Monday, October 16, 2017

Being locked here I have managed to squash these memories

She leans back, sinking deeper and deeper into the frayed cushion, not doing much of anything except breathing heavily. Naturally, it annoys me. Hell, it sucks the air out of my lungs. The danger of oxygen deprivation does not occur to me at first. But if there is one thing I have come to hate more than her breathing heavily, it is me, having to hold my breath. 
So many months have passed since I smelled fresh air. Come to think of it, it must have been years since I crossed the threshold, since I stepped outside, into the sunlight, which—as I remember—is so warm, so gloriously magnificent. Yes, it must have been decades since I sunk my paws into the moist ground outside, or lifted my eyes to the blue sky, or chased birds. I remember how, having caught them, I would ruffle their feathers, and lick their throats ever so playfully. 
Being locked here I have managed to squash these memories. I have grown quite resigned, somehow, to the stale perfume rising here, from these blankets, which she now gathers around her. 
Trust me, I don’t miss the fresh air anymore. Out of boredom I have lost the urge to prowl around this place, from one room to another. All I do is groom my tail, which is a sorry sight, because the limp thing has lost most of its hair by now. There is only one small clump of fuzz, clinging by a thread to its very end. I brush around it ever so gently, then lick my fangs, which have become somewhat dull lately. I find the hairline cracks in them, polish them with my tongue, ponder the perils of old age, and try to stay calm, keeping my eye on her. 
True, her scent is overwhelming, her heartbeat palpable, her presence inescapable. In spite of my best intentions, she makes me hate her. Yet, she draws me in. I am focused on her as if she were my prey, and she knows it. 
I ignore the chirping of birds, drifting in through the windows—yet the taste of their flesh fills my mouth. They flap, flap, flap their wings out there... So darn free, so delectably fluffy! And here I am. I try to pay no attention to that immensely heavy key, hanging way out of reach up there on a rusty nail, by the main door. Why should I.

I never show weakness. And most certainly, I never meow. 

Feline creature in Twisted


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"A sensitive melding of poetry, prose, and art"

Sunday, October 15, 2017

Wonderful writing

Short and sweet review for Dancing with Air:

on October 4, 2017
Poignant story from WWII full of love, memories, continuing to love when the mind forgets. Enjoyed every word. Glad I got to read it.

Saturday, October 14, 2017

Another well crafted story in the series

Just found this lovely review by Piaras for my WWII Spy Thriller, Marriage before death:

on October 3, 2017
Whatever flaws we might identify or frustrations we might feel are trivial in comparison to a reader's pure joy in losing himself/herself in a narrative. When all the elements come together: an intriguing plot, thoughtful, profound themes, complex, troubling, characters, and language that make us shudder for its honesty, clarity, and confidence; we gratefully set all analysis aside and give ourselves up to the sheer magic of a great book. And for me, Marriage before Death: WWII Spy Thriller, is such a book.

I absolutely enjoyed this story and would highly recommend it. Five stars from me.

Thursday, October 12, 2017

Pretending to be that which I am not

My mother gets up. She is a petite woman, but the snakeskin shoes give her some stature. She throws the remains of the damaged coat back into the chest. Then she pulls out one of her fur hats and sinks her face into it, taking in the smell. “The air of the hunt,” she says, then hands it to me. “Here, put it on.”
After that, my mother attends to the cooking. I can hear the hiss, the slight hiss of the pot as it comes to a boil. I can smell the aroma. Somewhat bland to my taste—but then again, this is the way my father likes his meat. At any rate, he can barely swallow food nowadays. 
She ladles a steaming hot portion onto a platter and sets it upon a large tray, so I can carry it over there, to his bedside. Then she gives me the slightest of hints. It is all set up. The time is now.
My arm covered with the hide of a kid, I stand up. Pretending to be that which I am not, I am ready, at long last, to do her bidding. Ready for my defining moment with my father: The old man is on his deathbed. He is waiting for me. Waiting there, in his tent, for his trusty, favorite son.

Excerpt from A Favorite Son


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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

Saturday, October 7, 2017

This was my favorite book so far

Thrilled to find this review for my WWII Thriller Marriage before Death:

on October 5, 2017
This was my favorite book so far by Miss Uvi. It had romance, suspense and kept me on the edge of my seat to know what happens next! I love how Uvi reminds the reader of what has happened in the past books so you don't feel lost and they can really be read as stand alone but I will definitely read the whole series! I am looking forward to reading on in this series!

Friday, October 6, 2017

Just the thought of bananas makes me drool

“I think I’ll come back later,” said I.
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Babcock. “Here I am, right in the middle of cooking supper, so do come in, will you? There are biscuits in the tin, up there, see? Help yourself while you’re waiting.”
Her dress was an expression of prudence. Made out of industrial blackout cloth, it was trimmed with lace that, by the yellowing of it, must have been used to decorate some old pillowcases. Wearing a flowery, ruffled apron that puffed around her belly, she had a soft, pillowy breast, which could not be avoided, no matter in which corner I tried to tuck myself or how fast I stepped out of her way, in the close quarters of her kitchen. 
A coal stove, which served not only to cook meals but also to heat the place, was already roaring. 
“This evening, just for the two of you, love birds, we’re going to have a special meal!” said Mrs. Babcock, with a great sense of familiarity, as if she had known me forever, or at least since my childhood. “If you ask me—which for some reason, no one cares to do—tinned food is anything but healthy. No one believes me; they say that even if I’m right, which I usually am, what of it? In the end you’re dead, no matter what.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“To being dead?”
“No,” said I. “To supper.”
“No tinned meat tonight!” she said. “Lately, it’s forced down our throats, thanks to this glorious war, because unfortunately, fresh fish are in short supply, and so are bananas—ah, just the thought of bananas makes me drool, I crave them so, I do! But they’re no longer imported on ships from abroad, because nowadays, their space is filled by other things, such as oil and guns. Forget bananas, then.”
“Consider it done.” 
“The only thing we can get in abundance, these days, is carrots,” she complained. “Carrots, carrots, and then, guess what? More and more carrots. We’re drowning in them, to the point that the Government keeps telling us it’s a good thing, which it can’t be. They claim that the exceptional night-flying vision of Royal Air Force pilots is due to nothing else but eating carotene. And they insist that it would help us see better in the blackout, but if you ask me—”
She paused, waiting for me to ask, “Really? Is there any truth to that?”
“No,” she stressed. “I don’t think so!” 
“Neither do I.”
“I must admit, I dislike changes. They’re quite a challenge for me,” said the woman. “And this war, unfortunately, it’s all about changes! I’m a grammar school geography teacher, trying to teach my pupils the boundaries of European countries, and guess what? From one day to another, borders are being altered, they get erased and redrawn in the course of Nazi invasions.” 
While she was talking I cast a look around the kitchen. There was no refrigerator or icebox. Instead, there was a meat safe, which was a small, wooden cupboard. Colored dull red, its hinged doors were inlaid with tin plates, decorated by a lovely design made of punched holes. It was not only pretty but also served to ventilate the products stored inside, while keeping flies away from them. 
Mrs. Babcock took out a small package of ground beef. According to her it was a great find, which meant that she had to spar over it with other customers at the market. She unwrapped it and placed it in a large skillet with a pinch of salt and pepper. Then, just as she added carrot and onion, the front door opened and there was Natasha, taking off her hat.  

Lenny in Dancing with Air


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 ~J.A. Schneider, author

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Had me immersed from the beginning

I love this review by Piaras for my historical fiction novel, The Edge of Revolt:

on October 3, 2017
This captivating and commendable work had me immersed from the beginning. The story flowed from scene to scene with ease, and the author shows exceptional ability when it comes to storytelling. There are plenty of attention-grabbing moments in this page turner that will take the reader on a spellbinding journey!

It’s one of those books that come along once in awhile that makes you want to read it non-stop until you get to the end. I’m giving nothing away here. And this, I hope, will only add to the mystery and enjoyment for the reader.

I’ll certainly be looking forward to reading more from Uvi Poznansky in the future. I would definitely recommend this book. Five stars from me.

Monday, October 2, 2017

A Story of Survival!

Jacquie Biggar is a USA Today Bestselling romantic suspense author. She lives in paradise along the west coast of Canada with her family. She loves reading, writing, and flower gardening and swears she can't function without coffee, preferably at the beach with her sweetheart. I am thrilled to find her review of my WWII Spy Thriller, Marriage before Death:

on September 30, 2017
Marriage before Death, is the fifth novel in the Still Life with Memories Series, but read well as a standalone novel.

Lenny Kaminsky must face the fact his beautiful, beloved wife is suffering from Alzheimer’s. Her memories are fading, and make their time together all the more precious.  

They met and fell in love in France during the days leading up to D-Day which makes the war they are fighting now-Alzheimer’s-all the more poignant and heart-wrenching.

I love this author’s writing. She brings the turbulent wartime landscape to vivid, unforgettable life and yet guides the reader through with a beautiful love story.

A story of survival! 

I give Marriage Before Death 5 lovely kisses- A Highly Recommended Read!
First posted on It's All About the Romance

Friday, September 29, 2017

Beautiful, bittersweet, romantic and tragic

A great review for Marriage before Death:

on September 28, 2017
Like the rest of the series, this novel deals with the nasty disease that is Alzheimers’, a topic close to my heart and subject of some of my own writing. As with her other work, Uvi deals with the subject with grace, precision and depth. The result is one moving and evocative novel.
Natasha and Lenny meet us at the beginning of this novel in modern day US. Natasha, a pianist, suffers from Alzheimers and Lenny, her husband, regrets the gaps in his knowledge about her that he now no longe rcan fill.
Flashbacks tell the story of Lenny and Natasha during WW2. She said she was leeaving for New York, but then they find themselves both in occupied France. She as spy and he as soldier.
It is an intriguing story with an excellent authentic WW2 feel. The writing is amazing and the story shines with emotional depth. It is a moving and touching story, especially with the tragedy of loss in its many incarnations; the narrative is eloquent, the prose is stylish, the story perfectly paced and historically accurate. The book adds a great deal of information about the time and place, bringing much more to the table than a tragic love story. Uvi balances the tight line between sentimental and romance wonderfully. Beautiful, bittersweet, romantic and tragic - an excellent series. As one reviewer called it: This is “Literary writing at its best.”

The aroma of its melting became painfully irresistible

In the corner of the kitchen stood a small gas stove, its enamel and chrome gleaming in the soft light. There started the preparation, orchestrated by my sweetheart, for the best meal I ever had.

 She scored around the top of the cheese, cut off the top layer of its skin, and drizzled some olive oil for good measure. 
Working side by side with her, I peeled a clove of garlic, sliced it, and poked it into the wheel of Camembert, along with with a few fresh rosemary tips. Into the hot oven it went, and moments later, the aroma of its melting became painfully irresistible. This was more than merely the pangs of hunger. It was my body and soul, screaming urgently together to celebrate survival right now, to celebrate life.
“How long should it bake?” asked the boy, barely able to contain himself.
And Natasha said, “Until it’s oozy in the middle.”
Meanwhile, she threaded bite-sized pieces of stale bread onto the stripped rosemary sprigs, sprinkled them with a tiny pinch of sea salt, and set them into the oven on a small metal tray, to cook with the Camembert till they became crispy.
“Where did you learn this recipe?” I asked.
“Oh,” she replied, as if not to reveal her sources. “Here and there.”
“One day, you’ll have to tell me all about it.”
“One day, I will.”

At last, all of us gathered around the table. We dunked the bread skewers, which had turned golden brown, into the gooey cheese, and then rolled the skewers in a small bowl filled with a handful of dried, finely chopped cranberries mixed with nuts. This, to me, was a little mouthful of heaven. 
Having eaten his fill, Monsieur Antoine pushed himself away from the table and with a yawn, stretched his limbs. 
“No more speeches from me tonight, I promise!” he said. “Want to go for a little walk?”
Bien sûr!
” said the girl and the boy, in unison. 

The three of them got up and left the kitchen. A moment later they were out of the house, leaving me alone with my sweetheart, at long last.

Lenny in Marriage before Death


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"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

Friday, September 22, 2017

Thankfully, the cloud of smoke was thinning out

From the back of the truck, our captors barked at us to come, to follow them through that opening, the edges of which was already smoldering. 
Schnell,” they shouted, as if we were some circus animals that had to be threatened into leaping. 
Not wishing to place myself back into their hands, I decided to take my chances and try escaping the fire my own way. Up to this moment I had felt weak, helpless, dejected—but now I discovered a way, a rogue way to get out. 
In the front corner of the cargo area, there was a slash in the canvas, which I had noticed yesterday, at the outset of the journey. Summoning strength I did not know I possessed, I ripped it completely apart. Immediately, the prisoners lined up to slip through the tear and get off.
Once outside, we crawled away from the eight-wheeler and from our captors, who started to circle around it in search of us. One of them spotted the boy and charged in his direction. 
By some stroke of luck, the SS guard tripped over a dead body, which allowed me just enough time to scramble to my feet and grab the boy by his arm. We dove into the bushes.
All around us, the air reeked of ash. We choked the urge to cough. Fearful that the foliage might catch fire, we rolled down the slope, away from the burning vehicles. All the while we hoped that the clinking of our chains, which might disclose our position, would be swallowed by the roar of the flames. 
Thankfully, with each motion forward on our knees and hands, the cloud of smoke was thinning out, till at last we could stop guessing our way. 
In an instant, the truck that had carried us became engulfed in flames, as did other vehicles. We took cover behind some rocks, just as sheet of fire spread across the road. The blaze was a magnificent sight. I could not begin to describe the sensation in my heart, the unexpected relief. 
I was in chains—but at least for the moment, I was free.




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"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

Thursday, September 21, 2017

I am so grateful for the inspiration

Back in my chamber I cast a quick look around me. With all the expensive things in my treasure box, all the crowns and jewels and stuff, there is nothing here I wish to take on the road with me. For a chance to stay alive I must be light on my feet, and these objects, which I have accumulated over the years, are nothing but a burden. They will slow me down into a defeat. 
The only things I am sorry to leave behind are my inkwell, and my quill. Perhaps I should leave a few last words, meant for Absalom, so he may find them when he breaks into my chamber to make it his own. 
I find this idea incredibly tempting. And yet, staring at the blank papyrus I find the challenge of writing more daunting than ever. How can I admit to him, and to any other stranger who may lay a hand upon this note, what it feels to be undermined, to be betrayed by the one dearest to me? 
I cannot do it. Instead I scribble something that obscures and reveals what I feel, in equal measure. “Lord, how many are my foes! How many rise up against me!
What my son has leveled against me is a deeply personal offense. By now it has become a public spectacle, committed in front of the entire nation, so everyone can watch my humiliation, and my fall. 
Words quiver on my lips. They scramble over the papyrus, bleeding ink. Choked with tears I try to sing them. “If an enemy were insulting me I could endure it. If a foe were rising against me I could hide. But it is you, a man like myself, my companion, my close friend, with whom I once enjoyed sweet fellowship at the house of God, as we walked about among the worshipers.
I blot the corner of my eye and remind myself, There is little time left. Even so I choose to spend a few more moments here, simply to take care of my writing instrument. I wash the ink off it with water from the jug. I wipe it carefully, feeling the lovely tingle of the feather upon my skin. And in parting I pass it between my lips, kissing its sharp tip. 
And I murmur, Thank you. I am so grateful for the inspiration you have given me. I am blessed. If I am captured tomorrow I will die a happy man. So few are as lucky with their weapon as I have been.

David in The Edge of Revolt


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"Her ability to capture character and emotion is nothing short of literary excellence, and the modern flair really only adds to that, allowing for a more engaging voice and style."
-Book Crazy, Top 1000 Reviewer