Missed my reception at the solo exhibition? Or maybe you want to hear parts of it again?
It's never too late! Take a listen...
Friday, September 27, 2024
Wednesday, September 25, 2024
But before I can say a word, the Tesla ignites, licked by flames
We eat. We drink. We snuggle.
And just as I’m about to say, “Don’t get any funny ideas, young man,” a sudden rattling noise makes me freeze.
Is it one of the choppers? The sky over Los Angeles has been crowded with them lately. Some belong to TV stations covering the unrest. Others are federal helicopters, monitoring the riots. A few have no markings whatsoever.
Michael sits up. “This noise, whatever it is, is not in the sky.” His voice is low, but full of alarm. “Shhh… Listen. Something’s coming up the road.”
I peer out through the tinted side-window, hoping not to be noticed. An unidentified gray van rambles by, its driver glancing blankly in the direction of my secondhand clunker, before stopping on the opposite side of the road, next to Michael’s shiny Tesla. Four figures—four men in unmarked camouflage wear, wide leather belts, and glassy face shields fixed to their military helmets—file out.
I duck down next to Michael, not before catching sight of them surrounding his car. By the sound of it, they’re kicking its fancy tires with their boots. My heart drops a notch with each kick.
Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want?
Michael opens the liftgate of the Escape just enough to let him slip through. I crawl out after him. The moment we hit the ground, a stench of gasoline hits us, spreading in the air. It comes from the direction of his car, which is strange because the Tesla is all electric. Michael is so proud of his big toy, which he assembled with his own hands. It requires no oil changes, fuel filters, spark plug replacements or emission checks.
The men close in on the Tesla. What on earth are they doing? Admiring its innovative design? Its sleek lines? No, not really. One of them is holding a five-gallon rigid container by its angled handle. With each stride, he’s pouring a dark liquid through the spout, aiming it at the car.
Michael lets out a groan, then grits his teeth. I’ve never seen him like this, fighting to hold back rage.
I don’t want him to go, don’t want him to confront them, whoever they are, even as they’re marching back to the unmarked van. So I grab Michael hard, straining every muscle, every fiber in me. But before I can say a word—whoomph—the Tesla ignites, licked by flames.
Her bullet grazed his head, but the leader of a Russian crime organization is still breathing. One way for Vlad to avoid paying the price for his crimes is to play dead; another is to play dying. For Ash, this is not a game. She must learn his secrets. Only one problem: because of the raging pandemic, she must put her plan on hold.
Vlad slips away from the hospital in a body bag, then develops a brazen fraud scheme that will bilk health insurance companies out of millions of dollars. If not caught in time, he will drive victims to suicide, rob Ash of her identity, and slit her throat.
Will Ash manage to stay one step ahead of him and at the same time, protect her loved ones from contagion?
Thursday, September 12, 2024
The night has been long, and long have I been waiting for her to awaken
Over the years, I read this entry in her diary—the only one Natasha allowed me to read—a thousand times, and usually it puts a smile on my lips, but oh, not now, not anymore. For some reason her words have taken on a different meaning, a darker one, which I sense now for the first time, in the context of her turn for the worse.
Holding the paper makes my hands tremble. I prefer to attribute it to my age, not to anguish.
The night has been long, and long have I been waiting for her to awaken, so I can prepare her. I need to ready both of us for that head X-ray exam, which until yesterday I have been reluctant to schedule. It will, I’m afraid, result in the dreaded diagnosis which neither she nor I want to hear. But at this point, what choice do I have? Her condition can no longer be ignored. It is time to find out the name of it.
Back to that page from her diary. After three decades the ink is faded, and the paper—yellowed and crinkly. I can read it still, mostly by touching the indentations and combining what I feel with what has already been committed to memory. I close my eyes to hear her, whispering out of the papery rustle.
I am in awe of what is happening to me. I am scared of it and at the same time, I find myself elated.
Being elated is something of the past for both of us. But like the way she used to be I find myself scared and in awe. Where we’re headed is yet unknown, except for one thing: her path and mine are just about to diverge.
Oh what gorgeous writing. This is a deeply moving story of love, of World War II and rationing and the music of that era... The author's own passion draws you in, makes you feel every wrench of what the characters feel. This powerful, poignant story is absolutely mesmerizing."
- J.A. Schneider, Author
Thursday, August 29, 2024
My art exhibition opening soon
In-Gallery Exhibition
Emeritus Gallery 1227 2nd street, Santa Monica CA
September 19 - November 1st
Mon-Fri
9:00am-12:00pm PST
2:00pm-4:00pm PST
Emeritus Gallery is very pleased to present a solo exhibition by USA Today bestselling, award-winning author, poet, and artist Uvi Poznansky. The hybrid in-gallery and online exhibition offers a significant survey of Poznansky's interdisciplinary art practice, highlighting her range and mastery across multiple aesthetic and intellectual disciplines. Included in the works on display will be paintings, videos, and sculptures in materials ranging from bronze to paper. Poznansky's unforgettable video animation shorts are based loosely on samples of her writing and showcase the artist at her most inventive. Within the playful animations Poznansky's sculptures come to life to dance and love and express profound hope and vulnerability, all through poetic language and dry wit.
I'd love to see you during this exhibition
Join me in this celebration of my art in multiple media channels
including oil paintings, bronze sculptures, oil paintings and paper engineering.
Wednesday, August 7, 2024
I needed to hear her voice. It was as simple as that.
Riding my Harley-Davidson would be the best way, I decided, to keep me alert after the sleepless hours of the night, because its big, furious roar would quicken the blood and, for an extra kick, send people scurrying away, left and right of me.
It was a dark, cloudy sunrise. I rode my bike past the water tanks, which had been constructed in London some months ago to fight firebombs, past stacks of sandbags, which had been filled with earth from Knightsbridge Barracks, previously a scampering ground for terriers. In the wind, in the drizzle, through patches of fog, in-between cars, double-decker busses and horse-drawn carts, alongside street shelters and around newsstands, back and forth I went, as part of my military courier service, from the American Embassy to various governmental staff offices.
The engine rattled under me, giving a raw, intense rhythm to the urban cacophony, composed of sounds of drivers, peddlers, shoppers, cops, and soldiers. This beat connected me to the throngs of people and at the same time, separated me. And yet, listening to it forced me to set aside my silence, my sense of loneliness, and take them all in.
Upon entering Piccadilly Circus I stopped. Surrounded by a small crowd, a street performer hailed me to come over, and then started singing:
Swirl in the air of daybreak, and mix in a kiss
Add a splash of blue winter, ‘cause you I miss
Stir it all together, toast a moment apart
Back into my arms is a long way to chart
Cool it with ice, throw in a lost star
Serve it bitter, to the sound of a lonely guitar
Drink it in one gulp, before you set sail
Let me have a taste of a lover’s cocktail
Behind him, down at the street corner, penetrating the clouds of mist, a cast iron telephone kiosk became visible. It drew my attention with an acute, urgent note, more so than all the famous hotels, arcades, shops, restaurants, cinemas, banks, offices, and public buildings around here, put together.
I had to call Natasha. I needed to hear her voice.
It was as simple as that.
Wednesday, July 31, 2024
Become a Part of this exciting Crime Thriller Trilogy by @davepperlmutter
You're invited to become part of this exciting
Crime Thriller Movie Trilogy
Written by David Perlmutter.
Few of the Fantastic Perks 😎
⭐️ £1 for a THANK YOU.
⭐️ £5 for a SOCIAL MEDIA shout out!
⭐️ 720 PAGE BOOK signed by David Perlmutter
⭐️Signed copy of SCRIPT by CAST!
⭐️A DAY on the MOVIE set!
⭐️ACTING & EXTRA roles available!
⭐️INVITE to the LONDON Premiere!
First upcoming movie in the trilogy:
Write to Kill
Debt ridden author is offered cash to commit a heinous crime. At the mercy of a gangland boss, will this writer commit the crime? And will real life turn to fiction, as events inspire him to write what he dreams will be a world bestseller?
Director
Let’s make some CRIME THRILLER #MOVIES 🎬
Thursday, July 18, 2024
It smells of sweat and gunpowder
While dangling in agony on my chain from the closet rod, I notice the only other thing hung on it, in the shadowy part of the narrow space: a plain metallic coat hanger, over which a long coat is loosely wrapped.
After a while, the coat becomes a presence of its own. It smells of sweat and gunpowder. It is black, its inner lining is greenish. At the bottom of its hem, there is a streak of blood, which brings back to mind the view I had the other day in front of the elementary school from under the belly of a car.
The shooter stood there, at the other side of the vehicle, and all I could see, while cowering to avoid being hit by his bullets, was the hem of his coat, flaring at the bottom, and the muzzle of his semi-automatic gun.
But that’s not the only weapon he has, curtesy of his father who must have stashed the tools of his trade away before his last robbery. Paul discarded this weapon immediately after the school shooting, but he has at least one more weapon: an airgun, which he uses to shoot at targets and at rats.
Until now, I’ve had my suspicions. At this point, I know for sure. I’m in the presence of the person who perpetrated that horrific assault. That day, I was protected from him, at least to some degree, by the metal body between us. Not so now.
I’m exposed to him in plain view.
“Hey, hey,” says the punk, with a snap of his fingers. “Don’t you doze off, Ash darling. Not while I’m talking about what I do best.”
He drones on an on, winking at Timmy and at me, boasting about the remarkable features of his airgun, how it’s able to fire in both semi-automatic and full-automatic modes, how it can reach a rate of over one thousand and four hundred rounds per minute, and how it has a realistic blowback action for lifelike shooting.
Clearly ecstatic over all these details, he goes even further, comparing his airgun to his other weapon, the deadlier one: a heavy-duty machine gun. At the moment, it rests on the top shelf of the closet, right above my head.
Meanwhile, at his direction, Timmy is sticking target papers on the wall. From time to time, he picks up another translucent paper from the pile on the floor and glues it on top of this or that target. At this point, the entire width of the wall is plastered with copies of Brian’s face. Each bullseye has his deadly stare.
Timmy has a desperate stare on his face, especially when casting a startled look at his brother’s dead faces. In spite of the fear, the child seems to have come to a decision on how to survive this ordeal. At every step of the way, he seems not only to obey his captor but also to play along with him.
The last thing Ash expects when she lands in Clearwater, Florida is to be stalked by a troubled teenager. If that's not bad enough, she is caught in a shooting spree next to the nearby elementary school. The cops think it’s an attempt at mass killing, but Ash wonders if the only victim was specifically targeted by the killer. Will she manage to identify him and have him arrested before he comes after her?
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