A thriller that is hard to put down!

 Great review for my mystery thriller, Coma Confidential:

Kindle Customer

5.0 out of 5 stars A thriller that is hard to put down!

Reviewed in the United States on May 3, 2023

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Several stories here, woven together masterfully! Ash has moved to Florida to help recover from her ordeal of being raped and left in a coma to die. In the new community where she has settled, she finds herself in the middle of another mystery. Missing boys and evidence of someone dying in the house she is renting. Of course Ashley has to find out what happened.

Conveniently her father lives in the same town of Clearwater along with his new wife, Heather, who encounters Ashley and tries to befriend her. She provides some good counsel, but Ash still cannot stand her for what she did to her mother.

Although trying to distance herself from her past, Ash is confronted with a new stalker who is just a boy. But it turns out he is more than a teen who seems to have lust on his mind. When Ashley becomes witness to the murder of the father of a boy she is tutoring, the story takes on a violent twist that puts Ash in mortal danger. How she survives is a combination of recklessness and bravery.

Finding David

Author Anna Belfrage invited me to write a special feature for her wonderful blog--aptly named Stolen Moments--and I'm grateful to her for the opportunity! 

Please check out here 

From art to art – how writer Uvi Poznansky found her David and Bathsheba in various paintings

 

At first I am nothing. A shred of a shred

 So, here is my animation of SHRED (with my paper-engineered creation) -- turn up the volume!

At first I am nothing. A shred of a shred

Not alive… not even dead

An inanimate object lying limp in your hands

Dreaming of oceans, of faraway lands.

When you cut me I won’t cry

You flesh me through pain. I won’t utter a sigh

You give me breath, you make me blink

But I cringe when you paint me pink

You give me eyesight, you give me smell

You control every move. So I must rebel

I’ll rise to a limp and in search of glory

I’ll take my own steps, write my own story

My existence is flimsy, I am destined to fold

But until that time, let me out of your hold

Let me go, let me go… Loosen your grip

Until that moment that ends with a rip.

I pulled him down, bringing him on top of me, and there on the dirt we grappled, blow by savage blow

Having reached bottom I caught his arm and twisted it behind him till he screamed. He crumpled in agony. I pulled him down, bringing him on top of me, and there on the dirt we grappled, blow by savage blow. 

In this scuffle, there was no pretense of civility. No rules—except one: the man who got the upper hand would live to see another day. I punched him in the gut. He kicked me in the groin. With a grunt I rolled away. 

The traitor caught my wrist and sunk his teeth into it. Maddened by the bite I pulled my hand, pulled it free only to come back a moment later and cover his mouth, his nostrils. Gagging, he flailed his arms about, then sank to the ground. I relished the sound of his gasping, gasping for air. 

His bloodshot eye bored into mine. It seemed as if any second now, it would burst. The wounds across his neck, where my chain had choked him in our earlier fight, were smeared with dry blood. Under them, a vein that had been barely visible up to now began throbbing furiously. 

The beret he had taken from the boy fell from his head and rolled across the dust. He became limp. I thought he might pass out—but then, once more, he bit my hand. With a slight tremor in it, my grip started loosening. He squirmed away, only to come back at me with a blunt punch. 

Knock. Strike. Slap.

With that last blow, a strange thing happened to me: time seemed to slow down. I saw his knuckled fist growing larger, coming at me. It seemed so dreamingly sluggish—until at last it hit me. 

My head bounced back. For a moment, everything around me became fuzzy. 

I wiped the sweat off my eyes, only to see his hunched figure— blurred, still—staggering into a stand over me. 

For a while, I must have lost consciousness. When I looked again he was not there anymore, only a hazy background hanging in his stead: distant blue smoke swirling into the sky, marred with ash. 

I was too weak to stir. Oh, how easy it would be to give it up, all this senseless suffering! 

But no: despite the pain, my body screamed to live. I propped myself up against a tree trunk, and wondered: Where was the traitor? Where did he go? 

This scene happens in a forrest, and a fire is spreading from the armed cars that have just been ambushed by the French Resistance fighters. Lenny and the French collaborator, who has helped the Nazis in the selection process earlier, are at each other's throat.

★ Love suspense? Treat yourself to a thrill ★

The complete series:

Still Life with Memories

Volume V: 

Marriage before Death

Audiobook US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DE ★ iTunes

Paperback ★ Hardcover ★ Barnes&Noble

"Uvi Poznansky raises the stakes in a high stakes story, filled with uncertainty, drama and suspense... This book is a nail biter and one I found hard to put down. For me, this is Uvi Poznansky's best novel to date." 

- Richard Weatherly, Author

I knew it! She can twist him around her little finger, if she wants to

Lenny’s gone, but still, I’m thinking about him, about how he’s touched on that time, the lost time nearly five years ago, when I went out the door, swearing I ain’t gonna come back to him, not ever. What he hasn’t said—and what left such a bitter taste in my mouth—is how he told me, back then, “You are a nice kid, Anita. Go, go back to where you came from. Go back to your mama.” 

And what he don’t know is that ma wasn’t all too happy to see me, “Because,” she said, “I told you so, didn’t I? Didn’t I say, he’s gonna grow tired of you, and dump you before you know it? He’s gonna go back to his wife, ‘cause it’s her that he wants—not you! And if not her, then—then, it must be something else with him, always something else, like, looking for other women. Maybe they remind him, somehow, of that thing, who knows what it is, which he found in her. Maybe what he’s really looking for is just, like, the idea of her.” 

And when I mumbled, “Whatever,” ma said, “I knew it! She can twist him around her little finger, if she wants to.”

She didn’t tell me nothing else about this thing, this idea of her, which ma thought was fixed, somehow, in Lenny’s head, like some piece of music; and I, I didn’t ask. Instead, I bought a six-pack for her and a six-pack for me, and we sat down on her pillows, on the narrow iron bed, drinking beer; she talking, me weeping all night, after which ma wiped my face, and grabbed the palm of my hand—like she used to do in the old days—to read it. 

And she told me to stay put, to wait for her, ‘cause she had something crucial, something real big to tell me, like, about the future. I reckon she saw some clue of what was coming—but didn’t quite grasp it, not in full, anyway, ‘cause the next thing you know, ma went out, came back a second later, picked the empty beer bottles, and took them with her. Along the way she gave me a peck, smack in the middle of my forehead, which surprised me. 

Then, having kissed me goodbye, she went out again, and then... Then, on her way to work, right there on the corner of Euclid Street—Bang! I could hear the sound, out there—she was killed in a car accident.

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family saga ★

The complete series: 

Still Life with Memories

Volume I: 

My Own Voice

Audiobook US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DE ★ iTunes 

Paperback ★ Hardcover ★ Barnes&Noble

Up until this moment I had entertained the hope that she might have had some secret plan to save me

Up until this moment I had entertained the hope that she might have had some secret plan to save me. My despair had compelled me to believe it. 

Coming here in disguise—with that new, flower-laden hat and its little veil that changed her looks so much—showed me that Rochelle was fearless, especially at a time when she was wanted dead-or-alive. To deserve such notoriety, she must have forged some connections with French Resistance fighters, right? If so, couldn’t she pull some strings with them? Did they follow her to this place? Were they waiting in the wings to get me out of here, out of the hands of my captors? 

I recalled old western movies, which I used to watch with my dad and Uncle Shmeel back in my childhood. Closing my eyes I could feel the warmth, sitting in-between them in the darkened movie theatre. I could just see the silver screen. Up there was the victim, his larger-than-life face utterly pale as the noose was beginning to tighten around his neck. 

At that very moment, my heart raced. Uncle Shmeel would put his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Lenny boy!” he would whisper, trying not to disturb the spectators around us. “Listen! Can you hear the hooves of horses, galloping?” 

“Uncle Shmeel,” I would whisper back, “how can I hear anything? This is a silent movie!”

“Oh, but you can hear it,” he would reply, “inside your mind, inside your heart.”

And my dad would assure me, “Relief is on the way, Lenny boy! The cowboys are coming, any moment now!” 

With that glimmer of hope I imagined myself now, just like that actor, standing under the gallows, hoping for a miracle. The rescue scene, exploding with a blaze of bullets, was sure to come, because my dad and Uncle Shmeel had promised it, because the plot had demanded it, and because how would the story capture your heart without the must-have happy end? 

Yes. The moment was almost here. I had to believe it, then and now.

But as soon as Rochelle uttered the words Marriage before Death, my hope crumbled. 

★ Love suspense? Treat yourself to a thrill ★

The complete series:

Still Life with Memories

Volume V:

Marriage before Death

Audiobook US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DE ★ iTunes

Paperback ★ Hardcover ★ Barnes&Noble

"The story of how they survived such horrors is extraordinary. Also extraordinary is the author's deep and gorgeous writing, interweaving desperation with descriptions of 'beautiful light streaming from high-arched, stained glass windows, rattling in the duel between the German artillery and ours.'" 

- J.A. Schneider, author of suspense and psychological thrillers

I touch my skin right under my breasts, which is where the little one’s curled

  

“What matters is only what’s here. I touch my skin right under my breasts, which is where the little one’s curled, and where he kicks, ‘cause he has to. Like, he don’t feel so cozy no more. Here, can you feel it? I reckon he wants me to talk to him. He can hear me inside, for sure. He can hear every note of this silvery music. 
It ripples all around him, wave after wave. I can tell that it’s starting to sooth him. It’s so full of joy, of delight, even if to him, it’s coming across somewhat muffled. Like a dream in a dream, it’s floating inside, into his soft, tender ear. 
I close my eyes and hold myself, wrapping my arms real soft—around me around him—and I rock ever so gently, back and forth, back and forth, with every note of this silvery marvel. You can barely hear me—but here I am, singing along. I’m whispering words into myself, into him.”

What Anita is envisioning is motherhood, which is the subject of my scuplture by the same name. It is hard to imagine this is actually bronze, because the patina is made to look like marble. I polished the piece until it became completely smooth to the touch, as if nature--by gusts of wind and the flow of water--has buffed this rock over time, the way pebbles come to be. 

But in the back, I 'carved' into the piece, so as to make it look as if it has broken. This makes for an interesting balance, as if this is a rock standing on edge. But more importantly, it is symbolic, because self-sacrifice is the nature of motherhood.

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family saga ★

The complete series: 

Still Life with Memories

Volume I: 

My Own Voice

Audiobook US ★ UK ★ FR ★ DE ★ iTunes 

Paperback ★ Hardcover ★ Barnes&Noble

“Liberally salted with buttery smooth prose & fascinating insights”