By Chris Coppernoll
After suffering for years to make it as an actress, Harper ultimately will get her massive break—but will she need to sacrifice the affection of her lifestyles to take it?
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With the Christmas season upon him, Detective Sergeant Bruce Robertson of Edinburgh's best is gearing up socially—kicking issues off with every week of intercourse and medicine in Amsterdam. There are a few large flies within the ointment, although: a lacking spouse and baby, a nagging cocaine behavior, a few painful below-the-belt eczema, and a string of difficult extramarital affairs.
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Jason M. Hough’s pulse-pounding debut combines the drama, swagger, and brilliant characters of Joss Whedon’s Firefly with the expertise of sci-fi writer John Scalzi.
within the mid-23rd century, Darwin, Australia, stands because the final human urban on the earth. the realm has succumbed to an alien plague, with many of the inhabitants reworked into senseless, savage creatures. The planet’s refugees flock to Darwin, the place an area elevator—created by means of the architects of this apocalypse, the Builders—emits a plague-suppressing aura.
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Praise for The Darwin Elevator
“[Jason M. ] Hough’s first novel combines the rapid-fire motion and remarkable characters linked to Joss Whedon’s short-lived Firefly television sequence with the accessibility and medical acumen of J. S. Corey’s ‘Expanse’ sequence. ”—Library magazine (starred review)
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Extra info for Screen Play: A Novel
I know. ’ Dexter raised his head and stared bleakly at the grimacing samurai. ‘When it came to it, I didn’t . ’ Joan shook his shoulder, irritated by him. ‘So what? Nobody does. ’ ‘I had the balls . ’ Dexter calmed her with his quirky smile. ‘What I didn’t have was hope, or trust. I was relying on myself. For me, those children were already dead. I should have remembered who I was trying to be. ’ I waited for Dexter to reflate himself, jaw flexing as it reengaged with his scarred face. ‘The travel agency you tried to attack.
The planet is full. ’ Her voice rose to a derisive hoot. ‘Gangs of coolies who mix the cement and lay the runways. ’ They’re the real victims. ’ I held my ribs, no longer thinking of whether I could walk as far as the King’s Road. Kay Churchill was launched into a well-rehearsed rant, counting off the chipped beads in her catechism of obsessions. According to Henry Kendall, the tape found in the Heathrow air vent had contained a similar tirade. I remembered the amateur video of Laura lying among the glass and suitcases, and listened to Kay addressing her real audience, the weary magistrates who would finally consign her to a cell in Holloway.
Laing and a familiar figure on CND marches, joining Bertrand Russell at anti-nuclear sit-ins and being glamorously dragged away by the police. Late-night discussion programmes on television were as much her natural home as the consulting room. As a child I watched her on my grandmother’s TV set, deeply impressed by the caftans, waist-length black hair and fiercely articulate passion. Free love and legalized drugs meant little to me, though I guessed they were in some way connected to the friendly but unfamiliar men who appeared on her weekend visits, and to the home-made cigarettes she taught me to roll for her and which she smoked despite the protests of my wearily tolerant grandmother.