Uvi Poznansky's Blog, page 31
April 13, 2021
Cover reveal: Overdue. The audiobook edition
The cover depicts Ash as she escapes the fire she set in the LA headquarters of the Russian gang. My art is storytelling. In many thrillers you have the protagonist as a figure seen from the back, running away as if being chased or chasing. By contrast, I show Ash coming towards us, nearly falling into our arms, so we can directly relate to the daring it takes to do what she does in spite of the fear.
I also gave a lot of thought to making each part of this cover shimmer with texture and light, creating an explosive, dynamic urban backdrop for her.
Vlad clutches my wrist, forces me into the corner, and hisses in my ear, “Ashley Winters, did you call the cops on me?”“No—”“Oh, why do I even bother?” Vlad slaps my face so hard that it makes my skin burn. “I always knew you can lie with a straight face. Especially when your life depends on it.”I try to wriggle away from him, but slip over the confetti strewn around. Vlad kneels by my side, puts his knee between my legs, and leans closer, his hand clamping my throat. And while my windpipe is pressed—while I’m fighting for air—he mutters, between clenched teeth, “Mamushka knows best.”The last thing I see before my lights go out is Michael, punching him in the face. The first thing I hear when I regain consciousness is his voice. “Oh please, sweetheart,” Michael murmurs. “Please, wake up.”I find myself in his arms. His touch feels so good. I’m so happy he’s here. At last, I’m not alone. But other than his face, I barely recognize anything else around us. Vlad is nowhere to be seen and, in the span of a few seconds, the entire space has fallen into chaos. I’ve thought that all hell breaks loose is an exaggerated figure of speech—until this moment. I see the old woman reaching to grab the handle, which must be scorchingly hot to the touch. With a sudden grunt, she tears open the inner door, then shakes her hand, shakes it fervently. It must hurt like hell. A roaring fire blows in her face. It seems almost human, the way it bends over as if to smell her hair, taste the sleeves of her dress, the hem.In utter shock, Mrs. Komarov stumbles backward, one step, two. Falling to the ground, she screams in terror, and the flames recoil for a second before bursting out at her even brighter than before. Meanwhile, the first cop comes in. Others follow, weapons drawn. The gangsters step over Mrs. Komarov and over each other in a mad rush to flee. Confusion sets in as they scatter every which way, unclear where to go: away from the blaze—or away from the police?Michael and I make our way through hissing smoke to save the old woman. We peer at the scene between one tongue of fire and another. A hairy leg is spotted here, an arm there, and on occasion—Voola—a snake, tattooed around an elbow. I suck in a deep breath and duck through the flame in search of Mrs. Komarov. I’m guided by her frantic shrieks as a burning beam has collapsed next to her. Her babushka, now removed from her head, is now held with her quivering fingers, covering her mouth and nose from the smoke. We grab her arms and drag her together step by step around the overturned table, across a puddle of spilled Okroshka soup, and out to the street, where an ambulance has just arrived. We carry her past the cops who surround the place and past the firefighters who are setting up their equipment. The old woman complains, her voice scratchy from smoke inhalation, about the stinging in her eyes. Medics arrive. They apply medication over the burn on her right side to relieve the pain. They also suggest we get tested for COVID-19. “Oh no,” says Mrs. Komarov. “I heard all about the nasal swab test.”One of the medics explains, “It captures a lot of viral material concentrated in the back of the nose—”“It is notoriously unpleasant.” She coughs. “You are not going to stick that thing up my nose!”“No worries. We offer also a saliva test. It’s easy. All you have to do is spit into a sterilized container, which is then sent to the lab for processing. “Fine. Spitting I like.”Strangely, the one person missing through all of this is her son. For a second, I think I see him across the street, watching us. A sudden rush of adrenaline sends me dashing over there, ready to point him out for the cops—only to realize there’s no one there. What I saw must have been a phantom of imagination, a dance of flames.
(Volume IV of Ash Suspense Thrillers with a Dash of Romance)
Audiobook coming soon!
April 8, 2021
Listen 👂 Overkill 👂 Will Ash manage to identify him and have him arrested before he comes after her?
★ Love Suspense? Prepare to be thrilled ★
(Volume II of Ash Suspense Thrillers with a Dash of Romance)
Audiobook US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DE ★ iTunes
The last thing Ash expects when she lands in Clearwater, Florida is to be stalked by a troubled teenager. If that's not bad enough, she is caught in a shooting spree next to the nearby elementary school. The cops think it’s an attempt at mass killing, but Ash wonders if the only victim was specifically targeted by the killer. Will she manage to identify him and have him arrested before he comes after her?
April 7, 2021
Kept my attention!
LISTENER
Treasured2005
OverkillAsh Suspense Thrillers with a Dash of Romance, Book 2By: Uvi PoznanskyNarrated by: Heather Jane Hogan Kept my attention! Overall ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ 5 out of 5 starsPerformance ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ 5 out of 5 starsStory ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ 5 out of 5 starsReviewed: 10-09-20
I could not put this book down! I loved the plot development and action sequences in the book. Overkill kept my attention from the very start. Ash impulsively relocates to sunny Florida hoping to escape the dark memories that haunt her back home. As she struggles to unpack and settle in, she begins uncovering secrets that just won't stay hidden. The narrator did a marvelous job! Her interpretation of Timmy is amazing. He is a little boy who gets thrown into a situation much bigger than any child should have to experience. I could see his face with his little mind working in overdrive. I felt his hug when he snuggled his mother. She brought this pivotal character to life in a spectacular way.
April 5, 2021
Come meet my author friends
My author friends have joined forces with me!
We bring you amazing stories
Narrated by great voice actors
just in time for Mother's Day!
Join us as a going guest
for a chance to win our audiobooks:
"I paint with my pen, and write with my paintbrush."
“Addictive, award-winning fiction. You'll fall in love with the characters and love to hate the villains.”
Award-wining author of the popular Unit 1 thrillers series and the Whitlock Trilogy.
"Each book takes you places you have never been in ways you will always remember."
“Writing happily ever afters for life's toughest challenges!”
"I think like a criminal, so I write crime fiction.”
Escape into imagination ... discover the magic of Casi McLean—romance, suspense, & mystery thrillers.
"I write to inform, delight, and inspire readers."
"I live in a New Orleans where Mardi Gras Balls, festivals, parades, are always going on. The hardest part is to pick one thing to write about because there's no place like New Orleans to have a good crime!”
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.”
"I write sweet and suspenseful Christian romance to encourage and entertain."
"Ms. Barbour knows how to pull you in to her stories. The characters are so real that I would really love to meet them."
Writes Romance and Cozy mysteries with a dash of humor!
"History is woven into my stories with a delicate thread."
April 4, 2021
Let her story be told
I sigh. “No one should learn the sordid facts of that horrible thing, that assault.”“Why shouldn’t they?”“Because,” say I. “That would be like violating my daughter all over again.”“About that,” says Bathsheba, “you’re quite mistaken.”“Am I?”“Yes,” she says. “You are. In your mind, history belongs to the victor. Triumphs should be glorified, failures—glossed over.”“But of course! That’s the way it’s always been.”“It’s been that way, perhaps too long.”“What d’you mean, perhaps too long?” “I mean, the way it’s always been isn’t necessarily the right way.”“What other way is there?” I ask, and without waiting for an answer I press on, with great ardor. “Every day I dedicate myself, with everything I have in me, to one project: committing my story—or at least, the better parts of it—to the books, for the sake of the House of David, for the sake of my descendants and the entire nation. My version of events, setting up a model of a shining hero, will live on, in our times and for posterity.”“For what purpose?”“To excite the mind for greatness.”“A valiant effort,” she says. “You are a victor among victors, and without a doubt, yours is a story to be remembered, in all its parts. But why not allow the victim her voice?”“By which you mean what?”“Look, if history belongs to the victor, it follows that cruelty is lionized, and that the names of villains, murderers, robbers, and rapists are hailed, in war and peace alike, at the expense of silencing the names of the conquered.”“I get it, I do.”“Do you, really?”“Yes,” I say. “With a little less luck, my name could’ve been stricken off the books, or mentioned in passing as a traitor. If Saul had it his way I could’ve remained a nobody.” “I’m glad you see it my way,” says Bathsheba. “Singing the praises of the victors is fine—but then, if that’s all we hear, who will speak for the downtrodden?”She has a point, which is why I must argue against it. I close my hand upon the scroll, and shake my fist in the air. “History admires those who are strong! It is this that makes me strive to achieve great things.”Bathsheba gives me a look. “If history ignores those who are weak,” she says. “then the name of your daughter will be lost.”“It’ll be hidden,” say I, “to protect her.”“Her suffering will be obliterated, and so will her identity. It’ll be as if she never existed.”“Given what she’s gone through, it’s for her own good.”“Is it?” I hesitate to answer, because she makes me doubt that which I have held true all my life. I hate it when that happen.With an amused smile at me Bathsheba says, “I can just imagine your scribe, Nathan, chewing the tip of his quill, so he may spit out something lyrical yet benign about your daughter, something that will obscure who she really is, and how bravely she tried to overturn her fate.”“I can see him in my mind,” say I. “I can just hear him mumbling, under his beard, as he scribbles something like, ‘Now that her brother is a fugitive she lives alone in his house, with no one to talk to, a desolate woman.’”“Give her a voice,” says Bathsheba, in a tone that is intense and full of pity for Tamar and for all of us. “Let everyone hear how a woman does all she can, with such amazing courage, to resist a rape. Let her story be told!”
In this excerpt, David and Bathsheba go out to their private place: the balcony where they made love for the first time. Here they argue, quite passionately, over the right course of action in the wake of the rape of Tamar, his daughter, at the hands of Amnon, his son. This crime has gone unpunished, because David loves both of them and cannot bring himself to restrain his son. At the same time, he wants to protect his daughter from gossip and exposure. He tries to silence all reports of the rape, while Bathsheba tries to convince him to let his daughter's side of the story be heard. Let her story be heard!
The argument has a larger connotation when it comes to the role of history. Should it record only those who are victorious--or should it give voice also to the downtrodden? What is the right balance between the two sides?
★ Love historical fiction? Treat yourself to a gift ★Historical Fiction with a Modern Twist...The complete series:The David Chronicles
Volume III:
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"At times startling, as times awe-inspiring, and at all times fine reading, this is a welcome addition to the growing library of one our more important writers" -Grady Harp, Hall of Fame Reviewer
April 3, 2021
You’re her Mama! Aren’t you supposed to know
I could hear the bedsprings moan under the weight of her Mama. Perhaps now she was sitting up, pulling the bedspread all the way up to her three chins, and adjusting the glasses over her nose so she can glare at me over their frame, even though I was all the way across the ocean. I imagined seeing her cheeks through those lenses, with a detailed, dilated view of the crinkles under the droopy eyelids. “I’m sure that waking us up makes no difference to you,” she said.To which I said, “Why would you think that, Mrs. Horowitz?”“Because,” she said, “you must think that we here in the Big Apple are up and about around the clock, and besides, we can’t wait to get a call from an important persona such as yourself at any time whatsoever, day or night!”Utterly dumfounded I could not bring myself to say another word, which made it all the more difficult to put together a whole sentence, to beg her to wake up her daughter.So I was just about to say goodbye and so sorry, my mistake, this will never happen again, I promise, when all of a sudden Mrs. Horowitz said, “Natasha isn’t here.”“What?” I cried. “You deaf? I said, she isn’t here!”“Where, then, is she?”“Why should I tell you?”“You’re her Mama! Aren’t you supposed to know?”“It’s all your fault,” she said.To which I said, “Naturally.”She had always been known for being overbearing, but even for her, this relentless attack on me seemed a bit much, which made me realize, suddenly, that this was her way of dealing with something else, something that made her feel powerless.And indeed, a heartbeat later she started crying. “I’m very, very worried about Natasha,” she sniveled. “And because of this I wasn’t able to fall sleep all night!”I hesitated to point out that according to her own words, Mrs. Horowitz had just been rudely arisen from a snooze. Instead I asked, “Did Natasha say where she was going?”“She did,” said her Mama, in a teary voice.“And—”“And you’re not going to believe it. I heard it with my own ears and I still can’t believe it.”“Please,” I pleaded. “Tell me!”“Natasha,” she said, “is a delicate girl.”“She’s a princess.” “Exactly! And until you showed up in her life, she was in a slumber, so to speak. She lived in a world of dreams, smiling at a rainbow, crying for a lost star, and giving herself to nothing else but her music, all of which made it easy for me to manage her career. Well, perhaps ‘easy’ is not the right word, ‘possible’ is. But no, not anymore! Now, unfortunately, my daughter knows what she wants and has an opinion of her own about every little thing, which of course has to be the exact opposite of mine, and the worst thing is, she takes bold action about it, which is quite clearly a mistake, and she does it with half-witted haste, which means that as forceful as I thought I was, I can do little to stand in her way. Oh my, she is out of control!”“So sorry to hear it,” I said. “But—”“You should be, because without me by her side, guiding her, she’s going to find herself in trouble in a big hurry.”
“Will you tell me already?” I said. “Where is she?”
★ Love romantic suspense? Treat yourself to a thrill ★
The complete series: Still Life with Memories
Volume IV:
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Paperback ★ Hardcover ★ Barnes&Noble
"The writing of this intense story of love and heartbreak is what makes it a classic. You'll go through the wringer with this one, but you'll never forget it." ~ J.A. Schneider, author
April 2, 2021
Am I going to survive the night?
Then he pulls open a drawer and takes out a small bottle, filled with pills. I strain my eyes to read the label, but from where I’m sitting, it’s a bit too far.
Kabir casts a sly look at me. His lips curl, as if he’s about to tell some joke. “This is the single most prescribed psychiatric medication in the U.S. I ought to know, not only because I am a medical professional and not only because I married into a family that owns a pharmaceutical company but also because of my wife. She passed away because of it. Overdose, you know.”
Kabir takes a pause, perhaps to see if I would ask anything about her death. I don’t. Why upset him? What’s at risk at this point is my own life!
A moment later, he pivots to an entirely different subject. In his professional tone, he asks, “Are you pregnant, or plan to become pregnant?”
“Not anytime soon!” I gasp, somewhat in shock. “Why?”
“Because.” He shakes the bottle to a loud rattle. “Your pills are about to run out.”
“Pills? What pills?”
“Xanax.”
He steps closer to me and raises the bottle to my unbelieving eyes. The name, printed on the label in bold letters, is mine.
“What? That can’t be!” I cry. “I’m not on any medication, let alone this—”
“You’ve been taking it for months, to treat your anxiety.”
“Oh no, I haven’t—”
“Why try to deny it?” Kabir laughs in my face. “You seem to be in panic, even now!”
About that, he’s right. But the only cure for my dread is for him to let me go, which is doubtful, or for me to find a way around him, which is far-fetched.
Kabir crushes a bunch of pills into a small heap of powder, transfers it to a glass, and pours some wine into it, all in plain view, as if wanting to show me the method of my own demise.
I can’t afford to give him what he seems to want: the pleasure of seeing how scared I am.
He swirls the wine about, then raises it to my nose, so I may smell its aroma. “I’m happy to hear you’re not expecting a baby.” His tone is loaded with sarcasm. “I wouldn’t want it to suffer any ill-effects, once you have your little drink.”
I brace myself into being stubborn. “You can’t force me.”
“You know I can.” He coughs up a sharp laugh. “And then, there would be no more need to have this prescription renewed.”
What I want—even more than a chance to save myself—is to give the doctor a taste of his own medicine.
In a heartbeat, my hands turn clammy. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”
He growls, “Sure you do! You’ve been asking too many questions about me, about my trip to India years ago, and about the woman I married there. No one gets to do all that and live to tell the tale.”
I hesitate to ask, “Not even your wife?”
“Especially not her.”
“What about me?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Am I going to survive the night?”
“Trust me, it is with a heavy heart that I must kill you.” Kabir comes closer, strokes my chin. “Such a beauty.” For a second, his eyes seem sad, almost. “Such a waste.”
Ash Suspense Thrillers: Trilogy
Audiobook US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DE ★ iTunes
By popular demand, all three thrillers in one box!
Coma Confidential
Overkill
Overdose
"I am a devoted fan of Uvi Poznansky, and keep coming back to her wonderful books. In Ash Suspense Thrillers are three gripping novels all in one, each suspenseful with a wonderful, courageous young character who will stay with you."J.A. Schneider, Author
What frightens me most of all is this: the punk is not even bothering to hide his presence
I’ve taken my eyes off of the child for a mere moment, and now—he’s gone! Either that, or he’s hiding. I run frantically through the yard, all around the perimeter, then in and out of the back gate in search of him. I bend down this way and that to check if his legs can be seen behind the bushes, if the Disneyland logo of his t-shirt peeks out, by any chance, between the branches. All the while, I keep calling his name at the top of my lungs. “Ready or not, Timmy, here I come!”At last, “Okay, you win, Timmy!” I scream. “Where are you?”There is this sinking feeling—not in my heart exactly but somewhere lower, in my gut—but I try ignore it. I cling to the hope that this is some kind of mischief, merely a hide-and-go-seek game, nothing else. Nothing more sinister.But the fear persists. I feel it in my belly. What if I can’t find him? His mother entrusted him to my care. What on earth will I tell her? I’ll never know how Tracy holds herself together despite the fateful blows her family has suffered: the strange disappearance of her older son, Brian, and the murder of her ex during that shooting spree. If Ed was targeted, then both she and Timmy are in danger. They may be on the killer’s target list. Oh no, no, no! How could I allow this to happen? “I’m counting to three, Timmy! Come out!” I cry. “One—two—”Before the count is finished, I notice a small movement. Something scurries under the blades of grass, making them swoosh and rustle. Then, it shoots straight into the house through the open door. Oh! A rat. The one Timmy has brought in with him. I hurry after the ugly thing, not so much because I want to catch it but rather because maybe the child may come—as he’s done before—to its rescue. “Help me, Timmy!” I yell. “Your mouse, it’s getting away!”The little rat leads me in zigzags across the living room, his long tail snaking around the floor, flicking every which way at the furniture—only to sneak, in the end, into the hole in the wall. Panting, I curse myself. Why haven’t I found the time to fix it?Meanwhile, the child is nowhere to be seen, but next to the broken wall I notice something else, something quite remarkable: a fresh footprint, one that doesn’t belong to Timmy or to me, has just been pressed onto the recently cleaned floor. Taking a closer look, I think I recognize that sole. Yes. It’s a Nike. Panic stabs me in the stomach, which makes me double over. As my eyes close, sounds become sharper. I ask myself, what in the world is that? Is it my imagination, or am I actually hearing a voice? Barely audible, there it is, seeping in from above. I crane my neck into the hole, then swing my legs into it. On the other side, I clasp the rail of the spiral staircase, trying not to make it clang as I climb onto the first step. Now, I perk my ears. In the murky space swirling around me, there it is: an eerie echo, reverberating. Someone is upstairs right now. His voice is low, but from time to time it screeches up to a high pitch, which is horribly familiar. What frightens me most of all is this: the punk is not even bothering to hide his presence. Clearly, he is prepared to see me. More than that, he is eager. I clutch my cellphone, finger at the ready on the panic button. Shall I press the button now? I hover over it, telling myself to bide my time, wait for a critical moment. How will I recognize it? What is critical, exactly, and what isn’t?I climb stealthily halfway up the staircase, which allows me to hear the punk a lot clearer. Who is he talking to?
Ash Suspense Thrillers: Trilogy
Audiobook US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DE ★ iTunes
By popular demand, all three thrillers in one box!
Coma Confidential
Overkill
Overdose
"I am a devoted fan of Uvi Poznansky, and keep coming back to her wonderful books. In Ash Suspense Thrillers are three gripping novels all in one, each suspenseful with a wonderful, courageous young character who will stay with you."J.A. Schneider, Author
April 1, 2021
Great medical thriller
Renee Giraldy is a prolific, avid reader, and she posts her reviews on her lovely blog. I feel so grateful to find what she wrote about my thriller, Overdose:
Reading Renee5.0 out of 5 stars Great medical thrillerReviewed in the United States on March 25, 2021
Verified PurchaseMonths after recovering from coma, Ash discovers that the man who performed her brain surgery has questionable medical experience and a dark past. Dr. Patel is trouble! Should she expose him, at the risk of becoming vulnerable to his revenge? Yes my dear readers, this is another medical type thriller to add to the series. Can I add that poor Ash has just stepped in dog poo again. Poor girl constantly stumbles onto and into things that she shouldn't. Ash now puts on her snooping hat to take a deep dive into this surgeon. If it can not get worse, Ash has headaches and some other strange symptoms.Weaving a tight plot again, the author draws everyone in to root for the underdog. The other part I loved was the computer part of the book. Very interesting read.
March 31, 2021
Hope it is not the end
Reading Renee5.0 out of 5 stars Hope it is not the endReviewed in the United States on March 25, 2021Verified PurchaseYES the Russian's are baaaaccck. I knew they would be and I am SO anxious. Ash finds herself in another situation. This book, like book 2 has a socially relevant theme a pandemic. So I can't say too much about the plot other than the theme and the Russians. We are back in Los Angeles now too. This book features a character Voola that is just what makes the book elevate from good to great. Typical LA actress want-to-be and a drug issue.Another hit nothing else to say Just read it
