To all the Western aficionados out there, I’m excited to share my thoughts on "The Gamblers: Texas Bluff," a notable work published in 2008 by Harper and written by the late, great Robert J. Randisi (1951 - 2024), fondly remembered as J.R. Roberts—the brilliant mind behind the beloved "The Gunsmith" series. This volume is the third, and if my memory serves me right, the concluding entry in "The Gamblers" saga. I began this tale without the framework of its preceding books, but let’s see how it unfurls as a standalone adventure.

The premise is intriguingly simple: our protagonist, Ty Butler, has faced the unthinkable—his family brutally murdered, with the shadows of their killers creeping ever closer. Imagine him as a modern-day gambler with a heart full of grief and a flair for high-stakes card games, evoking memories of James Garner’s charming, roguish character from Maverick.

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

Are there any books that are considered terrible, but you love?

My Answer:

Now, we all have our opinions when it comes to books—likes, dislikes, and everything in between—and I'm sure there are titles I've cherished that others might throw in the "never again" pile. I can think of a few James Patterson novels that I enjoyed, even though some readers weren't shy about voicing their disdain. It’s almost as if there’s a secret competition among readers to see who can dislike a book more. I remember last year when I penned a less-than-flattering review of Blood Sugar. One reader took it upon themselves to call me out, claiming my critique was overly harsh. Well, as the saying goes, opinions are like a**holes; everyone has one, and yes, they can all be a bit stinky sometimes.

So here we are, navigating the unpredictable landscape of literature, where each story sparks a different reaction. Perhaps that’s what makes the world of reading so fascinating—your next favorite book could be just around the corner, or it might just end up being a total dud. Either way, I'm ready for my next read and see where it takes me

〜B.J. Burgess

Good morning, my fellow book enthusiasts! 

It's been a long, hectic week with my mother back in the hospital again, and I find myself worrying myself into a frenzy. My 44th birthday came and went on the 7th, as I mentioned in my last Sunday Post. Honestly, it felt like just another day—nothing to celebrate when your mind is clouded with concern. But then, out of nowhere, a surprise arrived in the form of two belated birthday gifts from a friend. They were books from my Amazon wish list, and let me tell you, they couldn't have come at a better time.

'The Friday 56' is hosted by My Head is Full of Books.

One of the gifts I received is The Girl on the Porch by Richard Chizmar, the brilliant mind behind Cemetery Dance Publications and co-author of the acclaimed Gwendy Trilogy alongside Stephen King—talk about impressive credentials! I have to admit, I don't have a clue what the actual plot of this novella is yet, but the ominous title and the crime scene tape on the cover aren't exactly sending warm and fuzzy vibes my way. I mean, a girl found on a porch. It can't be the start of a cozy mystery, can it?

“A picture is worth a thousand nightmares.” That haunting sentiment danced through my mind as I turned my gaze to Kososki Jackson’s latest offering, The Macabre, freshly released by Harper Voyager. Seriously, snag a copy, ^[*] and prepare yourself for a ride! The cover—oh, the cover!—boasts a disturbingly beautiful painting that harkens back to the chilling aesthetics of Rob Sterling’s Night Gallery. At least, that’s what it conjured in my warped imagination.

Let me paint you a picture of the plot: enter Lewis Dixon, a struggling painter whose life takes an unexpected turn when the British Museum suddenly shows a peculiar interest in his art. Now, Lewis always sensed something potent lurking beneath his brush strokes. An unsettling pull that leads him to create a haunting reinterpretation of one of his great-grandfather's ten paintings from over a century ago. His modern twist? Surreal and dripping with a hint of horror, of course.

When Lewis accepts the museum's invitation, he discovers it’s not an exhibition he’s stepping into, but a bizarre trial to see if he possesses the uncanny magic to step into the paintings—and more crucially, if he has the resolve to escape them. Little does he know that those ten paintings come with a double-edged sword: immense eldritch power and a curse that could rival any nightmare. They may hold the key to being the most coveted artworks in existence.

Why do moviegoers flock to overpriced theaters to endure yet another lazy, plot-ridden dinosaur flick? It appears I’ve inadvertently provided my own answer—dinosaurs. Not the majestic, real dinosaurs of yore; those are long extinct and confined to the annals of history. What we have now is a parade of CGI monstrosities, rendered with the slickness of modern technology, but lacking the soul of artistic creativity. Yes, running to the big screen to witness that sounds utterly thrilling—at least, that’s the sound of my dripping sarcasm.

Personally, I find scant interest in the latest installment of the Jurassic franchise. Oh, forgive me for the slight oversight—it seems it has been rebranded as Jurassic World. Clever move, really—renaming a franchise is like putting a fresh coat of paint on an old, forgotten barn; it might look shiny, but it’s still just a rotting structure. The studio heads are milking every last dime from moviegoers' pockets for yet another mindless, clichéd popcorn flick, leaving our wallets decidedly lighter.

Now, let's pivot to the main event: Jurassic World Rebirth, the seventh entry in a franchise that arguably should have stopped at the original 1993 film. Remember when Spielberg opted against Michael Crichton’s original grim ending, opting instead to let the dino-games continue? True, Crichton’s The Lost World offered a second island, but considering how the cinematic industry has gone, it’s astounding it took them this long to exploit the franchise further.

I have a love-hate relationship with fictional series that continue long after the author's death. It's a contentious issue in the literary community—it sparks debates, deliberations, and, at times, outright fury. Whether the extension of a beloved series was part of the author's grand design or a last-minute decision made by their estate or publisher, fans react with passion. Personally, I fall into the camp that doesn’t mind as long as the new author or authors are given proper credit on the cover and it's not, cough, cough, ghostwritten. In my eyes, the utmost priority is that the story is well-crafted. Different writers have their own narratives and styles, but I want to see these new authors treat the source material with respect rather than mimicry.

Take, for example, the late Clive Cussler (1931-2020). His novels have continued to thrill fans even after his passing. And you know what? The new authors get their due credit right on the cover—although let’s be real, Clive’s name still dominates the page like a ship's captain who refuses to be overshadowed. The latest installment is The Iron Storm, written by Jack Du Brul, marking the 15th adventure in the Isaac Bell series that kicked off in 2007 with The Chase. It follows the relentless, no-nonsense private investigator Isaac Bell, who prowls the streets of early 20th-century America like a sleek cat on the hunt.

It may come as a surprise to some of you that I once dove headfirst into a whirlwind of Amish romances. Yes, you read that right. At one point in my life, I devoured these charming tales like candy, seeking something I still yearn for today—or perhaps it was merely a fleeting obsession. In any case, I lost myself in a world of bonnets and buggies until the genre became overcrowded with authors churning out the same stories on repeat, leaving me weary and longing for something fresh. There’s one exception, though: Beverly Lewis, the undisputed queen of Amish fiction and the first author to lure me into this quaint world. Her latest novella, The Christmas House, dropped last week via Bethany House—maybe a tad too early for holiday cheer, but hey, who am I to judge? Maybe early November would have been the sweet spot.

The storyline unfolds like a cozy blanket as the holidays draw near. Liz Lantz, our earnest protagonist, is determined to splash her Hickory Hollow buggy tour business with a sprinkle of God's love for the Englisher tourists flocking to her beloved Lancaster County. It's all very Hallmark until her father and brother get called away on some mission, leaving her in need of help. Enter Matthew Yoder, a young Amish man drafted to assist her—an arrangement not exactly met with wild enthusiasm. But as the popularity of her Christmas House Buggy Tour picks up steam, Liz begrudgingly finds herself working alongside Matt. And wouldn’t you know it? He takes a sincere interest in both the tour customers and, naturally, Liz herself.

The Sunday Post, Issue #279

The Editorial

My mind hasn't quite recovered from the whirlwind week that flipped my world into an episode of the Twilight Zone. Picture this: an emergency room drama starring my mother. While I won't dive into the details—because, really, who needs more gray hairs?—I can tell you she’s on the mend, albeit with more doctor visits and a slew of upcoming tests looming like dark clouds. The stress of it all is enough to make my stomach churn. In a blink, the only son morphs into a reluctant parent to his parents, and here I am, grappling with emotions that feel foreign and unwelcome. Change is the name of the game, it seems... but, like a good suspense novel, only time will reveal the twists and turns ahead.

Today, I turned forty-four. The big four-four. I don’t feel old—if anything, that number feels like just another tick on the timeline—probably won't for many birthdays to come. Age is just a number, right? Or something like that—it's hard to keep track these days. Mid-life crises? Not on my radar, at least not yet. Maybe when I hit fifty, but for now, I feel like I'm just warming up. Life has always been a solo journey for me—no wife, no kids rattling about. And yet, there’s this nagging whisper of loneliness, creeping around the corners of my mind, and that? That scares me a bit.

I delved into Lumen Reese's There's Something Wrong in Hugo Creek a few months back, after snagging an ARC from BookSirens. I had intended to review it on my now-defunct second blog, which focused on all things Western. I've since migrated that passion over to my new weekly post series, Gunsmoke & Grit.

The story unravels in a dusty corner of Texas, stretching out from Abilene, where the Hugo family has held dominion over Hugo Creek for three long decades. And let me tell you, the titular boy—Rollie Hugo—is as rotten as a forgotten tumbleweed in July. At a lonely farm sprawling across the Texas plains, that very Rollie leads a posse to inflict an utterly shocking act of violence on the unassuming Haney family. Enter Alice Haney, the matriarch, left to pick up the pieces, a first-generation Chinese immigrant in her fifties. With every ounce of strength and resolve, Alice realizes that the road to justice is littered with thorns. Anguish morphs into a fierce determination as she embarks on a bloody quest for vengeance.