Cover reveal for A Touch of Passion

A Touch of Passion is a new boxed set, containing full-length Romance novels by wonderfully talented, bestselling authors. Joining me are Mimi Barbour, Tamara Ferguson, Regina Puckett, Suzanne Jenkins, Cynthia Woolf, Traci Hall, and Donna Fasano. 

For the word 'Passion' I found a lovely font called Precious, because I felt that it expresses the meaning of this word by making the capital letter so flowery and romantic. For the image I selected a young woman in a silky dress, made her close her eyes as she dreams about her beloved, and on her hand I placed a pink rose. I positioned it so it nearly falls off from her fingers, as she is so enraptured in her memories.

Here is the spine. My intention was to create a sense of a substantial collection, presented like volumes in an encyclopedia. Therefore, I used golden lettering on dark purple, velvet background. I added the lit and shadowed edges for each spine, to achieve depth. Most importantly, at the bottom of it I added a signature icon from the cover of its standalone novel.

Finally, I built it all up so suggest a perspective, and created a reflection underneath, which adheres to the same rules of perspective. And here is the finished cover:

Lose yourself in a touch of passion. 

Whether it’s the beauty in a song or the magic of a kiss, the agony of heartbreak or the hunger of yearning, explore ecstasy and desire in these captivating full-length novels. Written by bestselling, multiple award-winning, USA Today and NY Times authors, this boxed set has it all: Historical Romance, Contemporary Romance, New Adult Romance, Romantic Suspense, Victorian Romance, Western and Literary Fiction. These sensual tales of love will leave you with a smile on your lips and music in your heart. 

Love Romance? Get this amazing collection

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Waiting for the night, for the darkest hour

 

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 early-onset Alzheimer's, which turns the way her mind works into a riddle. 

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family drama ★

The complete series

Still Life with Memories

Volume II: 

The White Piano

Paperback ★ Hardcover 

Audiobook

 "A feast for the armchair psychologist. 

Reveals insights that can touch and frighten each of us"

I can sense the edge

It brings back a memory. As a ten year old boy I used to stand right here, leaning against this very door, just as I am now. Wide-eyed I would stare in awe at my dad, watching him go through his morning ritual, which never varied. I can see him so vividly in my mind. 

First, dad would soak a small towel in steaming hot water, and hold it firmly against his face, his eyes winking at me from the fogged up mirror. Then his eyes would turn serious, as he would go back to the business at hand.

He would lift the wet brush, using it to apply shaving cream to his chin, swirling the thing around and around, until the lather had formed into stiff peaks. At this point, he would put the brush down—but not before painting the tip of my nose with a dollop of white, fluffy cream.

Then he would stretch his skin between his fingers, until it was as tight as a drum, and angle the blade to it, and go through his first pass, traveling along the grain, shaving the hair with short, rhythmic strokes, and finishing it off with long ones. At this point he would bend down and let me help, let me lather his face for him, before straightening his back, and coming back up to the mirror, to study his jawline as if exploring some exotic, heavily wooded landscape. Then with a sure hand, dad would go through his final pass—the more dangerous one, when most accidents occur—this time, traveling against the grain.

It must be late afternoon, maybe five o’clock by now. My father, I figure, is about to come back. And here I am: his flesh, his blood. I am looking directly at the mirror, wondering, Where is that boy? Is he lost? Can I still find him, hiding here, inside these eyes? And who are you, I ask myself, a traitor? 

In this spot, I am nowhere. And nowhere is a hard place to escape. So after a while I start wondering, What now? What shall I do? Now that I am home, where can I go? 

I have no will. I have no curiosity. Of its own, my finger is passing with barely a touch along the blade until suddenly, catching on a spot, it halts. Rust, perhaps. I raise my hand over to the light, careful not to tighten my hold over the thing. A cold shine can be seen in intervals, shooting up and down between my fingers along the metallic handle. I can sense the edge. 

I can see my wrist, a vein twisting through it with a hard pulse. I can see the delicate lines, guessing their way across the skin. How frail is life. Better close your eyes. Close your eyes, I say. Do it--

In writing this passage, I drew on two memories: first, the memory of seeing my daddy shave when I was a little girl, which was so fascinating to me back then. And second,  the dark mood that gripped me when he passed away, which inspired me to paint heart-wrenching images, questioning the purpose of being here. 

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family drama ★

The complete series

Still Life with Memories

Volume II: 

The White Piano

Paperback ★ Hardcover 

Audiobook

“Liberally salted with buttery smooth prose & fascinating insights”

What to expect in our Halloween party

Hi everyone! Can't wait for the event to begin and for the Grand Finale... 

Can you?

Here is what to expect:

Friday, October 30th at 4:00pm PST - Sunday, November 1st at 3:00 PST 

You'll read excerpts, listen to voice clips and watch trailers from our books

Want to increase your chances to win them? 

Then like, comment, or share our posts on the event page

Grand Finale Sunday, November 1st at 4:00 PST

Want to know who won our books, and have spooky scary fun?

Come to our Halloween party!

Haven't joined us yet? What are you waiting for? 

Trick or Treat

To convert time to your time zone, click here: Time Zone Calculator

As the light becomes sharper, so does his shadow

The rays of the sun are painting the opposite ridge, there at the top of the valley, with warm yellows, glittering golds. But they reach only halfway down, way short of the bluish mist that is still blanketing the bottom of the valley. 

Here, under this cover, it is an eerie sight. One cloud of murk after another drift aimlessly in the air. In the thick haze I step among rocks and bodies, barely noting the difference between one immobile shape and another. I am finding my way by touch rather than by vision. All the while I am grateful, so grateful that the vultures are nowhere in sight. In the distance I spot an outline of a dog here, a dog there, sniffing the remains with their tails between their legs. 

And for the first time in my life I pray for help. I look up the slope searching, hoping for something divine, something that will guide me, show me the path out of this dark passage. I cry out to God, bless me, sustain me, protect me... You are the only shield I have against my foes, the shadow by my right hand. 

Now I hear the babbling of a brook, and before long I am sloshing my way through it. This must be the border, the natural border between us and the Philistines. From here on I am encroaching on the turf of the enemy. I stop to choose five pebbles from the brook. Four of them I put in my pouch, and one in the knot of my sling. 

My wrist is ready. I peer through the mist, listening intently for the voice of the Philistine.

“Coward,” he howls, and his voice rattles me. It sounds so close that for a second, I am stunned.

It is then that rays of light finger the mist, first with some hesitation. Then with a rip, they pierce through it, and are now shining directly upon him. 

His heavy ankles, covered with bronze leg armors, are planted slightly above the level of my eyes, on a ledge up there, at the opposite side. As the light becomes sharper, so does his shadow. With a steep slant, it is cascading over the limestone outcrops. There is Goliath, overshadowing me.

David et Philistaenus by Salvador Dali, 1964

David and Goliath by Degas

David by Bernini

Degas, the French painter, said, "Painting s easy for those who do not know how, but very difficulties for those who do!" You can see how true this is in these three images that depict the same moment in the story, just before the battle between David and Goliath has been decided. The first piece of art that inspired my writing is a gouache painting by Salvador Dali, depicting the moment the pebble hit the giant and the spilling and spreading of blood. The second is by Degas, where we stand close to David and see the arena close to his point of view. And the third is by Bernini, who is known for his dynamic marble sculptures. here he delivers a contemplative moment, depicting David with great warmth as a youth heading for battle.

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Historical Fiction with a Modern Twist...

Rise to Power

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Ain’t them three sisters gonna curse me, like witches do?

I can hear a noise of some kind, clicking awful close to my ear, on the other side, I mean, Lenny’s side of the bed. I try to stay still, because of this dull pain, and because of wondering if, somewhere deep inside, my baby can feel it, too. 

Then I turn my head—just a little—and take a peak over my shoulder. I glance real quick at that standalone mirror, which is facing away from me. And what do I see reflected there, if not something that’s, like, so strange to my eyes, so unusual, that it makes me want to blink, or wipe them in awe.
Three squares of fuzzy wool are being held there, suspended in midair. Directly behind them hang three shadows, under which you can see three chubby old women, crinkling their noses—long, longer, longest. They’re straining their crossed, beady eyes with great focus, under three pairs of glasses, and clinking, clinking, clinking three pairs of knitting needles, like, all together now! 

And there, on the floor, you can see three balls of thick yarn chasing each other, and from time to time, getting tied in knots, every which way across them fat ankles. 

Anyway, at first glance them old women look kinda similar, like a rough, wrinkled copy of each other, what with those high arched, strange eyebrows. I pinch myself, but they’re still there—in the mirror as well as outside of it—no matter how long I try blinking and wiping my eyes. It takes me a while to tell them apart: 

The one sitting to the left, she’s toothless. The one in the middle has a pimple on her veined temple. And the one to the right, well, her nose isn’t only the longest, but also the knobbiest of all three. 

Wrapped around her neck is a long tape measure, the edges of which roll all the way down and curl there, in her lap, next to a pair of scissors. 

All of a sudden, like something has clicked in my head, I know who she is: this is Hadassa Rosenblatt, known to all as aunt Hadassa—though nobody can tell me exactly whose aunt she is anyway—she was the one spreading nasty, awful rumors about me, saying I was dating some other boyfriend, like, behind Lenny’s back. 

At the time, I decided to make things real easy for her, and told her there’s no need for her to come to my wedding, and in fact it would be so much better if she’d stay as far as she could from me; which made her sisters, Frida and Fruma, stay home, too. Since then, my mind is kinda at ease—except for wondering, Why the gossip? Why did she try meddling in my affairs? And now, ain’t them three sisters gonna curse me, like witches do, in old children stories? 

The three witches appear in many mythologies, including the Greek one, where one spun the thread of life from her distaff onto her spindle, another measured the thread of life allotted to each person with her measuring rod, and the third was the cutter of the thread of life. She chose the manner of each person's death; and when their time was come, she cut their life-thread with her shears. Anita has a memory of the Norse version of the three fates:

He took me to some opera, Wagner I think, which was long and kinda difficult to get, but he told me to listen, and he explained it all to me, and from there I remember them, the three Norns: They spun the thread of fate, and they sang, like, the song of the future. 

Beware, they sang. 

Beware, I tell myself now, as aunt Hadassa holds up the yarn, and snips it.

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My Own Voice

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“Liberally salted with buttery smooth prose & fascinating insights”

That was where the nightmare found me

 

Contrary to popular belief, I see the brain working together, undivided between its left and right sides. It is overlaying its creative and analytical functions in every task. There are compositional problems to resolve, and color combination methods to gauge when you are painting a picture, at the same time that you are chasing your muse. The same is true for writing a story or composing a piece of music, with the added effect of time: a painting is perceived at once, more or less, while music and story unfold for the listener one note at a time.  

I paint with a pen, write with a paintbrush. My art strives to tell a story, and my stories strive to bring you into the scene being painted! Here is a good example of the mutual influences between art and writing. I painted this oil painting a few years ago, driven to do so by a recurrent nightmare. A few months later I brought it to life in words, and weaved it into my novel, My Own Voice:

Just yesterday—when I laid there in bed, bleeding all day, not even knowing where I was—that was when at last, the dream found me. 

In it, I find myself in a public place, which is strange to me—even though I know, somehow, that I’ve already been here. I’ve visited this place, perhaps the night before. 

It’s raised like a stage, and flooded with light: a harsh glare, which blinds me. For a minute I can’t see nothing in the dark, beyond that ledge—but I know that them faces are out there, blank and blurry. They’re all there, hushing each other, gazing at me. 

I see myself standing there in front of them, naked.

Red-faced, I hunch up as tight as I can. I fold over my thighs, trying to hide, to cover my body, my shame—but my hands, they’re way too small, so my nipple slips out of my fingers. And there it is, circled by light, for all to see, and to jeer at me, and to lick their lips, which is like, glistening out there, tiny sparks hissing in the distance. 

For a little while, my sleep is light. And so—even as I’m looking straight into that spotlight, or like, reaching down to touch the ledge of that stage—I can tell that all this is false, it’s nothing more than a dream. But then I fall deeper, even deeper into it, and now I really believe what I see: 

Some thread is crawling on my skin. Laying across my knees is a strap of fabric, which is frayed and stained, here and there, with my blood. When I pull it in, trying to drape it around me, or use it for a blanket, it resists. It don’t hardly give in, ‘cause it’s tied to something—no, somebody—standing right here, directly over my bare back. 

Me, I don’t want to turn, but I take a peek over my shoulder. Wrapped in layers of rags and straps and loose ends, all of which is tattered and like, drenched in reds and browns, the figure seemed shaky. He lifts one leg, and tries to balance himself, teetering—this way and that—on one foot. His hand tries to touch the back of my neck—and misses it, grabbing a handful of air, instead. 

And his blood-red lips, they’re curled up, in something that looks an awful lot like a smile. A mocking smile, one that don’t change. 

In my dream, my feet must have frozen. I can’t move, can’t run away from him, or even climb off the stage, because at that point I’m weak, and too scared to even breathe, and because of that thread, which binds us. And so, rooted to that spot, I look up at him. At this close range, our eyes meet, and my heart skips a beat, ‘cause at that second, his are empty. 

Suddenly I catch sight of someone else, someone standing way over there, in the distance, behind him; behind the curtains, even. Except for her hand, which is caught in the light, it’s hard to even notice her, ‘cause at first she’s like, real shy, even modest, and keeps herself in the shadows, out of the spotlight. 

But then, she changes. Her long fingers, they’re gathered, one by one, into a fist. And twisted around her little finger, you can find—if you focus—the ends of the rags, and the straps, and the thread, all of which extend from there to here, where he stands; all the way, to the joints of his wrists and his elbows, tying them like, real tight. 

And from backstage, she’s pulling him—raising, dropping, tightening, loosening—making the puppet move, shake, jiggle, even dance on the tip of his toe, and like, bringing him, somehow, to life. I gasp, thinking: she can twist him around her little finger, if she wants to.

Me, I cringe as he puffs, breathing something in my ear. “Go, go back home, go,” says the puppet, in a voice that is not really his. “Go to the place, the place where you came from, you came from. Go back to your ma, ma, your mama.”

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My Own Voice

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"A literary symphony complete with a cast of likeable, bruised characters"

A richly woven story

Just found a lovely new review for my novel, My Own Voice:

5.0 out of 5 starsA richly woven story.

ByB Nelsonon October 12, 2015

Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

This was written by one of my favorite authors, Uvi Poznansky. My Own Voice (Still Life with Memories Book 1) is another fine example of her story telling ability. It’s as if she paints the story, allowing the reader to find the lush details among the greater canvass of the world she creates. An artist inviting us in to a secret place that leaves us different once we have been there. We first meet Anita at seventeen and follow her as she makes mistakes, learns, falls, grows and questions. The author explores and illustrates the emotions that drive her characters in their decisions and relationships. This is truly a richly woven story. Highest recommendation.

There rise the shriek of vultures

There, with their backs to me, they are: three silhouettes, drawn sharply against the gray, gloomy landscape. The horsemen in the center is the one I am watching with keen interest. He is tall, formidable, and cloaked. A ray of morning light reaches hesitantly for his crown, sets it afire, and then pulls back.

Ahead of him, the valley opens like a fresh cut. Thin, muddy streams are washing over its rocks, oozing in and out of its cracks, and bleeding into its soil. Layers upon layers of moist, fleshy earth are pouring from one end to another, then halting on a slant, about to slip off. And from down below, somewhere under the heavy mist that hides the bottom of the valley from sight, stir some unexpected sounds. 

I wish I could ignore them. For a moment I am tempted to stick my fingers in my ears—but to do so I would have to let go of my lyre. Let go I cannot, because its strings may tremble in the air. My music may betray me, I mean, it may betray the place of my hideout. 

So I go on cowering, trying to imagine silence—only to be startled once more: in place of the first birdsongs of the day, there rise the shrieks of vultures. 

Sitting up there astride his stallion, the king hangs his head, which forces him to raise a hand to support his crown from slipping. In despair, he averts his eyes from the valley. 

The Colossus by Goya

The Valley of Elah, from Picturesque Palestine, Sinai and Egypt

David describe the Valley of Elah, where he will soon face his enemy. I have visited this place when I was a child, and at the time it surprised me that the valley is so shallow and well, boring. I imagined that perhaps it used to have dramatically sloped walls, as befits the scene of an iconic battle. I told myself that perhaps over the generations dust has settled over it and covered the rocky slopes, hiding the drama. 

Before writing the scene, I also looked at a lot of paintings in the history of art. For example, here is The Colossus by the spanish painter Goya. He depicts the valley as a gently sloping landscape, over which looms the figure of a giant. For the moment his attention is not on us, and not on the valley, as he is preparing to strike in a different direction, but that can change in a moment.

Another example is a drawing called The Valley of Elah, from the book Picturesque Palestine, Sinai and Egypt. The artist must have drawn the landscape right there, and imparted a sense of desolation by choosing a time of day when the shadows draw longer.

Having looked at many art pieces I set them all aside, and wrote the scene from imagination.

★ Love historical fiction? Treat yourself to a gift ★

Historical Fiction with a Modern Twist...

Rise to Power

Paperback ★ Hardcover 

Audiobook

Beautifully crafted!

Ashley Fontainne is an avid reader of classic literature and she is the author of Zero Balance, Accountable to None, Ramblings of a Mad Southern Woman, and more. So I am honored that she has just posted a review of my novel on Amazon. This is what she says about my mover, A Peek at Bathsheba:


Beautifully crafted!, October 5, 2015

By 

Ashley Fontainne

This review is from: A Peek at Bathsheba (The David Chronicles Book 2) (Kindle Edition)

Uvi Poznansky’s body of works with any art form she uses is magical. In this story, the second in the David Chronicles, Uvi applies her extensive knowledge of ancient Biblical times to craft a lyrical, rhythmic piece that could easily have been written from a real-time perspective during the days of David and Bathsheba.

The fluid and imaginative words in the pages immerse the reader inside the hearts and minds of not only the characters of the Old Testament but also the daily lives of others during the time period. Complex and colorful, Uvi expertly guides the reader back to a time long since passed, yet delicately weaves the age-old struggles of life, children, marriage, aging and relationship issues we all experience today. Reading this book was like grabbing a companion guide to The Psalms! The banter between the main characters was enjoyable, the descriptions beautiful and realistic.

*I was provided a free copy of this novel in exchange for an honest review.”

Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I depart

Lying still in a corner of the cave, I try my best not to rattle, not to betray my fear. I figure, as long as they think me unconscious, I am safe. I have jolted awake because of the voices, only to discover they are incoherent and muffled. In between the gusts of wind, I can hear them hissing. Each phrase plays out in some verbose foreign music, which I cannot decipher for the life of me. Sigh. This is not Aramaic for sure, or any of the other languages spoken by the locals in my village or by the merchants traveling through along the Jordan river.  

At this moment I find myself overwhelmed, turned inside out by a sense of suspicion. Something has been taken away from me. My breath? My name? Identity? Who am I, then?

After an eternity, the confusion in my head starts clearing up. The air is steaming hot. It feels as if I have been dunked in some thick, dark soup. I stare at the blackness. I listen. I catch a word here and there, and somehow I get it. No longer is it Greek to me. Or perhaps it is.

“But why? What is she to you?” says a trembling, shrill voice. “Why even come here for her? Just a tramp, is what she is.”

And in grumble—louder than the whirlwind—another voice says, “Now, who are you to ask?”

“Forgive me... I am nothing, nothing before you. Crush me if you will. I am dust, dust under your feet... But you, you have more important things to do. Let her rot.”

“Gird up now your loins like a man; for I will demand of you, and you shall answer me. Where were you when I laid the foundations of this realm? Declare, if you have any understanding!”

“I am nothing... Nothing but dust—”

“Who has laid the measures thereof, if you know? Or who has stretched the line upon it?”

“I bow,” the thin voice trembles. “I bow before you. Oh please, forgive me.”

And splosh! I hear the poor devil plodding away, wading through some slush. 

A minute later, the footfalls of the other march up the road in the other direction, until finally the ground under me stops rumbling. 

So I turn on my belly and crawl, finding my way in the dark, till at last I peek out—if only by a nose—through the mouth of the cave. Which allows me, for the first time, to take in the view. 

It is breathtaking—not only because of the deep ravines slashing back and forth across the landscape, or the thick trunks of trees twining their roots one over the other, clinging forcefully to the rocky ledges; not only because of the volcanoes towering over the horizon, or the fine lava streams marbling the flesh of the earth, or that landmark, that pillar of salt beckoning me from afar, or the little flame dancing over there, then here, licking my knees—ouch!—or the bubbling of swamps along the winding path. No, it is breathtaking because to my amazement, I recognize this place. 

A crimson glow is coming from below, as if an enormous sun is buried here, deep under the coals upon which I am crouching. If not for the eerie glow, this is the valley cradling my village. 

A perfect copy of the land of Uz.

If I squint hard, aiming my gaze faraway to the foot of that volcano, I think I can spot the familiar outlines of houses. They belong to the rich among us. Between them I look for an interval. There must lie the village square. And I know, without really seeing it, that falling to pieces on the other side—where the poor folk live—is our shack. The place where we lived, Job and I, in such misery during the last year. 

Imagining it, even for a second, frays my nerves.

And now, now the vision comes back to me, as if seeping out of the holes in this landscape, in my past. Twisted. It is accompanied by the sound of wails, which curdles my blood. In my confusion I wonder, whose voice could it be? 

At first I get it wrong: I figure, perhaps it was Leila, that barefooted beggar woman, who used to come knocking at our door. I mean, when the door still hung, somehow, on it crooked hinges, and when I could still afford to toss some coins at her. I admit, it used to give me a measure of satisfaction to see her bow down before me, all the way to the ground, to pick them up. At least, there was one creature in this village who had the misfortune of being poorer than me. But not anymore. Hitting rock bottom is no fun. I hate being found empty handed. I had nothing now, nothing I could give her. 

No, this was not her voice, because now I could hear the shrill yowls, the howls of anguish, punctuated with a shriek here and there, first from one throat, then another. Yes, I recall what happened. I go back to that place, back to that moment in time, hearing the fading of the singsong wails, and the unexpected burst of laughter out there in the distance.

And so I knew the mourners had started to disperse by now, which was truly humbling. Alas, they had been at it for a shorter time than usual—but how could you blame them, really? 

There was no money, and of the seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen and five hundred donkeys we used to own, not a single one was left. Nothing you could offer them for payment; alas, nothing left to sustain the customary expression of grief. Sigh. 

Job stayed with me awhile. Again and again he mumbled,  in his inexplicable, pious manner, “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I depart.” Men! Always thinking of themselves! All the while there I was, flat on my back, in need of some attention, and some clothes, too! 

Finally he left the gravesite. I waited, waited until the sound of his footfalls had shuffled away—oh, how well I knew this tortured gait of his!—until it too was gone. 

Job's wife in Twisted

So starts the story of a ghost of a woman, looking for her identity... It is eerily reflected in my oil painting, which itself has a story of transformation:

I am truly enamored with paper. I love folding it, rolling it, cutting it, spilling ink and paint on it, and studying the reflections it gives off. At times it stares back at me, especially when I can find no words to write on its pure, white surface. Here is my oil painting of a rolling paper band, set against a background of a cave with stalagmites. It was inspired by my quick charcoal sketch of a nude. 

You will notice that this is no simple transformation, as the paper band goes deep into the internals of the body, which is no longer solid. Also, I staged the figure in an environment where light drizzles from above in glowing colors, and shadows of the paper band are cast all the way down, nearly reaching you.

★ Love Horror? Treat yourself to a thrill ★

Twisted 

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Dark, intense, entertaining, thought-provoking and emotional, these short stories each hold their own brand of magnetisim that lasts long after the last word is read... A wealth of depth in few words. -Dii, Top 1000 Reviewer