the hospital and then, being kidnapped out of it? 

It's that flirting with reality that makes this story such a compulsive read. Plot twists and suspenseful storytelling make this a book that you will have trouble putting down..  

~Kathy Parsons

I couldn't put it down

Short and sweet review of my suspense book, Coma Confidential:

Mary Stewart

5.0 out of 5 starsAmazing!

April 8, 2019

Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

I couldn't put it down. Great characters. Good pace. I recommend it.

Do No Harm: Maya Hope by @authortimbrowne

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Blood pooled in his open chest cavity, overflowing onto his shredded shirt and dripping against the ancient stone altar. His once-tanned ashen face was a stark contrast to the crimson wounds across his lower chin and eyebrow. The flesh around his wrists was torn and raw having been tugged and bound by ropes. His lifeless body lay on its back, stretched over the stone; his face turned upward, as if pleading for mercy. The man’s chest, split between the ribs on the left side below the nipple, was flailed open and his heart removed in the traditional Way of the Maya ritual.

The jungle, silenced and confused by this horror not experienced in over 1,200 years, steeped in hushed tension.

When Danilo realized what the men had done, he jerked his head away from the scene and vomited hard. He staggered and glanced back at the dead man as if to verify what he’d seen, only to be confronted by an asylum of terror.

Sacrificial spirits spewed from the dark corners of the temple to merge with sulfuric fumes from hell itself to gorge on the unleashed evil. Wailing and shrieking filled the night as shadowy figures fought for dominance, dancing with fiendish delight and lapping the blood like wolves on a fresh kill. Stench and steam engulfed the demons and formed dark clouds obscuring the full moon that had illuminated the fresh corpse draped over the stone.

A thunderous legion of warring angels, dazzling with light, appeared in a brilliant bolt of lightning just as darkness had all but drained life from the jungle, sending the demons screeching to their hellish destiny and knocking Danilo off his footing. This was the moment Danilo knew that the dead man’s spirit left his body because evil had no right to claim a holy man.

* * *

The three killers lagged behind their hired local guide, Danilo Perez, who was being driven forward by the terror of the human heart in his backpack. He couldn’t shake the musty smell of wet moss that reeked with a strange sulfuric odor.

Above their heads, a howler monkey bellowed. It echoed the killing screams and encouraged other monkeys, insects and toads to join the chaotic choir, and the jungle cacophony returned.

Suddenly, a booming clap of thunder rattled Danilo, a searing strike of lightning shook the ground, and rain began to fall with a vengeance fiercer than this March rainy season. A torrent gushed from the sky, hitting the flora and fauna with a force that drowned the jungle sounds. Danilo looked through the towering canopy for the sliver of filtered moonlight, but it had vanished, giving way to frightening darkness as the storm devoured the jungle.

Water saturated every leaf, and Danilo wiped his face on his wet sleeve only to obscure his vision further.

While hacking a trail through the jungle with his machete, lead coursed through his veins, and his nostrils stung with the pungent smell of blood not even the rain could vanquish. He moved as fast as he could, hoping to distance himself from the ruthless killers with their strange accents and hardened faces as he led them back to their car. He squinted through the rain at the swaying treetops and tried to make sense of the shadowy figures overhead.

Maybe I’m seeing things.

He tried to quicken his pace, but every slash at the underbrush brought excruciating pain. His legs and arms grew heavy. As he forced his body to move, he remembered feeling this way once before.

As a young boy in Guatemala, during a horrifying vivid nightmare, he had experienced a visitation. He often wondered if it was the devil himself. He remembered feeling pinned to the bed—too heavy to move.

Now, in the impenetrable gloom of the storm he relived the nightmare, but this time it was worse—he couldn’t tell if it was rain that dripped down his back or the blood from his backpack that soaked him.

Why did I agree to lead these men? The money, of course.

But how could he have known he’d be carrying a human heart in his backpack?

He heard the men behind him utter what sounded like curses.

“Move!” one of them yelled.

Danilo wasn’t sure if he had been pushed or if he’d buckled from an explosive clap of thunder, but he found himself on his knees. 

Excerpt from Maya Hope by Timothy Browne, MD

No Longer Available

Do No Harm