DOPPELGANGERS XX

  This joke was supposed to have been a Folk Metal one. Even Black Metal could have been a closer call—the genre oftenly roots itself  in Mother Nature's aesthetics, sometimes even lyrically and to a huge degree sonically. That is the main idea here, rather than the slightly not-very-similar album art. Nature. Born in a Tomb and the atmospheric tinged Yggdrasil: Journey Throughout the Nine Worlds are both second release full-lengths from one-man outfits.

—Ossadogva

—Darkened Winter

DOPPELGANGERS XIX

  They are hats, but it is how they are worn. Or what kind of hat. The Lady With a Red Hat, fuckin' right Glenn Headly—Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Below are two portrayals of what a woman ought to be, with Vita Sackville-West portrayed on the second item.

—William Strang
—Johannes Vermeer

 

THE CROQUET PLAYER BY H. G. WELLS

  It only takes the first five pages to discern a piece written by Herbert G. Wells. Besides a catalogue that would by  any means appear intimidating given how highly original, perceptive and engaging his work is. They are tales that are ebbed and whiled out  as a first person narrative from the perspective of a third person, with a constant of choice peculiar words.

  Given the brevity of The Croquet Player, it occurs a man's tale into contagious madness. Presented here is an ordinary or everyday man; a key aspect in relegating the intended impact of the story's urgency—amid the ramification of perceived but highly contagious thoughts of two intellectuals. One is a young, sensitive, reasonable, if oblivious of the reality around him. The other man is an inflated promise of redemption—with borderline ruminations to the truth about the current world situations. It is not a big revelation that man is really a beast, and in neither way different from his cave-man ancestor—appointed to psychotherapeutic duties upon the young doctor. 

  The Doctor starts losing his mind to a fear of the unknown at a remote area, once inhabited by Neanderthals. If this place sets everybody setting foot there mad, their reaction on countering the overcast mental entities can work for or against them. Dr. Finchatton narrates his troubles  in a quest for perspective and opinion from an ordinary man: and one who wouldn't care even if his world is falling apart provided the usual needs are met. They must be. Metaphorically delving in the frustrations of two aspects of civilization and their reactions to their not so reassuring world. Ignoring and failing to rise up to the challenges. Placing an engagement to the reader.

Did he repeat my phrase—endemic panic?

   The author aligns and acclaims to Edgar E. Poe, and evokes a similar atmosphere, with certain touches of Howard P. Lovecraft, succeeding to create a formidable power of the unknown. It is the reader that is being confronted, once the croquet player decides to flee, even though his mind has been seeded with the malady of thought. How to be an incorporating presentist, such a way!

POINT DECEPTION BY MARCIA MULLER

  Some stories go on forever. . . . The grips have done part the task and now adrenaline jets the flowing. Others are a waste of readers' time. Ah, the time for different excursions. For the most part, satisfaction and well laid foundation are a Siamese pair. Get the plot inconceivably yet seemingly condensable links and backstories and the unforgiving razor pares this relationship. Severing may be terminal on either or both.

  As far as Point Deception impresses with the writing, it falls somehow badly on its own propulsions. For a mystery story, it dwells heavily on character development at the expense of detection and mystery-solving. An eminent mystery seeker may be put off by the meandering of the story-line across personal issues and pasts  of people that are the knit of the murders that occurred at Point Deception in a new wake of numinous murders. The backlogs render  too much into particular persons to read as biographies, which jeopardizes both length and enjoyability of the book to acclimated mystery seekers.

 

 

You may think you're a hotshot detective, lady, but you're nothing on me.

  The main appeal is largely at the closure. The original murders have been used as a cultivation point and minstrel to one unlikely melody at the brief closure. Bait. Further enmeshed in many unnatural conversations. The upbeat use of slang may try to appeal to a YA audience at a very sickening precedence. Some colloquials are so conventional they do the author some discredit, but the ending was perfect. The book outlines some achievements at the back but my considerations towards the author remain limited. If only all that detail went into polishing the crimes.

THE CONSULTANT: A NOVEL OF COMPUTER CRIME BY JOHN McNEIL

  To hell with being a moralist. To such a seemingly crude society it's befitting at best to be opportunistic and damn be repercussions. What a coarser and broader view t apply to the titilations of everyday. Conclusive, but not wrong. An actuality articulated by many correctly putting.

  A disconcerting life is not to relegate countenance to . . . loophole appropriation. After setting up a software consultancy firm, which encrusts him with the frightening hindsight that it is much worse to own a small portion of a company you work for than to just work for it; the day has come for Webb to neck his way into a tender among six rivals that include a giant firm—which he ordinarily has no chance against. The aging programmer recruits one of his employees to sniff out patches in a new in the market system for a major bank—BANKNET.

   Along teaching his companion the ropes, Webb faces the moralist dilemma that finally ticks to right side of the clock—depending on how one views it. By this streak, he also measures the accentuating action of his younger associates, as he also plays detective, spy, auditor, schemer, and all that jazz in a quest to what everything boils down to—information. Win the tender? Outsmart a shit-hot coder? Deliver required fodder?—information.

Knowledge is the best key, Mr. Webb. Knowledge of weakness.

  The Consultant is first a great story, then literature. It is way too formidable to dwell pretensions—a leaning it constantly disapproves of bearing the frolicking and fun word-tossing. The colour of the whole scheme lies in the cordiality of characters pitted against dishevels and malice. A solitary crime thriller that strikes a frozen pause to the time of digital significance.