Uvi Poznansky's Blog, page 97

100 Indie Books You Should Read Before You Die by @CalebPirtle

My book, Dancing with Air, was selected as one of the 100 Indie Books You Should Read Before You Die, with enthusiastic recommendation by Caleb Pirtie III and his wife, Linda. Caleb is the author of more than fifty-five books. He is a graduate of The University of Texas in Austin with a bachelor’s degree in journalism. He served as sports editor for The Daily Texan and became the first student at the university to win the National William Randolph Hearst Award for feature writing. He and his wife are avid readers who post their reviews on their site.
 Check it out:



Will love survive the test of war?

Fooling Nazi espionage may cost Lenny the trust of the girl who captured his heart. Will Natasha discover his secret reports, disguised as love letters to another woman?
In these letters, Lenny gives the enemy misleading information about allied plans for D-Day. Once Natasha arrives in London, he takes her for a ride on his Harley throughout England, from the White Cliffs of Dover to a village near an underground ammunition depot in Staffordshire.When he is wounded in a horrific explosion, she brings him back to safety, only to discover the other woman’s letter to him. Will love survive the test of war?In the past Natasha wrote, with girlish infatuation, “He will be running his fingers down, all the way down to the small of my back, touching his lips to my ear, breathing his name, breathing mine. Here I am, dancing with air.”In years to come, she will begin to lose her memory, which will make Lenny see her as fragile. “I gather her gently into my arms, holding her like a breath.” But right now, she is at her peak. She is ready to take charge of the course of their story.★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a gift ★Still Life with Memories
Volume IV: Dancing with Air Free with Kindle Unlimited  Ebook: KindlePaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: Amazon US ★ Amazon UK ★ Audible ★ iTunes
"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

Excellent collection of unusual stories!!!

Love this review for my dark fantasy audiobook, Twisted:

OverallPerformanceStory

Amazon CustomerSacramento, CA01-06-18

.
 Excellent collection of unusual stories!!! This is a collection of works of varying degrees and lengths. The longer pieces are complete stories with a linear narrative. The shorter pieces feel very much like poetry. All the stories are told from a first person narrative with the exception of one that is just prose back and fourth with the two characters and could easily be a song/duet for two singers.
My favorite story was about a woman who is becoming conscious as a sculptor slowly molds her body and head out of clay. It took an unusual inanimate object and breathed life into it. Great story and a great ending. Definitely original and I look forward to reading / listening to more from this author.

The narration was done very well, but way to slow. I generally listen to everything at 1.5 times speed. With this one, I bumped it up to 2 times speed and she still sounded like she was reading at the normal 1 times speed of most other audio books. This is not a bad thing, just an observation.

I requested review copy of this audio book and I am leaving this voluntary and honest review. 

Our thoughts are his for the taking

So I slipped off my perch, over the railing, down the pipe, around the bushes, and back into the alley, chased by confusion, before it hit me, all of a sudden, with sharp clarity: her voice is his. So is mine. In the process of writing, he has crossed a line, crossed it into an altogether different reality, which is all made up. He has come to consider us his characters, characters with no claim to privacy. In his mind, our thoughts are his for the taking.That, I believe, is the only explanation to his tape collection, the voices he owns. As an author, he wishes to capture us—as genuinely as language can—in the most touching, most vulnerable of moments. He cannot help but invade our mind, our heart, our guts, because he needs to feel us inside, refine our voices, perhaps even guide us from one scene to the next. He aims to determine how our story would end. In his madness, he puts faith only in himself. He is God. From time to time, in spite of himself, he welcomes our rebellious nature, because it offers him a new, unforeseen twist in his tale. Which is not to say he enjoys his power. Quite the opposite. I come there often to watch him, and I can tell you that as this long winter bores on, he seems to plunge deeper and deeper into despair—especially when hearing me, I mean, my voice ranting on tape.Lately, his wrist seems to be painfully tired, because of the incessant typing. But somehow he presses on. Play. He listens to me—breath fluttering in his throat, as if to hold himself back from a fit of crying—then he takes a short pause, and Rewind, he listens again. Meanwhile, immobile in the shadows, I cannot ask him to stop. I feel exhausted slouching here, motionless, against the bars. I cannot even bring myself to clap my hands over my ears. A thousand times over, here it comes, here it is, trembling with a rising inflection. I try not to hear it, but carried over to me by a light breeze is my voice, betraying my secret. It says: 
And through the wall, the space, the wall, can Anita hear the pounding, the loud pounding of my heart? Can she feel me, breathing her name? Does she whisper back to me, Stop it, stop it right now?
For the author in him, this, I figure, should be considered pure gold. He must be terribly pleased at the opportunity to take what I said and mold it anew, reducing here, embellishing there, channeling every turn, every twist in the flow of my passion. But then, for the lover in him, trying to place his trust in the hands of those he holds dear—his wife, his son—every word must be driving a dagger into his heart. And yet, despite the pain, I see him pressing on, forcing himself to listen, then to write. His new character—a paper version of me—starts taking shape. It is given a voice, which is drawn out of my throat. Every word makes me a touch weaker. Soon I will be completely drained of breath.I look at my father across the divide, and for the first time in my life, I wish for uncertainty. I wish I would have a doubt left in me. If I did, I could still wonder if he might, one day, want me back. I could still hope.It does not even matter that he cannot see me at this moment, because now, after so many Play, Play, Play repetitions, we both know—we cannot avoid knowing—that we are on opposite sides. We are rivals, regarding each other with deep suspicion, because we can no longer look into each other’s eyes. I am waiting here, longing for my dad. He is waiting over there, writing my voice.   
Ben in The White Piano

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a gift ★Still Life with Memories
Volume I: My Own VoiceEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible
Volume II: The White PianoEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible
Volume I & II, woven together: Apart from LoveEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible



"Few authors would be able to pull off the manner in which the apparent polar opposites of Ben and Anita begin to bond... but Poznansky has the visual and verbal and architectural skills to create this maze and guide us through it." 
- Grady Harp, HALL OF FAME reviewer

I have been intrigued with spy stories

Love this audiobook review:

OverallPerformanceStory

Jan01-04-18



 Beautiful Story! Wow! I was amazed with this beautiful story. I have been intrigued with spy stories ever since I met a real life WWII spy when I was in college. The stories he told were inline with this book. The imagery was so realistic in this book, and I loved the narration. Don Warrick is such a talented performer with his various distinguished voices. I found this book to be a standalone listen and part of a series. I am very impressed with this author and will definitely listen to more books by her. I requested this review copy audiobook and have voluntarily written this review. My review is not a synopsis of the book, but rather my opinion of it.

Even so, it takes me by surprise

I cross to the window, which is the moment I begin hearing the sound. On the surface it seems to blend with the howling of the wind, and the scraping of bare branches across the edge of the roof—except it isn’t coming from outside, and it’s just a whimper at first. Even so, it takes me by surprise, ‘cause Lenny don’t dream—or so he says. And for sure, he don’t never talk in his sleep, ‘cause no matter if it’s day or night, his jaw is set firm, and them muscles, they’re always tight around his lips, which looks funny with his eyes closed, but also a bit stern. Anyhow you can see, just by looking, that at this moment he isn’t hardly his usual self. So I rush to his side—but can’t get nothing, not a word of what he mumbles, because now that he’s in the grip of some fear, he don’t barely make sense. It takes my breath away to look at Lenny, ‘cause he feels awful helpless, like a baby, almost. After a while he starts whining—not from his throat but from an inner place, deep down in his guts. From there he wails, wrapped up in his nightmare, as if he’s about to be cut away, like, lose the one dear to him.Me, I reckon it’s something you might expect, like, when you’re expecting: my heart pounds with great worry inside me, so much so that it hurts, even, like I’m already a mama—and not only to my little one. So the fact that Lenny, he’s like, twice my age, flies clear out of my head. I cuddle him, real gentle, and feel his big body trembling here, in my arms. And I rock him back and forth, back and forth, like he’s a child, and I try to calm him down, whispering, “Sh... Sh...” And I hug him, even tighter now, ‘cause he’s shaking like a leaf. “What is it, Lenny?”By now his voice is so intense. It’s rising, rising to a shriek, “Taaah! Taaah—”Which is when I figure, like, he’s trying to call someone, call her back, real urgent, to make her stop just there—just before she reaches the rift, the edge of what he sees in his dream—so he don’t end up losing her. So I murmur, close to his ear, “Here I am... All’s fine, I promise. I’m here, by your side, my dear, dear Lenny. Don’t you worry.” And again he calls, only softer this time, “Taaah...”
I let his head lean on me, on my bare shoulder, and at once the chill’s gone, both inside and out, because I kiss him—so long and so tender—right here, in the middle of his forehead. And I hope I can take on his burden, that burden of guilt, and of pain too, because in the end I don’t really mind, I don’t care no more if the name he’s calling is mine—or else, if it is Natasha.
Anita in My Own Voice


★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a gift ★Still Life with Memories
Volume I: My Own VoiceEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible
Volume II: The White PianoEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible
Volume I & II, woven together: Apart from LoveEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible

"Uvi Poznansky's, My Own Voice, is a creative, gripping and deeply moving tale of a young girl coming of age in unfathomable emotional circumstances." 
- Bill Cronin, Author

Where to? Where else? The maternity ward!

I hated having to wince, which made everything around me seem a bit warped. Determined not to limp, I could now advance almost without aching. But the burden I carried kept pressing me down, and the first steps up the stairs were the most difficult. Cold drops of sweat formed on my forehead. Some of them started running down my face and into my eyes, stinging them. I dragged myself up, somehow, with Ed laden on my back, his arms slung limply over my shoulders, his blood oozing around my neck. “Quick,” said the nurse. “Get in!”Wrapped in a starched, white cotton apron over a blue-and-white pinstriped dress, her waist was rather plump—but even so, a sense of urgency kept her surprisingly light on her feet. She rushed in to set the bundle down and hold the entrance door open for us. Gritting my teeth, I carried him inside, into the hall.“Easy now,” said the nurse, as we lowered the unconscious man onto a gurney. The woolen red cross on her armband became smeared, at once, by a fresh spurt of blood.I laid him down and just stood there over him, panting.“German snipers?” she asked, while examining the bullet hole in his shoulder. “Yes,” I said. “On our way to the bridge, we went through the wooded park, hoping not to be noticed, and then... Then he got hit.”“Oui! This place, it is supposed to be safe,” she said. “We hope to be protected from the bombing by the large red cross, which is painted up there, on the roof, but still... Still, they shoot today on us.” I removed his helmet, as gently as I could, and was relieved to hear him utter a groan. Any sound was better than silence.At once, the nurse started to wheel him away. “You stay here,” she said, over her shoulder. “I take him now.”“Where to?”“Where else? The maternity ward.”
Lenny in Marriage before Death

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a gift ★Still Life with Memories
Volume V: Marriage before DeathEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: Amazon US ★ Amazon UK ★ Audible ★ iTunes



"Ms. Poznansky has done it again, but this time--and I don't say this lightly--she has written my favorite book to date in her stable of literary gems... The tension was riveting."  - Aaron Paul Lazar, Author

What can I tell you about my mother?

What more can I say, son? What can I tell you about my mother? She was a woman of many charms. Her clothes were striking, her footwear unconventional—but her most prized possession was a long-sleeved goatskin coat. It had a different feel, a different touch than the hide of a kid in our herds, because it came from afar, from the slopes of the snow-covered mountains in the North, where the goats, I am told, have fine, long, human-like hair. Why my mother had brought this coat with her, why she kept it all these years, I will never know. Your guess is as good as mine. It was of no use here, in the scorching heat of this wasteland. Perhaps it reminded her of her childhood in that distant country, Harran, where the air was cooler, and the sunlight more slanted. She would often lament how far out of reach that place was. Out of reach, getting more remote and more remarkable with time, like a memory of youth. The land there, she said, was more fertile, and the language more refined. According to her, it was the cradle of civilization. Most winters, there was an abundance of rain, and the mud-brick homes there were taller, better insulated and less given to the wind than our flimsy tents.Yes, she treasured that coat, and would let no one—not even me—touch it. If there was any mending to be done, she would do it herself, which caused the maidservants to raise their eyebrows.
Jacob in A Favorite Son

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a gift ★A Favorite SonEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible



"She opens the old story to be instead a lively psychological study of family and of greed and longing for paternal love and more. It works spectacularly well." 
- Grady Harp, Hall of Fame Reviewer

Wait for me!

And he says, to himself this time, “Winter is coming. The day is shorter, it seems. And the shorter it is—the more precious each minute.”And I think, No. Not for me.My father says, as if he could hear me, “Maybe not.”He stumbles over some piece of trash, and, having to steady him, I think, Too bad. He is too heavy for me. So is his talk.He says, “You think I do not understand how hard, how painful it must be for you, coming here to a new reality: a home without your mom. I wish you would talk, Ben. Talk to me about it.”And I think, Who the hell wants to do that.He waits for an answer, but after a while he seems to give up. “My God!” he says then, gazing straight ahead. “This place! This place, it is almost too beautiful for words.”Indeed, it is. I fill my lungs with air, and my spirit swings so high at the thought of wetting my toes, that I laugh out loud at what he is saying, whatever it is. Let him talk all evening if it makes him happy.He says, “I wish I could write it, Ben.”In place of an answer I run along the beach, the old man trailing farther and farther behind me. For a minute I stop, and stoop down to pick what at first I thought was a dead butterfly—but no, this is just an empty shell, the two halves of which are hinged together, bringing to mind a hardened pair of wings. I touch it: dark-blue and rough on the outside, slick and pearly inside, it housed a mussel once. Now there it lays, far from the sea, no longer able to keep itself closed—nor can it attach itself to others out there, on the distant wave-washed rocks, from where it came. I feel a strange affinity with this thing. It has been left here, to fill with dry, barren grains, now that life has left it. How did it arrive here? By what thrust, what rush of wave? Maybe, it loosened its shell—just a crack—waiting, waiting for high tide, for seawater to come through, to revive it. I imagine its flesh quivering there, inside its broken enclosure: so soft, so vulnerable. So much like me. Perhaps, it tried to roll its way back, to cross the border between that which is bone dry, and that which can still nourish it. Snatched and quickly consumed, its shell has been picked clean by a bird of prey, or—when the waves finally came—by a starfish. Then its armor was carelessly spat out by the water, having failed to serve its purpose. So much like me. I throw it back, in the direction of the old man. I think I can hear him, calling me from afar, “Wait...”  A sudden gust has shaken my father and he falls, abruptly, out of sight. A second later, the top of his head reappears behind a mound of sand.
“Ben,” he cries, “wait for me!”
Ben in The White Piano


★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a gift ★Still Life with Memories
Volume I: My Own VoiceEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible
Volume II: The White PianoEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible
Volume I & II, woven together: Apart from LoveEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible

"Few authors would be able to pull off the manner in which the apparent polar opposites of Ben and Anita begin to bond... but Poznansky has the visual and verbal and architectural skills to create this maze and guide us through it." 
- Grady Harp, HALL OF FAME reviewer

I'm on the verge of acting out

Now I dash eagerly through the long corridor which—to my surprise—has a musty stench. At the far end I spot an arc, which is where a hall opens before me. The space is enormous. It is lit by two torches: one flickering out of a sconce in the right corner, the other—out of a sconce in the left. Between them lies a flat slab of rock, used as a stage. Above it is a richly draped, raw-silk canopy, decorated by pretty tassels the likes of which I have never seen before. And sheltered in its shadow is a tall figure in a long, royal robe. There is something about him, something menacing which I cannot begin to put into words. Perhaps it is that thing which he clasps tightly in his fist: an incredibly long spear. Light glances off its sharp iron head, as if to give a signal of some kind, a warning. It makes me wonder... This is the safest place in the kingdom: his place, his palace. He is surrounded by a dozen or so hand-picked attendants. And yet there he is: a king clinging to his weapon, as if this were a combat zone. To show respect I fall to my knees before him. The floor is cold, having absorbed the damp of a long winter. The surface is porous, even crumbly here and there, cut of rocks from the Judea mountains. So is the surface of the stage, right in front of my eyes. I cannot help noting the marks drawn by his spear in the film of dirt up there, around his boots. Scratch, twist, scratch again... No wonder he seems to be in such a royal pain: with all these attendants here to serve him, not a single one has managed to come up with the bright idea of sweeping the floor. They all carry weapons, but not one has a broom.Sitting nearly immobile, Saul seems as chalky as the walls around him. He sits crumpled—in an odd way—upon the throne. His nails keep digging into the little velvety cushions that are stretched over the carved armrests. Not once does he give a nod in my direction, nor does he acknowledge my presence in any other way. Which agitates me. It awakens my doubt, doubt in my skill. Much the same as I feel in my father’s presence. Repressed. On the verge of acting out. So, rising to my feet I blurt out, “Your majesty—”“Don’t talk,” whispers one of the attendants. “Play.”
David in Rise to Power

★ Love Reading? Treat yourself to a gift ★
Volume I: Rise to PowerEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible
Volume II: A Peek at BathshebaEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback: Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: iTunes ★ Amazon ★ Audible
Volume III: The Edge of RevoltEbook: Kindle ★ Nook ★ Apple ★ Kobo ★ Google Play ★ SmashwordsPaperback Amazon ★ Barnes&NobleAudiobook: Amazon ★ Audible ★ iTunes
The complete trilogy:The David Chronicles (Boxed Set) Ebook: Kindle ★ Apple ★ Nook ★ Kobo ★ Smashwords



"Somehow, even though we know the outlines of the story, we become completely engrossed, wanting to know how the story we are familiar with will be filled out. On my first reading, I became so engrossed as I read it on a bus that I missed my stop."  - Laurel Gord, Author

Almost like reading a diary

Born in Oakland, CA, Kathy Parsons has been an independent piano teacher since early 1981. Kathy lived in the San Francisco Bay Area until mid-2007 when she relocated to Florence, OR (on the central Oregon Coast). She continues to teach locally and via the internet in addition to reviewing many recordings and interviewing artists for her website, MainlyPiano.com, and editing new sheet music. I am so pleased to find her review of my Historical Fiction novel (with a modern twist), A Peek at Bathsheba:

4.0 out of 5 stars Interesting Perspective!ByKathy ParsonsTOP 1000 REVIEWERVINE VOICEon August 29, 2017Format: Kindle Edition|Verified Purchase I have read quite a few of Uvi Poznansky's books and really like that she brings something a little different to her books whether they are based on history or are works of fiction. What makes her series, "The David Chronicles," unique is that the volumes are written from King David's point of view. Of course, much of this is speculative, but it makes for very interesting reading - almost like reading a diary. King David's thoughts and perspectives change as he goes through life (of course, everyone's do!), so it's kind of amazing to see him go from a young court musician to a power-hungry young man, to a man reflecting on his triumphs and mistakes. I expected this installment to be more about Bathsheba, a character I knew very little about, but her presence doesn't dominate the story in any way. Both of these characters, as well as others in the story, are flawed and very human, so even though it's not possible to know exactly what King David's thoughts were at any particular time in his life, they mostly ring true in the book. Ms Poznansky has put dialogue as well as King David's thoughts into contemporary language, which can sometimes be a little disturbing, but it does make the characters somewhat easier to relate to. (She doesn't use terms like "lol" or much slang.) I enjoyed this book a lot and look forward to reading Book 3 in the very near future.