📘📘📘 – Solid, Selectively Recommended: God's Army to Purge Homosexuality - A tense, topic-forward thriller that will satisfy readers drawn to political extremism and undercover suspense, though its harsh language and bleak intensity won’t suit everyone.
📘📘📘 – Solid, Selectively Recommended: Spirit Never Dies - An energetic, accessible superhuman-suspense thriller with a strong redemption spine and big stakes, best suited to readers who prioritize plot momentum over literary interiority.
TVR Review Because this is Texas - Premium Review
Long Review
Because This Is Texas: An Account of the Sneed–Boyce Feud is a meticulously researched, quietly explosive work of narrative history that reconstructs one of the most notorious “unwritten law” cases in early-twentieth-century Texas. Centered on the 1911–1912 killings of former XIT Ranch manager Albert G. Boyce Sr. and his son Al by rancher and cattleman John Beal Sneed, the book follows the long chain of events that begins as a love triangle and ends as a public referendum on marriage, masculinity, and the sanctity of the home. Drawing on letters, court transcripts, newspaper coverage, and family archives, Clara Sneed—Beal’s great-niece—turns a local legend into a fully realized historical narrative.
The opening prologue situates the story in 1912, a world teetering between Victorian restraint and the coming upheaval of World War I. From there, the first chapter moves back to the turn of the century, tracing the intertwined fortunes of the Sneed, Snyder, and Boyce families as they rise with cattle empires, attend Southwestern University, and settle in booming Amarillo. The core situation emerges when Lenora “Lena” Sneed, married to Beal, rekindles or discovers an overwhelming love for her childhood acquaintance Al Boyce Jr. Their affair, consummated in 1911 and culminating in an elopement that takes them all the way to Winnipeg, sets off a chain of legal, social, and emotional shocks that reverberate through families, churches, courtrooms, and newspapers across Texas and beyond.
The book’s greatest strength lies in how fully it inhabits its principal figures without flattening them into heroes or villains. Lena emerges as a woman of intelligence and emotional intensity, trapped by the constraints of her time and the expectations placed on a wealthy rancher’s wife. Her letters to Al, quoted extensively, are passionate, repetitive, and utterly sincere, revealing both the depth of her love and her willingness to risk reputation, children, and financial security for it. Al appears not as a stock seducer but as a reserved, occasionally brooding man whose own letters are surprisingly open-hearted and vulnerable.
Beal, meanwhile, is drawn as a complicated mixture of aggrieved husband, calculating lawyer, and product of his culture. The narrative shows his oscillation between possessive rage and a self-styled role as guardian of a sick wife “not herself,” whose moral insanity must be contained for the sake of the children. The result is an account that acknowledges the brutality of Beal’s actions—stalking the lovers across borders, having Lena confined to a sanitarium, and ultimately shooting both Boyces—while also explaining how a jury could later see him as the defender of home and honor rather than a murderer.
Stylistically, Sneed writes in lucid, literate prose that balances storytelling with analysis. The book maintains a mostly linear structure—prologue, four chapters, and an epilogue—but frequently zooms out to provide broader context on Texas ranching culture, turn-of-the-century psychiatry (“alienists” and the diagnosis of “moral insanity”), and the gendered expectations of Southern respectability. Quotations from contemporary newspapers, habeas corpus transcripts, and private letters are woven smoothly into the narrative, giving the reader both immediacy and perspective. The tone is measured and thoughtful rather than sensational, even when describing shootings in hotel lobbies and on public streets.
Thematically, the work probes the collision between personal passion and public codes of honor. It examines how the “unwritten law”—the idea that a man is justified in killing his wife’s lover to protect the home—functions not just as courtroom strategy but as a cultural reflex. The book also highlights the ways in which Lena’s body and mind become contested terrain: labeled “insane” or “feeble-minded” when convenient, pathologized for sexual and emotional autonomy, and used as leverage in legal and familial power struggles. In the later chapters and the epilogue, Sneed draws clear lines from this 1910s saga to ongoing debates about gender roles, divorce, and the way communities valorize or excuse violence in the name of protecting family and tradition.
Some readers may find the level of legal and procedural detail demanding. Courtroom strategies, jurisdictional maneuvers between Texas and Canada, and the shifting charges against Al (abduction, larceny, white-slavery accusations) receive significant space. For readers primarily seeking a brisk, plot-driven true-crime read, this can occasionally slow momentum. Others will find that these details are precisely what make the book valuable: they show how law, media, and public sentiment interacted to produce an acquittal that a jury foreman famously justified with the simple phrase, “because this is Texas.”
Because This Is Texas will resonate most strongly with readers interested in Texas history, legal history, and serious narrative nonfiction about crime and social norms. It offers a richly contextualized, unsentimental look at how a community chose sides in a feud that was never quite a feud, and how the myth of the protective husband was weaponized in courtrooms and newspapers. For those who want more than a lurid retelling—for those who want to understand how such a story could happen and what it meant to the people who lived through it—this book delivers a compelling, deeply researched account.
Short Review
Because This Is Texas: An Account of the Sneed–Boyce Feud traces a sensational early-1900s Texas love triangle—Lena Sneed, her husband Beal, and her lover Al Boyce Jr.—from whispered gossip to national headlines and landmark trials. Using family letters, court records, and contemporary journalism, Clara Sneed reconstructs the lovers’ elopement to Canada, Lena’s forced confinement in a sanitarium, and the public murders of both Boyce men by Beal, then shows how a Texas jury framed those killings as an act of home protection rather than crime. The prose is clear and historically rich, balancing vivid scenes with careful explanation of legal strategies and cultural attitudes toward marriage, divorce, and the “unwritten law.”
Rather than cast simple heroes and villains, the book presents its central figures in all their contradictions: Lena as passionate and transgressive yet vulnerable to institutional power; Al as reserved rancher turned ardent lover; Beal as both controlling husband and emblem of a culture that equated masculine honor with lethal force. Some readers may find the dense legal and procedural sections slower than the more narrative passages, and the focus is unapologetically regional and historical rather than broadly commercial. Still, for readers of narrative history and serious true crime, this is a thoughtful, engaging account that illuminates how one Texas story came to stand for an entire set of values about home, honor, and justice.
One-Sentence Review
A richly researched, quietly riveting account of the Sneed–Boyce affair, Because This Is Texas turns a notorious Texas shooting case into a nuanced study of love, honor, and the “unwritten law.”
Book Rating
📘📘📘📘 – Strongly Recommended: A well-crafted, deeply contextualized narrative history that will satisfy readers of serious true crime and Texas history, even if its dense legal detail and regional focus give it a somewhat niche appeal.
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Content Notes
• Language: Mild to moderate; period-appropriate dialogue and newspaper quotations, occasional strong phrasing but no pervasive profanity.
• Violence: Moderate; on-page descriptions of two shootings and threats of violence, plus repeated discussion of possible lynching or execution, but little graphic physical detail.
• Sexual Content: Non-graphic; adultery and an intense extramarital love affair, implied sexual relationship, references to pregnancy and miscarriage, but no explicit sexual scenes.
• Drugs/Alcohol: Moderate; frequent social and problematic alcohol use in early-1900s Texas ranching culture, mentions of heavy drinking.
• Sensitive Topics: Confinement in a mental institution, contested claims of insanity, miscarriage, strong gendered double standards, threats to children’s custody, and themes of vigilantism and extrajudicial justice.
ReadSafe Rating
• Rating: PG-13
• Labels: V, SC, DA, ST
• Explanation: The book contains multiple on-page killings, persistent threats of violence, and frank discussion of an extramarital affair and miscarriage, though none of these are described in graphic physical detail. Alcohol use is common and sometimes excessive, reflecting the period’s ranching and saloon culture. Sensitive topics include forced institutionalization for “moral insanity,” intense public shaming, and the normalization of lethal “honor” violence. Overall, the content is mature but appropriate for most teens and adults comfortable with serious historical true crime.
TVR Story Book Mountain – Premium Review
Long Review
Story Book Mountain: A Memoir for Martha Moore Trescott is a document-grounded memoir built from what a person leaves behind—journals, letters, photographs, genealogical notes, and the physical trace of homes and keepsakes. The book’s hook arrives early: Martha wanted a memoir written, and after her death the task lands with someone close to her. That premise sets expectations correctly. This is not a conventional scene-by-scene memoir with a single, driving plot; it is a reconstruction of a life from records, memory, and the silence between them.
The memoir’s strongest pages are concrete and sensory. Places matter here, not as backdrops but as forces that shape people. Rooms, porches, trunks, boxes, and heirlooms are described with tactile clarity, and the narrative shows how identity gets stored in objects—and how objects can become charged after someone is gone. The Knox Mansion material is especially effective at turning setting into emotional context: beauty and status sit beside expectation, restraint, and the pressure to keep complicated truths private.
Martha’s portrait emerges through contrast. She is presented as intellectually serious and drawn to questions of justice, learning, and service. At the same time, she moves through relationships and institutions that do not fit cleanly, and the memoir resists forcing her into a single explanation. It allows Martha to be complex: idealistic yet burdened, generous yet guarded, pulled toward what feels right while also managing what feels survivable. The refusal to flatten her into either hero or cautionary tale is one of the book’s most credible choices.
A second backbone is spiritual and philosophical seeking. The memoir treats faith less as a single creed and more as an ongoing attempt to align conscience and inner life. It circles questions of meaning, purpose, and responsibility without manufacturing a neat conclusion, and it draws on writers such as Thomas Merton as companion voices for that inquiry. For readers who value reflective nonfiction, this thread will feel integral rather than decorative; it helps explain why the book stays interested in interior struggle as much as external biography.
Because the method is archival, the reading experience depends on tolerance for density. Names accumulate and relationships branch. The narrative shifts between artifact (a diary entry, a letter, a family document), orientation (who the person is and why they matter), and reflection (what the pattern might suggest). When those gears mesh, the memoir delivers intimacy that feels earned, because it is built from primary material rather than invention. When they do not, momentum slows, and readers who prefer a clear chronological drive may feel the weight of family mapping and context more than the forward pull of story.
Even with that variability, the memoir’s ethic is consistent. It is cautious about claiming certainty where evidence is incomplete, and it distinguishes between what is documented and what is inferred. That restraint is a genuine strength. It signals respect for the subject and an awareness that family history is often contested, partial, and self-protective. Emotional power arrives quietly through accumulation: the tone of a letter, the repetition of a worry, the weight that gathers around an object, and the sense of what was repeatedly said—or repeatedly avoided.
The content is mature but not sensational. There is significant family conflict and the kind of personal strain that shows up in real records—divorce, legal and relational ruptures, and references to harm within relationships. These elements are treated as life context rather than spectacle, but they place the book firmly in adult territory. The memoir’s focus remains on how people interpret, justify, and survive what happens inside families, and how legacy is shaped by what gets told, what gets stored, and what is left unsaid.
Readers who want a fast, plot-driven memoir may find the pace measured and the structure more collage-like than linear. Readers who enjoy women-centered life writing, family-history memoir, and document-driven storytelling will likely appreciate the texture, the moral seriousness, and the sense of a life being reconstructed with care. Story Book Mountain is best approached as a portrait built from fragments: a climb made by sorting, carrying, and trying—imperfectly but earnestly—to tell the truth of a complicated person.
Short Review
Story Book Mountain: A Memoir for Martha Moore Trescott is a document-grounded memoir that reconstructs Martha’s life through journals, letters, photographs, and family records, using places and objects as living evidence. The premise is direct—Martha wanted a memoir written, and the narrator takes on that request after her death—so the reader knows this will be a portrait assembled from artifacts rather than a purely scene-driven narrative.
The memoir’s best work is vivid and specific. Homes and heirlooms become emotional anchors, showing how identity and expectation get stored in architecture and inheritance. The Knox Mansion passages are especially strong at turning setting into meaning. Martha comes through as intellectually serious and justice-minded, with a sustained spiritual and philosophical thread running beneath her choices and the way she frames her inner life.
The tradeoff is pace and density. The archival method brings many names, braided timelines, and frequent shifts between quoted material, family context, and reflection. Readers who enjoy family-history memoir and women-centered life writing will likely value that texture; readers who prefer a clean chronological arc may find it slower and more collage-like. Overall, it’s a thoughtful, adult memoir that rewards patient readers who like nonfiction built from primary documents and lived detail.
One-Sentence Review
A thoughtful, document-grounded memoir that rebuilds Martha Moore Trescott’s life from letters, journals, and place, blending family history, spiritual inquiry, moral seriousness, and the hard limits of surviving evidence.
Book Rating
📘📘📘📘 4 Books – Strongly Recommended: A thoughtful, evidence-based memoir with clear emotional and philosophical depth; best for readers who enjoy document-driven family history and reflective nonfiction.
Pull Quotes (1–2)
1. "An evidence-grounded memoir that turns letters, journals, and place into a careful portrait of a complicated life."
2. "Vivid with lived detail and moral seriousness, it rewards patient readers who like memoir built from what survived."
Content Notes
• Language: Mild; occasional tense or harsh family conflict language.
• Violence: Non-graphic references to physical abuse and war-related harm; no sustained graphic depiction.
• Sexual Content: None to minimal; no explicit scenes.
• Drugs/Alcohol: Brief mentions (including alcoholism in context); no detailed use scenes.
• Sensitive Topics: Divorce, family rupture, legal conflict, domestic/psychological abuse references, illness/aging, grief and death, spiritually themed reflection.
ReadSafe Rating
• Rating: PG-13
• Labels: V, DA, ST
• Genres: Biographies & Memoirs / Memoirs; Biographies & Memoirs / Women; Religion & Spirituality / Inspirational
• ISBN: 9781790304868
• Explanation: The book includes mature family conflict, divorce and legal strain, and non-graphic references to physical abuse, along with brief war-related violence context. Alcoholism is mentioned as a topic rather than depicted through detailed use. Sexual content is minimal, but themes of loss, faith, and psychological strain place it above a general-audience memoir in intensity.
TVR Review Spirit Never Dies - Premium Review
Long Review
Spirit Never Dies is a high-concept supernatural thriller built around a clean, propulsive “what if”: what if the next step in human evolution arrived quietly—in kids and a few adults with psychic abilities—and the world’s first reaction wasn’t wonder, but exploitation, fear, and power-grabs? The novel frames that evolutionary jump as morally neutral—“good or…bad”—then tests it through a clash of agendas: protect the gifted, weaponize the gifted, or destroy what can’t be controlled.
At the center is Phillip Dunn, a middle-aged “teacher and…crusader for the Star Children” who carries an explicit redemption arc: he once went the wrong direction with his own gifts and now tries to make amends by becoming a guardian, recruiter, and stabilizing force for the next wave. That premise gives the story its emotional backbone: this isn’t only a save-the-world plot, it’s a second-chance plot—one in which “doing better this time” becomes a daily decision under pressure.
The early movement establishes Phillip as a public-facing figure—an author on tour—whose visibility becomes part of the machinery of recruitment. In Chicago, for example, a caseworker introduces two teens (Hakeem Washington and Courtney Eagle Feather) as possible Star Children, and the book delivers a quick, memorable demonstration of the concept: Hakeem tries to read Phillip’s mind, only to discover Phillip can trace the intrusion right back and counter-read him. This kind of scene captures what Spirit Never Dies does best: make the “powers” legible and fun on the page (mind-walls, probing thoughts, the chess-match feel of psychic contact) while also showing the human stakes—kids in state custody, adults deciding whether to trust, and the constant risk that “special” becomes “target.”
Once the national-security thread tightens, the book leans into political-thriller momentum. The narrative introduces sudden, high-level instability—leaders dead, secrecy, competing agencies, and the sense that the public story is always behind the real one. That tension pairs naturally with the Star Children premise, because psychic intelligence-gathering becomes both a superpower and a liability: it can shortcut investigations, but it can also be attacked, spoofed, or corrupted. The result is a story that plays like a mash-up of pop-superpower fiction and conspiracy suspense—explicitly positioned for readers who enjoy titles like X-Men–style ensembles and modern “gifted” thrillers.
Structurally, the novel reads as a fast-moving sequence of missions, discoveries, and escalations spread across different locations, with a widening cast as Phillip’s circle expands. The prose is direct and accessible, prioritizing clarity over lyricism; it tends to explain motivations and logistics plainly, which keeps the plot easy to follow even when the scope expands to multiple teams and jurisdictions. That same straightforwardness can also make some passages feel “told” rather than fully dramatized, especially when the book needs to bridge from one set-piece to the next. Readers who like clean, cinematic staging and quick comprehension will be comfortable; readers who prefer dense interiority or heavily stylized voice may find the delivery more functional than immersive.
Thematically, Spirit Never Dies is less interested in nihilism than in moral choice under strain. Phillip’s role as teacher/guardian creates an ongoing question: what does “protection” mean when the protected can invade minds, influence outcomes, and attract predators? The book also builds an undercurrent of spiritual framing—giftedness as destiny, purpose, and responsibility—without turning the story into a sermon. That balance will work best for readers open to “spiritual growth” as a thriller ingredient rather than an add-on.
Where the novel lands strongest is in the combination of (1) a redemption-driven lead, (2) an ensemble of gifted characters with differentiated abilities, and (3) a plot engine that keeps raising stakes—from personal guardianship decisions to events that ripple into public crisis. The book’s limitations are largely a matter of reader taste: some will love the brisk, declarative pacing and broad, high-stakes plotting; others may want tighter scene-by-scene texture and deeper, quieter character layering between the big turns.
Overall, Spirit Never Dies offers an energetic, accessible blend of psychic/superhuman suspense and conspiracy-forward thriller beats, anchored by a protagonist whose central conflict is not only what to stop, but who to become while stopping it.
Short Review
Spirit Never Dies blends superhuman “gifted” fiction with political-suspense pacing, following Phillip Dunn—a public-facing teacher and guardian for the “Star Children”—as he recruits vulnerable teens with psychic abilities and tries to steer them toward doing good with power. Early on, the concept clicks through clean demonstrations of mind-reading and mental defenses: when a teen attempts to pry into Phillip’s thoughts, Phillip calmly reverses the game and tracks the intrusion back to its source.
From there, the story widens into a higher-stakes arena—secrecy, coordinated threats, and the shock of national instability—where the gifted become both an asset and a target.
The novel’s most appealing hook is its moral framing: evolution isn’t automatically salvation; the same abilities can be used to protect or to dominate, and Phillip’s own past mistakes sharpen the book’s redemption thread.
Written in straightforward, easy-to-track prose, Spirit Never Dies favors momentum, clarity, and cinematic set-pieces over stylistic flourish. Readers who enjoy ensemble power dynamics (and the pop-culture lane of X-Men-adjacent thrill rides) will likely have a good time; readers seeking quieter, more psychologically dense literary suspense may find the approach more plot-driven than intimate.
One-Sentence Review
A fast-moving psychic-evolution thriller that mixes X-Men-style gifted characters with conspiracy stakes, anchored by a teacher-guardian chasing redemption while power turns dangerous.
Spirit Never Dies EPROOF-099673…
Book Rating
📘📘📘 – Solid, Selectively Recommended: An energetic, accessible superhuman-suspense thriller with a strong redemption spine and big stakes, best suited to readers who prioritize plot momentum over literary interiority.
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Content Notes
• Language: Mild; occasional coarse expressions, but no sustained explicit profanity indicated.
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• Violence: Moderate; deaths/assassination-related events and threat-driven scenes, more suspenseful than graphic.
• Sexual Content: Minimal; brief references to attraction/seduction without on-page explicit detail.
• Drugs/Alcohol: Present in backstory (parental substance issues) and occasional references.
• Sensitive Topics: Terrorism, death, child custody/abandonment themes, grief and trauma reactions.
ReadSafe Rating
• Rating: PG-13
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• Labels: V, DA, ST
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• Genres: Paranormal/Supernatural Thriller; Political Thriller; Science Fiction (Psychic/Superhuman)
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• ISBN: 978-0-9967348-9-9
Spirit Never Dies EPROOF-099673…
• Explanation: The book centers on lethal threat scenarios (including leadership deaths and high-stakes danger), but the violence is framed primarily as suspense rather than graphic depiction.
Spirit Never Dies EPROOF-099673…
Drug/alcohol issues appear in character backstory (notably parental substance problems), alongside sensitive themes involving trauma, terrorism, and vulnerable youth in state systems.
TVR Review God’s Army to Purge Homosexuality - Premium Review
Long Review
God’s Army to Purge Homosexuality (GAPH) opens with a blunt statement of intent: organized, ideologically driven violence aimed at LGBTQ+ spaces, paired with anti-abortion extremism. The prologue frames a bar bombing and an abortion-clinic bombing as connected “wars,” and it immediately positions hate as a system—spreading, recruiting, and escalating—rather than an isolated act. From there, the novel leans into a thriller structure built on infiltration, anticipation, and dread: readers are not simply watching a crime unfold; they are watching a movement justify itself, operationalize itself, and hunt for the next opportunity to strike.
The core narrative tension comes from proximity. The book spends significant time inside the extremists’ world—how they talk, how they rationalize, how they select targets, and how they test and refine methods. That choice gives the story its most unsettling strength: the violence is not random, and the danger is not abstract. The antagonistic force is organized, patient, and strategically minded, which raises the stakes for any character trying to disrupt it. The novel’s scenes in and around planning spaces and controlled environments create a pressure-cooker effect, because every “success” the group celebrates implies a future cost paid by strangers.
Opposing that machinery are protagonists positioned close enough to be contaminated by it—especially Brent and Nicole, who are shown navigating a mission where trust is brittle and surveillance is constant. Their storyline has the scaffolding of classic undercover suspense: perform belief convincingly, stay alive, gather proof, and find the narrow window to stop what is coming. The book repeatedly underlines that the risk isn’t only physical; it’s also social and psychological. One leak, one rumor, or one compromised ally can shift the odds instantly. The result is a narrative that treats exposure as its own kind of countdown.
Tone-wise, GAPH is grim, direct, and confrontational. It does not soften the ugliness of the ideology it depicts, and it does not protect the reader from the language and contempt that come with it. The book’s willingness to show the rhetoric—alongside the human consequences—makes it a tough read in the best and worst senses: tough because it aims for impact, and tough because it demands emotional endurance. Thematically, it explores radicalization, identity-based violence, complicity, and the way political ambition, religious certainty, and personal fear can overlap to create real-world harm. The story also points to the enabling role of networks—social circles, churches, and private communities—where “gossip” and “values” can become mechanisms of danger.
Structurally, the novel favors momentum and set-piece escalation. It often emphasizes action, movement, and high-level operational detail, with scenes designed to keep the reader forward-facing rather than reflective. Readers who like procedural elements in thrillers—plans, targets, logistics, and the feeling of “something is about to happen”—will find a lot to latch onto. Readers who prefer a softer psychological approach or more interiority may find the book’s bluntness and intensity heavy, especially when the narrative sits close to hate speech and extremist logic for extended stretches.
GAPH is not a comfort read, and it is not trying to be. It is a politically charged, topic-forward thriller that uses its premise to keep the tension high and the moral landscape stark. For readers who want a suspense novel that stares directly at anti-LGBTQ+ extremism—without euphemism—and builds its thrills from the fear of what organized hate can do, this book will deliver a forceful, unsettling ride. For readers who are sensitive to slurs, depictions of terrorism, or the repeated proximity to dehumanizing ideology, the experience may be more punishing than entertaining.
Short Review
God’s Army to Purge Homosexuality (GAPH) is a hard-edged thriller about ideologically driven violence targeting LGBTQ+ spaces, tied to a broader web of extremist hatred. The novel builds suspense by spending unflinching time inside the perpetrators’ world—how they recruit, rationalize, and plan—while following Brent and Nicole as they navigate a high-risk mission where exposure can be fatal. The tone is grim and confrontational, with language and scenes that refuse to soften the ugliness of the ideology depicted.
Readers who like political and procedural suspense—operational detail, looming attacks, and undercover danger—will find strong momentum and escalating stakes. Readers looking for a softer emotional experience, or those sensitive to slurs and terrorism-related violence, may find the book’s intensity and proximity to hate rhetoric difficult.
One-Sentence Review
A grim, politically charged thriller that tracks organized anti-LGBTQ+ extremism from recruitment to attack planning, then tightens the tension through high-risk infiltration and escalating consequences.
Book Rating
📘📘📘 – Solid, Selectively Recommended: A tense, topic-forward thriller that will satisfy readers drawn to political extremism and undercover suspense, though its harsh language and bleak intensity won’t suit everyone.
Pull Quotes (1–2)
Content Notes
• Language: Strong; includes slurs and dehumanizing anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric.
• Violence: Graphic and sustained; terrorism/bombing threats and attack planning/execution.
• Sexual Content: Mild; brief on-page intimacy (kissing).
• Drugs/Alcohol: Present; bar settings and references to alcohol.
• Sensitive Topics: Terrorism, hate crimes, homophobia, extremist ideology, abortion-clinic violence.
ReadSafe Rating
• Rating: R
• Labels: EL, V, SC, DA, ST
• Genres: Political Thriller; Crime Thriller; LGBTQ+ Suspense
• ISBN: 978-0-9967348-5-1
• Explanation: The book contains sustained terrorism-related violence including bombing/attack planning and scenes built around mass-casualty intent. It also includes strong hate speech and slurs directed at LGBTQ+ people, along with heavy themes of extremist ideology and targeted persecution. Sexual content is limited to brief intimacy, and alcohol appears in bar settings.
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