Uvi Poznansky's Blog, page 19
June 17, 2022
Let me in, hold me tight
Mirrored in the open wing of the piano, her face is so young, so alive with the red glow of her hair. Her green eyes shine back from the polished surface. This, I suppose, is why my father is so drawn to Anita. Apparently, he wants her to learn to play the piano, but then—even though she is just a beginner—he expects her to reach a level which no one can sustain. Not even mom.In our family, forgiveness is something you pray for, something you yearn to receive—but so seldom do you give it to others. “Go away, Ben,” says Anita, without even turning around. “I don’t want to play. And you, you can’t make me! Hell,” she says sharply, “I’ll do as I please.” Now she darts a glance at me as if to ask, What, you laughing at me? No, I wish to say. What I want is... Well, I am not really sure: perhaps, just to lay my head here, on your shoulder. Perhaps, to lean my brow against your lips. Perhaps, to touch the tiny freckles on your cheek. Above all else, I want—but cannot bring myself to tell you—I really want to hear you laugh. Just like here, this note. Listen, can you hear it? This soft sound, rolling, rising, ringing up here?Anita shakes her head, as if she could detect the whisper, the quiet whisper of my thoughts. To me, her pose is so alluring when she bends down to the floor, in the shadow of the piano, to pick up some crumpled piece of paper. Then she starts twisting away under me. For all I know, she is aiming to get up, to leave me here, alone. Is this a game she is playing with me? I do not have the faintest idea. But if it is, perhaps I can beat her in it. So then, bang! I pound the keys, this time fortissimo—with full strength!—as if to cry, Stop! No more darkness, no more gloom! There’s a thud, there’s a boom! Hear this, right here? Hear my voice? Tell me, Yes—you have no choice! And before this phrase fades out Anita straightens her back, and places her hand on the keys. Then, to my astonishment, she plays the next phrase of music, this time with raw, intense force, which I never knew existed in her, bringing it to the verge of destruction, making it explode all around me. And I, in turn, explode with the following one, because how can I let her outdo me? I am, after all, The Entertainer... Here I come! Here I drum! No more woes. Let me close! Let me in, hold me tight! Don’t resist me, do not fight—At this point Anita kicks the bench back, and I tip it over behind us. She sways her hips to the beat, and I tap the floor. And we find ourselves bouncing there, almost dancing in place, playing the piano side by side: she on the high notes, I—on the low. Her intervals are somewhat uneven, her melody is off, here and there. But these things do not matter—not to me, anyway—because just like Anita, or even more than her, I happen to be out of control, maybe because it has been a long while since the last time I practiced. I have not touched the keys for so many years, out of nothing else but rebellion, a silent rebellion against my mother. So my fingers feel a bit rusty—and yet I respond, quite swiftly, to the way Anita plays. I do it in an instant, harmonizing the sound, filling in some of the awkward intervals with a flurry of chords. Sometimes I find myself having to take my hand away, so she can play the same key immediately after me. On some notes, my right hand crosses her left hand, in an exchange that is wild and fiery—like no duet I have ever seen, or listened to! One way or another it blends, it mixes into a sound, which you might call a crude, unruly, unrestrained racket. But to the ears of a madman, it can be called music.If my mother could see me now... If, out of nowhere, she would appear—which would make me jump to attention—I can only imagine how she would draw back, how she would wince at having to listen to this thing, this terrific uproar, which for some reason, makes it all the more delightful to my ears.
★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family saga ★The complete series: Still Life with Memories
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June 16, 2022
Can I save her? Is she still present?
Sometimes I wonder: after such a long time together, how little do we know each other?Who is this woman, with whom I have built a family? Behind this frightened gaze, is this really Natasha, my love, my inspiration? Can I stop her from becoming even more damaged? Can I save her? Is she still present?And if this is no longer Natasha as I know her, Perhaps this is Rochelle? Perhaps she is just fooling me—and not only me but everyone else too, including the doctors—because... Because to win a victory against a dangerous foe, sometimes you must work your way through deception, through secrets and lies.Is she just pretending—for reasons known only to her—to be a new person, different from the one I thought she was? Oh, how I would like to believe that!I lean over to comb that unruly strand of hair away from her eye. At first, Natasha seems startled. Then she lets me tuck it, ever so gently, around her ear.I say, “There’s so much I want to ask you, sweetheart.”“Really?” she asks, with a reluctant tone. She stares blankly at the corner of the kitchen floor, evading my eyes as if in anticipation of some trick question. “Like what?”“Remember that night, in Vernon?”She replies, “Yes,” but does so with a shaky tone, which means no, I don’t really remember but I’ll give you the answer you want. Just let me be.I wipe a bit of syrup from her chin. She must have licked it when I wasn’t looking. “You told me,” I say, “that come what may, you would never forget that night.”“That night?” she says. “Which one?”“In Vernon, when we woke up in each other’s embrace, to the sound of shots.”I pause for a second, so she may reply. And as I wait for her, the memory comes back to me. It seems so fresh, so vivid, as if it happened just yesterday...Following the failed attempt to blow the bridge, fights erupted between French Resistance fighters and German soldiers. Rochelle and I ran frantically through the narrow streets to join Monsieur Antoine and about forty other fighters. Upon arriving at city hall, he handed us some home-made explosives, which we started hurling, along with the other fighters, at German tanks and trucks. I remember the shine in her eyes. “This,” she cried out to me, “is a life worth living!”Just then, one of the tanks caught fire. The blast pushed her back, accidentally, into my arms. Oh, what a fiery woman she used to be!And still, there is fire in her. I dread the day when she will stop playing altogether. As long as her music—such as it is—is full of rage, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps there is still hope.
Up to the moment I listened to this passage, I thought that acting is merely the skill to pretend. Then, I heard Don Warrick read it and learned that the opposite is true. Acting is the journey to find the truth from within.
Audiobook US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DE ★ iTunes
"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."
~ BJ Robinson, Author
June 14, 2022
So, are you ready to spend your last moments with me?
If you can not see this chirbit, listen to it here https://chirb.it/J3BnkB
“So, are you ready to spend your last moments with me? I promise not to disappoint.” Vlad leans over me from behind, his left arm tightening around my waist, his right elbow resting over the tip of my shoulder so as to steady his wrist, his control of the knife.
I try to swing my arm back and hit him, which only serves to make his grip more painful.
“What is the point of resisting me? Give it up, will you? I’m going to tell you a little story.” Vlad gives me one rough shake after another, which brings me to the verge of fainting.
When I come to, he presses on. “Long ago, when I was a child, my mother used to be a seamstress. I would watch her pluck pins out of the pincushion and mark the design on the fabric.”
His story sounds nostalgic, at first—but I know it is a prelude for a kill.
Next to my ear, he’s grinding his teeth. “Oh, how I hated her customers for nudging her to hurry! How I hated her for bowing down before them like a common servant! All for a few meager rubles. I was embarrassed by it. Infuriated.”
I say not a word, as I recall him sharing a childhood memory with Linda before slitting her throat.
“By the way my darling Mamushka averted her eyes from me, she probably knew how I felt,” he says, his voice cracking. “But she never acknowledged my hurt; never shared her own. Instead, she focused only on the stitch, on executing it with absolute precision. In a barely audible hiss, she would quote this Russian proverb, which has guided my hand ever since. ‘Measure seven times, cut once.’”
I can’t see his smile—but feel it, somehow, at my back, leaching into my flesh, sinking into my bones. He lets the blade hover over the base of my neck, barely coming into contact, barely imparting its cold touch.
“For you,” says Vlad, “I am willing to take things real slow, real gentle—not like I did with Linda.”
With effort, I find my voice. “Let me go.”
“Later.” He scores my skin, ever so lightly. “This is going to be real easy. Like slicing through butter.”
Hoping someone out there would hear me, I scream at the top of my lungs.
Vlad draws in a deep breath, which tells me how aroused he is, preparing for the slash. Just then, a sudden noise outside catches our attention. My body trembles; his shakes.
“What the hell was that?” he asks.
And now, here is that sound again, only louder. A second rock hits the window, this one busting it wide open, shards of glass sent spinning across the floor, one of them catching a dim ray of light.
Caught by surprise, Vlad inadvertently loosens his hold on me for a second, which is time enough for me to slip out of it, fall to my knees, and grasp the sharp fragment from the floor—at long last, a weapon!—which I slam, with all the power I can muster, right into his foot.
Yowling, he folds over. He tries to take a step, but the shard pins him in place. Tearing his foot away would free him—at the cost of cutting open the wound and causing even more damage. In torment, Vlad seems to have no courage for that.
Just in case he manages to muster it, I crawl away as fast as I can. Hands bleeding, I gather more glass splinters from the floor so if he comes after me, I can use them to fight him off.
(Volume IV of Ash Suspense Thrillers with a Dash of Romance)
"Overdue, by Uvi Poznansky, is a thrilling ride through pandemic-ridden Los Angeles with a fiery heroine, the nastiest of villains, and plenty of heart-pounding action." ~Aaron P. Lazar, Audible reviewer
June 13, 2022
When tears well in your eyes, I will kiss them dry
I wish I could lie here forever, by her side, but it’s time to get up. First I turn on the radio. A song is playing, and it is so beautiful, so poignant, such a fitting note to accentuate what I feel, to bring about a possible conclusion to the highs and lows of the music of us.
In times of sorrow, when you sigh
When tears well in your eyes
I will kiss them dry
I’m on your side
You’re not alone, no need to cry
Between us there is no divide
If you’re in trouble, if you stumble and fall
I will help you rise
If you happen to falter, if you crawl
I will help you rise
I put my pants on, go to the kitchen, fill a small pot with water and bring it to a boil for the eggs. Meanwhile I squeeze grapefruit juice into two glasses and wait for the two slices of bread to pop out of the toaster. I set two plates on the table, one on each side of the crystal vase. It is the same vase her Pa bought for her Mama to mark their anniversary a generation ago.
I had been too drained to think about it until last night, when on a whim I bought a bouquet of fresh flowers in lovely hues of white, pink, and purple. Why did I do it? Perhaps for old times’ sake. By now I have stopped hoping to surprise my wife with such frivolities, because she pays little attention, lately, to the things I do. So for no one in particular I stand over the thing, rearranging the orchids, spray roses, and Asiatic lilies as best I can, to create an overall shape of a dome.
And then—then, in a blink—I find myself startled by a footfall behind me. A heartbeat later I hear her voice, saying, “Lenny?”
I turn around to meet her eyes. My God, this morning they are not only lucid but also shining with joy.
In a gruff voice, choked, suddenly, with tears, I ask her, “What is it, dear?”
And she says, “Don’t forget.”
“What, Natashinka?”
“I love you.”
Spreading my arms open I stand there, speechless for a moment. Without a word she steps into them. We snuggle, my chin over her head. She presses it to my bare chest. I comb through her hair with my fingers. And once again, we are one.
Then she points at the vase.
“For you,” I say. “Looks like some old painting, doesn’t it?”
“Still life,” she whispers. “With memories.”
Then Natasha lifts her eyes, hanging them on my lips as if to demand something of me, something that has been on her mind for quite a while. Somehow I can guess it. She is anticipating an answer, which I cannot give.
Instead I kiss her. She embraces me but her eyes are troubled, and the question remains.
“Without the memories,” she asks, “is it still life?”
Audiobook US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DE ★ iTunes
This trilogy includes three novels, where one begins where the previous one ends, so you keep yourself immersed in the times and in the saga that begins when Lenny and Natasha first meet. Follow them from the US to England to France during WWII.
"Excellent character driven stories. Enjoyable and exhilarating. tragically heartbreaking but beautiful at the same time. The lengths we go for love is never defined and Lenny and Natasha prove this."~Jason, Audible listener
June 6, 2022
Meet my author friends
Meet my author friends!
We bring you amazing stories
Narrated by great voice actors
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Stories for a lazy time
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“A. L. Butcher is an award-winning author of alchemical dark fantasy, historical fantasy, short stories and twisted verses.”
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Award-Winning multi-genre author. “In my former life I was a CPA and now I love the journeys where my characters take me.”
"Suspense Thrillers that keep you turning the page"
"Author of compulsively readable thrillers"
“An Epic Celtic Tale Weaving Forbidden Love, Sorcery, and Political Intrigue in Ancient Rome and Britannia.”
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Fireworks, Forensics and Felonies
Borrowed Time: Broken Promises
Burning Water
Redemption 2: Allison’s Revenge
June 5, 2022
Work-in-progress. "Paper robotics."
Work-in-progress. "Paper robotics."
Will post more views when I've brought it to completion..
The head can swivel side to side and up and down, the eyelids can be lowered, the lips can smile, the jaw can open, and the brow can pleat. Can it think?
The interesting thing about the process is that it is a search for balance between strength and flexibility of the structure. The more flexibility, the more emotions it can express, the more fragile it is.
May 22, 2022
A BRILLIANT COLLECTION OF STORIES THAT FORM THE QUESTION WHO AM I?
A Thoughtful review of my horror short story collection, Twisted.
M. M. Bishop author of Dinky: The Nurse Mare's Foal & The Divide Series5.0 out of 5 stars A BRILLIANT COLLECTION OF STORIES THAT FORM THE QUESTION WHO AM I?Reviewed in the United States on May 22, 2022Verified PurchaseTwisted by Uvi Poznansky’s novella Twisted is reminiscent of Edgar Allan Poe, Hermann Hesse in their mutual quest to discover ‘Who am I?’ Ms. Poznansky drew me into the stories as an artist draws one into a painting, holding me until I can barely breath until the tale is told, leaving me filled with more questions than answers. Brilliant story telling. This is a collection that I will reflect on as the years go by. I eagerly await to dig into yet another one of Ms. Poznansky’s books. The way she tells a story is magnificent.Highly Recommended
May 21, 2022
If I wanted to, I could just extend my arms and hug her
If I wanted to, I could just extend my arms and hug her, because there she is, opposite me, and the distance... The distance, you see, is so close—but I hold myself back. She is looking out the window. Perhaps she is immersing herself in the grays and purples quivering there, on the other side of the glass, reaching a blur in the cold October sunlight. Perhaps, with great patience she is waiting there, waiting for the night, for the darkest hour, which is when her image may finally appear. It will come to the surface in front of her as if it were a sunken spirit, rising from the deep. Out of nowhere. For now she seems lost, searching for something—perhaps her reflection—in vain. I worry about mom, about the little things, which to someone else—someone who does not know her as I do—may seem trivial, insignificant. I worry she is missing her pearl earrings. I must find them for her. The little hole in her earlobe has shrunk away, turning somehow to flesh. In a whisper I say, “Mommy?” and wonder how the air vibrates over the tender membrane of her eardrum, how it changes into noise, how she gets it when pitch rises, when it falls. Can she sense the change? At what point does it translate, somehow, into meaning? By what path does it penetrate, going deeper? Does it excite the nerves, fire signals up there, between regions of her brain?
Coming back to his childhood home after years of absence, Ben is unprepared for the secret, which is now revealed to him: his mother, Natasha, who used to be a brilliant concert pianist, is losing herself to a mysterious disease, which turns the way her mind works into a riddle.
★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family saga ★The complete series: Still Life with Memories
Paperback ★ Hardcover ★ Barnes&Noble
May 19, 2022
I have to remind myself that she must hand me over to him, not kill me outright.
If you can not see this chirbit, listen to it here https://chirb.it/s2yG1g
She tilts me into reckless speeding. We’re out of the empty dining hall, racing down the corridor, where she slows things down to a screech of the wheels for just a second, when all of a sudden, her cellphone rings.
The sounds of hospital staff, running back and forth carrying equipment, mix in with the cries of patients, calling out for attention, for help. The din is deafening, so there’s no need for Betty to lower her voice—but she does.
“Vlad, darling,” she says, under her breath, “I’ll be out in the parking lot soon. It’s hard to find my way here in the dark, but I’ll make it, so don’t you worry.”
I don’t know about him being anxious—but in my case, fretting is all I do. It’s my activity of choice right now, if only because of this bumpy ride. In the lobby, beams of flashlights streak across the walls. The footrests of my wheelchair bang against this piece of furniture and that, which makes me try to shrink back into the seat and tighten every muscle in my ankles, in a feeble effort to protect myself.
Along the way, Betty keeps chatting with him. “Have some patience, will you? Just wait for me outside.”
Despite her chewing gum, or maybe because of it, she sounds like a woman late for a date, what with all those terms of endearment, like that Darling stuff. Ha ha, if I didn’t know any better, I would wonder why on earth she would want me to stick around for a lovers’ rendezvous.
“Yes, the girl is right here, with me,” she hisses, between one chewing chomp and another. “It’s a freaking mess in here, everyone is running in all directions like crazy. I thought I would die laughing, Vlad, when they left her in my hands.”
Cold sweat starts forming on my skin as her fingers drift, ever so lightly, over my bare neck. I have to remind myself that she must hand me over to him, not kill me outright.
As if she’s the one being tickled, Betty giggles. “I’m telling you, Vlad: no one will know, at least for a while, that she’s gone missing. What a stroke of luck for us, right?”
In response to something he says, she gurgles a nervous laugh. “It’s totally dark in here, Vlad, so it’s hard to figure things out for sure, but I think no one’s watching, no one’s following me.”
Too bad. I try to stomp on the footrest so as to spark off some noise, some clangor out of it, but to no avail. The sound is barely audible. It’s lost in the hubbub.
“Yes, thank you for the timely reminder,” she tells him, this time sarcastically. “I know that the power outage will soon be over. I’m not an idiot, you know? Don’t tell me I must hurry!”
Walking and chewing gum seems to be too much for her. Betty spits it out, perhaps because it has lost its sweetness, or else because of having to focus on the task at hand. Having reached the entrance doors, she struggles to push them open using her big butt, while at the same time maneuvering me about with one hand and—just as crucial—holding the cellphone with the other.
“Oh, stop it!” she cries. “Don’t you put too much pressure on me, darling—or I’ll snap!”
Just for the exercise, I push the door open with my foot. I know, I know, I shouldn’t have done that, but it works, anyway. Which is a delightful thing for me, and a scary one too, because who knows what’s waiting for us on the other side.
Ash Suspense Thrillers: Trilogy
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