Uvi Poznansky's Blog, page 66

I touch my belly and feel the beginning, the very beginning of change

Staring at that corner I know one thing, and I know it real clear, at once: this lovely dress, made of heavy satin and trimmed with lace and beading and what not, which I’ve dyed, the morning after the wedding, orange at the top and purple at the bottom, so it can still be used in the future—like, at dances and parties and stuff—this dress isn’t gonna to fit me no more. Up to now I’ve pictured it in my head, shining awful brilliant, just like a rainbow, and swirling all around me; and with every step, billowing between my legs, and like, making me adorable, so adorable in Lenny’s eyes—but now that I touch my belly and feel the beginning, the very beginning of change, right here around my waist, what’s the point of all that.On the floor, under the hem of the dress, I can see two pairs of shoes: one is my new, white satin shoes, which Lenny’s bought for me, like, two weeks ago, just for the wedding. When he wants to, he can be real kind. He knows so well how to spoil a woman. He gave me a ring with a pink sapphire. I bet you it’s real! Also, a gold chain with a locket, which at the last minute—like, just before saying, I do—I decided not to wear. I wanted to look classy, and worried that it’s gonna be a bit much.And the other pair? Now, that’s my very first pair of high heel shoes. They’re worn out, but still kinda bright, and chipped only a little. To this day I’m totally crazy about the color: hot pink! Ten years ago I spotted them up there, in a store window, and for a whole month I stared at them every day, on my way home from school, and my heart sank, knowing I didn’t have no money to buy them. I liked how the side of the strap was like, spruced up with a plastic rose, which has since fallen off. Awful cute, it was! Then I found a job at this ice cream place, down there at the Santa Monica pier. I got my first week’s pay, and was so happy, so thrilled to rush in and buy them, because they wasn’t only pink—but glossy too, and because now I was just like an adult. Ma took one look at them and slapped me, which made me figure that now, I was gonna have no choice but to apply plenty of makeup, so that this side of my face, which was flaming red, won’t stand out all that much. 
Excerpt from My Own Voice

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family saga ★The complete series: Still Life with Memories
Volume I: My Own VoiceAudible: US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DEAudiobook: Amazon US ★ Amazon UK ★ iTunes Paperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&Noble

"After having read and reviewed several fictional novels by Author Uvi Poznansky, I continue to be a huge fan of her writing style. She has the mesmerizing and enchanting effect of drawing her readers into the heart and soul of her characters."  - Dolores Ayotte, Author

Do No Harm: Unlawful Harvest by @pdworkmanauthor

MacKenzie reached for the ringing phone, trying to drag herself from sleep, but her hand encountered only the empty base of the phone, the wireless handset missing. She pried her eyes open while feeling for it on the bedside table, knocking off keys and a glass and an empty bottle and other detritus. She swore and blinked and tried to focus. Where had she left the handset and who was calling her so early in the morning? The phone rang five times and went to her voicemail. Too late to answer it. She sank back down onto her pillow and closed her eyes. Whoever it was would have to wait. But no sooner had it gone to voicemail than it started ringing again. MacKenzie groaned. “Are you serious? Come on!”She turned her head and squinted at the glowing red display of the clock next to her. It was hard to see the red LED display in the bright sunlight. It was almost eleven o’clock. Certainly not too early for a caller, even one who knew that she would sleep in after a party the night before. She rubbed her temples and scanned the room for the wireless handset. There was a man in the bed next to her, but she ignored him for the time being. He wasn’t moving at the sound of the phone, so he’d probably had more to drink than she had. She slid her legs out of the bed and grabbed a silk kimono housecoat to wrap around herself. The caller was sent to voicemail a second time. MacKenzie took another look around the bedroom without spotting the phone, then went out to her living room, also bright with sunlight streaming in the big windows. Outside, the pretty Vermont scenery was covered with a fresh layer of snow, which reflected back the sunlight even more brilliantly. MacKenzie groaned and looked around. The newspaper was on the floor in a messy, well-read heap. The remains of some late-night snack were spread over the coffee table. Some of their clothing had been left there, scattered across the floor, but no phone. It started ringing again. Now that she was out of the bedroom and away from the base, she could hear the ringing of the handset, and she kicked at the newspaper to uncover it. She bent down and scooped up the handset. She glanced at the caller ID before pressing the answer button and pressing it to her ear, but she knew very well who it was going to be. No one else would be so annoying and call over and over again first thing in the morning. She couldn’t just leave a message and wait for MacKenzie to get back to her, she had to keep calling, forcing MacKenzie to get up and answer it. Her mother didn’t care how late MacKenzie might have been up the night before or how she might be feeling upon rising. It was a natural consequence of MacKenzie’s own choices. MacKenzie dropped into the white couch. “Mother.”“MacKenzie. Thank goodness I got you. Where have you been?”Her mother had been calling for all of two minutes. Where had MacKenzie been? She could have been in the bathroom, having a shower, talking to someone else on the phone, or at some event. Granted, she didn’t go to a lot of events at eleven o’clock in the morning, but it could happen. Mrs. Lisa Cole Kirsch had a pretty good idea where MacKenzie had been. In bed, like most any other morning. “What is it, Mother?”“It’s Amanda. She’s sick.”MacKenzie nodded to herself and scratched the back of her head. One of the things that would definitely set Lisa into a tizzy was Amanda being sick. She worried over every little cough or twinge that Amanda suffered. She had good reason, but it still made MacKenzie roll her eyes. “What’s wrong with Amanda?”“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the flu, but I’m really worried, MacKenzie. The doctors said to just wait and see, but they don’t understand how frail Amanda is. They think that I’m just overreacting and being a hypochondriac. You know that I’m not just a hypochondriac.”“I know. So how is she?”MacKenzie had to admit that even though her mother worried about Amanda, her worry was well-justified. Amanda’s health could get worse very quickly, and with the anti-rejection drugs suppressing her immune system, she was prone to picking up anything that went around. “She’s not good. She was up all night, throwing up, high fever, she’s just not herself. I called an ambulance at eight o’clock. She just can’t keep anything down and I don’t like the way she’s acting. So… weak and listless.”MacKenzie felt the first twinge of worry herself. Amanda had spent much of her life sick, but she was a fighter. She usually did her best to look like nothing was wrong, not letting on unless she was feeling really badly. She would laugh and brush it off as just a bug and smile and encourage MacKenzie to tell her about what was going on in her far-more-interesting life. 
Excerpt from Unlawful Harvest by P.D. WorkmanIncluded in Do No Harm

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I must wake up. Can I?

If you can not see this chirbit, listen to it here https://chirb.it/nwfIy5

Growing up, I didn’t care for fairytale characters. The one I disliked the most was Sleeping Beauty. Unfortunately, now I’ve turned into one. This may sound like vanity, so let me be more precise. I don’t know about the Beauty part, because at the moment I have no idea how I look, and even if I did, I doubt I would like it. It’s the Sleeping part that frightens me. I can’t stand the prospect of being trapped here, in this miserable state, in hopes that one day I may be saved, somehow, by a kiss.My life—the little I know about it—is no fairytale, so what’s the point in waiting for magic? Anyway, I refuse to rely on what others do. Whenever Ma hears me say that, she clutches her breast and sighs, because she needs to baby me. I remember the softness of her hand when she runs it over my forehead. Why isn’t she here already? I miss her, but part of me hopes that she doesn’t know I’m in trouble. Helpless is not a good look for me. Neither is confused.With the exception of knowing that I’m in a hospital, there’s a thick fog in my brain. I can’t recall my own name, nor can I bring back the name of the man I love. But the memory of his lips on mine does quicken the heart. Even so, the idea of waiting for him to come to my rescue sounds dumb. Doesn’t it? I’d rather snap out of this interminable slumber of my own accord. Unfortunately, doubts keep weighing me down. And not only doubts: I’m pinned down by nightmares, too. They always start with me blacking out. Then, in a flash, shadows emerge from the haze around me and back away into it, just before I can figure out who they are. From time to time, when I take my eyes off of them, they creep in, and their breaths come alarmingly close to me. After that comes silence. It makes me doubt I’ve heard anything in the first place.A shriek rings in my ears. It must have been mine. The air flutters in my throat as one shadow reaches, suddenly, for my neck. “Say you vant me,” demands a hoarse voice, in a heavy Russian accent. His fingers squeeze my vocal cords till I can’t even cry, can’t call out for help. His eye bores into me with a malicious look as I struggle, as I fight for a breath.    At first, I explain the whole thing away as some odd hallucination, perhaps the result of morphine, or other meds that are trickling—with a slow drip, drip, drip through the plastic tube—into my veins. But meds or not, what’s the point in denying what I see? In a blink, a ray of light slides across his temple. The white of his eye, marbled with tortuous veins, becomes incredibly vivid. The thug reaches for my scarf—the scarlet one, which I thought could be used only as a fashion accessory, nothing else. To my alarm, he stretches it across my mouth and tightens it, knotting it around the back of my neck, yanking the ends till I pass out.  I tell myself, this can’t be real. Can it? Does this moment of terror come from my imagination—or else, from memory? I must wake up. Can I?
Excerpt from Coma Confidential

★ Love Suspense? Go for the ride ★Ash Suspense Thrillers with a Dash of Romance
Coma Confidential(Volume I of Ash Suspense Thrillers with a Dash of Romance)Paperback: Amazon
Ash finds herself in the ER diagnosed with coma. She has no memory of what has happened to her, but what she can do--despite what everyone around her might think--is listen to the conversations of her visitors. Will she survive the power outage in the hospital and then, being kidnapped out of it? 

Natashinka, will you marry me?

Then she whispered, “You look happy, my love.”And I said, “Natashinka, will you marry me?”“I will,” she said, “even though I know what Mama will have to tell me about that. You can guess it too: ‘Over my dead body.’”“Which is a funny thing for her to say, because that’s just the kind of wedding I was expecting, until not so long ago. Over my dead body.”“That,” she said, “would make for a short marriage.”“And,” said I, “an unhappy one.”“Ma knows nothing about what we’re going through, about you heading for an execution at the hands of the SS soldiers, and me pretending to be pregnant, to save you, somehow, from it.”“Haven’t you told her about your proposition of marriage before death?”“No, Lenny. Telephone lines have been cut off. I have yet to find a way to contact her. For now, all Mama knows is that one way or another, she must stop you from marrying me.”“Let’s mail her an invitation to the wedding.”“Really?”“Really! I think she’ll be thrilled by it.”“Oh Lenny, you know she won’t.”“Seeing the look on her face as we exchange vows would be half the fun.”Natasha laughed, only to turn serious once again. “I want it to happen in Paris.”“Then, let’s get there in a big hurry,” I said. “But first, my love, don’t we have to go back?”“Back where?”“Up to the clearing in the woods, to let the partisans and their leader know that you’ve kept your promise.”“The boy will do that for me. He’ll tell them to expect an air drop.”I relaxed into thinking that for the first time in a long time, there was nothing for me to worry about. The future seemed bright. We were together. We had no plans, and it was just fine that way.“You look sleepy,” she said. “Come here.”She wrapped her arms around me. I closed my eyes, and on the verge of dozing off, imagined the boy arriving at the camp, up there in the hills. I could just see the partisans, coming out of their tents late in a moonless night. They would tremble slightly in the cold night breeze, wrap themselves in their ragged blankets, and turn their eyes to the west, where a whir of engines would signal the coming of British planes. Hanging beneath silk parachutes, crates of armaments would start dropping, ever so dreamily, from the starry heavens. Packed full with explosives and automatic weapons, these crates would help win the fight for the liberation of France.Natasha took the last piece of toasted bread, dipped it in the last remnant of melted cheese, and put it—ever so playfully—in my mouth. I licked it, licked her sweet fingers. Then she sealed my lips with a kiss.In later years, I would try to duplicate that culinary experience by making my own version of baked Camembert. It would come out mouthwatering, lip-smacking, finger-licking good—but nevertheless, it would fall short of the taste it left, that particular day, in my memory.
Excerpt from Marriage before Death

★ Love romantic suspense? Find your thrill ★The complete series:Still Life with Memories
Volume V: Marriage before DeathAudible: US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DEAudiobook: Amazon US ★ Amazon UK ★ iTunesPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&Noble

"Uvi Poznansky, a master story-teller, captures the sights, sounds and smells of World War II France, bringing them to life with an imaginative plot, excellent writing, a mastery of fine detail and the creation of imagery in her scenes. She draws you into the story as though you were there, experiencing what Lenny and Natasha experience."  - Bill Cronin, Author

Do No Harm: Death Hub by @DassoEdwin

She reached down and put her fingers over the man’s carotid then gazed up at Tyler and shook her head. “Nothing. Dead as a doornail. From the temp of his skin I’d say he has been for a while.”They both jumped as they heard a commotion coming from the rear of the small home.“What the hell?” Tyler said. “That sounds like a bunch of damn chickens back there.”“And it sounds like they’re inside the house,” Sherry grumbled, shaking her head. They slinked toward a shadowy hallway leading to the rear of the home, Sherry throwing her arms up in front of her face when a chicken flapped past her, squawking wildly. “Jesus! Really? Chickens in the house?”“Yeah,” Tyler muttered. “I sure hope the neighbor was wrong about seeing a kid here. This place is a friggin’ pig sty!”“You got that right.” Sherry held a hand over her nose, pinching her nostrils closed. “Smells worse than it did outside.”They stopped at a closed door and exchanged quick stares then Tyler flung the door open. Several chickens ran around the room in a flurry, feathers flittering in the air amidst a cloud of dust. A couple of the birds burst past the two cops as they stood at the door, their mouths hanging open as they stared into the room.Sherry spit dust and crud from her mouth then rushed in and knelt on the floor next to the large cage.“Jesus Christ! You gotta be kiddin’ me!”The boy inside it, who appeared to be about eight-years-old, bounced around inside the cage like a pinball, clucking and flapping his arms like wings as he fired quick glances over his shoulders at the two cops. Sherry took her phone from a pocket and hurriedly snapped a couple of pictures then undid the latch on the cage door. She inched a hand out toward the boy.“We won’t hurt you, little buddy…we’re here to help,” she whispered, wiping tears from her eyes with her other hand.The boy pressed himself against the far side of the cage, clucking frantically.Sherry turned to her partner. “You better go get that CPS lady.” She turned back to the child in the cage. “I’ll stay here with him.”“I’m on it,” Tyler said, bolting toward the door.“And call an ambulance!” Sherry called after him.
The child calmed slightly after a minute, eventually squatting down on his haunches in a large nest of straw as he stared at Sherry, his head twitching like any chicken would when they regarded something.
She scowled toward where the dead man sat in the other room. “You piece of shit!” Sherry growled. “The world’s a better place with you dead.” She crawled further into the cage and rested a hand gently on the kid’s knee.
Excerpt from You Can't Go Back by Edwin DassoIncluded in Do No Harm

Preorder it now: Do No Harm Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo

Without light, you cannot begin to appreciate darkness

Michael laid a hand against the door. Its lacquer finish failed to protect the wood stain from fading, after years of exposure to the elements. He pressed down the rusty handle. With a screech of its hinges, the door swung open.“Hello! Anyone home?” he called, feeling awkward for invading a private space, but crossing the threshold all the same.A damp sensation crept around the corners and over the moldy walls. Shadows stirred, yet when you turned to look back at them, they seemed to freeze. Every now and then there came a sound, like that of a finger scraping against a stone floor. Was it a lizard slipping back into a crack? A bug crawling underfoot? A mound of small clay models appeared in one corner, and a few finished sculptures in another. One of them was a bronze piece, depicting a figure twisting around itself. Its sleek lines deformed—one muscle after another—into a horned head. From its empty eyes came a look, an intense look that seemed to tell volumes, but of what exactly it told, Michael could not even begin to guess.For no good reason, a shiver went down his spine. Against his better judgment he went on, turning around one partition and closely behind it, around a second one. They were covered with soot, and with one drizzle of thinned oil paint over another. The third partition had small sketches nailed to it. Behind it, a small wooden stage came into view, lit by a small flame that was flickering in spasms. Bent over the thick wax candle, with his back turned to him, was a short man. He cast enormously distorted shadows that were knotting all around him on the walls and partitions.“Bull?” asked Michael.Raising the collar of his cowhide jacket, the artist seemed to stiffen at the sound of his voice. Annoyed at his silence, Michael took another step toward him. “Didn’t you hear the doorbell?” he asked. “I rang and rang. Why didn’t you answer?”Keeping his back to him, the artist began rearranging paintbrushes in a metal container. “I’m in no mood for visitors,” he muttered, over the clamor. “Go away.”“You’re the one who invited me,” said Michael. “Don’t you remember? You promised to show me your latest sculpture—” “It’s not here.”“Where, then, is it?”“Outdoors. There’s no light out there now. And without light, you cannot begin to appreciate darkness.” 
Excerpt from Virtually Lace

Virtually Lace(Volume II of Ash Suspense Thrillers with a Dash of Romance)Audible: US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DEAudiobook: Amazon US ★ Amazon UK ★ iTunesPaperback: Amazon 
Haunted by discovering the body of a beautiful dancer, Michael sets out to create a virtual reality simulation of her murder. Can he bring the mystery to life? Can he solve its clues in time, before the killer turns on the woman he loves, Ash?

I started reading the book and couldn't put it down, so I finished it in one day. Young people who are into those games will love this book! Older people who are into love will adore the two main characters and root for Michael to save Ash before it is too late. ~B.J. Robinson, Author

Do No Harm: If A Tree Falls by @robertikatz

Seamus Sullivan was a very large man with a crooked smile, gentle brown eyes and a short, tangled beard. He lived in a small house constructed of pre-fab logs that stood on a wooded plot just outside of town. For the area, it was a common enough looking house, with a brick chimney, double-paned windows and a wooden porch containing a wooden swing, two chairs and a bench.From the outside, the house appeared to be no more than eight-hundred square feet but it contained a very large, very well appointed basement, originally built by moonshiners to hide their product. The basement was the feature that had most appealed to Seamus Sullivan when he purchased it, fifteen years before. He had a lot of fun in that basement.For the past seven years, Seamus Sullivan had taken great pleasure in dressing up as Santa Claus and sitting on a makeshift throne at the local mall, surrounded by cotton snow and reindeers made from cardboard, while Christmas carols played softly from the overhead speakers. The local kids (the small ones, at least) would line up to sit on his lap, declare that they had been very good indeed and solemnly present him with their list of hoped for presents. Their parents would look on fondly, no doubt remembering their own long-ago days sitting on Santa’s lap, though a few of these would always frown, no doubt remembering that very few of the requested presents had made their way down the chimney.Oh, well, let’s let the little rats cherish the illusion while they can.Most of all, Seamus Sullivan liked the little girls in their party dresses. These, he would give a special smile and bounce a little on his knee, wonderfully aware of their soft cotton panties rubbing against his groin.One or two of these would give him a doubtful little frown, at which he would let out a particularly large and merry, “Oh, ho, ho.”None of them ever complained, which was good for them, because Seamus Sullivan was also keeping a list…
Richard Kurtz looked at the pile of luggage sitting on their apartment floor and gave his wife a doubtful frown. “You sure you have enough clothes? We’ll be there for six weeks. You might need more.”“Hush, you.” Lenore tapped her lips with a pen, looked down at her list and then gave a small shrug. She grinned at Kurtz. “If I need more, I’ll buy them. They do have stores in West Virginia, don’t they?”“One or two.”“Then I think we’re ready to conquer the wilderness.”Kurtz sighed.Lenore was a city girl, through and through, but Kurtz, though he had grown comfortable over the years living in New York, and had even learned to enjoy it, still retained a lot of the country he had grown up in. He preferred jeans to a suit and he would rather spend time with a hunting rifle or a fishing rod than wandering through a museum.He did like the food, though. You couldn’t find Jean-Georges or Daniel or Per Se in West Virginia, and God knew there was nothing like Chinatown.The barbecue was better, though. He was looking forward to the barbecue.
Six hours later, after a limousine ride to LaGuardia and a stop-over at Dulles, their plane landed at Morgantown Municipal Airport. Kurtz sighed in relief as the plane touched down.Lenore glanced up at him from her copy of Vogue. “Something bothering you?”Morgantown’s runway was too small for the bigger passenger jets. The plane they had taken from Dulles was a Saab 340 turbo-prop, with a maximum passenger capacity of thirty-three.Flying never bothered Lenore. Flying was the safest way to travel. Fewer than one death in seven-million. Nothing to worry about. Kurtz knew this, but to Kurtz, flying didn’t feel safe, not when the plane was barely larger than a coffin and swayed back and forth with every breeze.Also, Kurtz was a surgeon and surgeons were pretty much all control freaks. Something about entrusting his life to another person did not sit well with Richard Kurtz…he repressed a shudder. How well trained was the pilot, anyway? Did he get a good night’s sleep? Is anything in his personal life distracting him from the job? Any history of alcoholism or drug abuse?“No,” Kurtz said. “Not at all.”
Anyway, here they were, so forget it. Flight over, ground firm beneath his feet, just the way he liked it. He wriggled his toes. Firm.Excerpt from If A Tree Falls by Robert I. KatzIncluded in Do No Harm

Preorder it now: Do No Harm Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo

How does she find their voices? Part II

I hope that like me, you are fascinated by how a narrator finds the voice for her characters. 


Having shared her thoughts in broad terms in How does she find their voices? Part I, Heather Jane Hogan decided to give you one more glimpse, focusing in more depth on the characters in the audio edition of Coma Confidential. 

Heather voiced my characters in the audiobook editions of My Own Voice(included in Apart from Love) and the audiobook edition of Twisted. Her rendition of Coma Confidential is coming soon...
Follow Heather on these sites: Twitter Website
And take a listen to her voice in these 5-minutes voice samples 
of the audiobook editions of my books:

How does she find their voices? Part I

There is a reason why I chose Heather Jane Hogan to narrate my book, Coma Confidential, and it has to do with the warm intimacy of her natural voice. Listening to her, I imagine that she is intimating her thoughts to me only, not only in my ear but also in my heart.

Now that the hard work is over, I asked Heather to share how she finds the voice for her characters. Here is what she shared with me about her craft, Part I. Part II  -- inspired by her most recent work on my book -- will soon be published, so stay tuned!


Heather voiced my characters in the audiobook editions of My Own Voice(included in Apart from Love) and the audiobook edition of Twisted. Her rendition of Coma Confidential is coming soon...
Follow Heather on these sites: Twitter Website
And take a listen to her voice in these 5-minutes voice samples 
of the audiobook editions of my books:

Cover reveal: Overdose

While sitting in the hospital's waiting room (waiting for my loved one) I started to design the cover for my upcoming medical thriller. 
Here it is:


As you may know I design all my covers--usually based on my art, be it drawing or digital art, and this one is no exception.
You may wonder: what inspired the composition?  It is a wonderful painting by Goya, depicting his own doctor taking good care of him at the time he fell sick.  By contrast, my Overdose cover hints at something more insidious, mainly by use of blue colors and by keeping the doctor's face masked.