I can’t determine with certainty who he is, but tell myself to be patient. Well, what other choice do I have?

 Despite a growing suspicion, I can’t determine with certainty who he is, but tell myself to be patient. Well, what other choice do I have?

After all, this I know: Medical examiners can get fired if they release the wrong decedent. To prevent this, they place not only a toe tag or an ankle band on the corpse, but also a tag on its body bag. The names on these tags must match each other when the body is conveyed to the funeral home. So, once this man extricates himself from here—clearly, that’s what he intends to do—I can examine the tag left behind on his body bag.

Well, no. Too late for that. The man has just loosened his tags—from both his body bag and his big toe—and is scratching his head, perhaps figuring out how to use them to his advantage, how to cause the most mischief. His footfalls are coming closer. 

Thud, thud, thud, he swaggers across the floor, stepping over this body bag and that, until—oh no!—stumbling over mine. He lands on top of me, hard. I clump my jaws together so as not to utter a cry. Then, regaining my presence of mind, I give myself a pat on the shoulder. 

Mentally.

He spits something out loud. Sounds like a juicy Russian curse. 

I don't even comprehend the language, but what else can it be but shit?

Just the word I was looking for. 

The man rolls over to the floor, dusts off his knees, and unzips the body bag lying just next to mine. Inside is a wrinkled human carcass with black toes. Speaking about toes, I’m so glad—did I say this already?—that the software that supports this virtual simulation has not been upgraded to a version that includes smell.

Bending over the carcass, the Russian replaces both of its tags—the one on its toe as well as the one on its bag—with his.

Then, he straightens and stretches over to the air conditioning control panel mounted on the insulated panel. To my astonishment, he turns it off. This guy doesn’t like frigid temperatures. And why should he? He’s not in Russia anymore. 

In Los Angeles county, the season makes a big difference in the speed of putrefaction. During the summer, a corpse starts bloating within two days. It is facially identifiable for only one. So when the wrinkled carcass is prepared for burial, the only evidence of its identity will be these tags. The wrong ones, now dangling from its body bag in plain view. 

I know the name printed on them all too well. 

Vlad Komarov. Age 37.

Overdue

 Paperback ★ Hardcover

Audiobook

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?

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

"This novel has it all! Mystery combined with murder, mayhem and so much more....including the Russian mob...Wow...doesn't get any better than that for me as a reader. Toss in the Virtual Reality scenes and this author has a home run with this novel..."

~Serenity

Review (The David Chronicles Trilogy): Trilogy to be treasured and listened to repeatedly

 

LISTENER

Apple Girl

• The David Chronicles
• Trilogy
• By: Uvi Poznansky
• Narrated by: Virtual Voice

 

Trilogy to be treasured and listened to repeatedly 

Overall  

    

Performance  

    

Story  

    

Reviewed: 05-17-25

Rarely do I finish listening to an Audible and have the urge to start back at the beginning and hear it again. Before experiencing Uvi Poznansky’s The David Chronicles, I had basic knowledge of David, the Old Testament shepherd turned king, his many wives and concubines, his obsession with Bathsheba, and his defeat of Goliath. This trilogy expanded my generalities into an intimate connection with David’s heart and mind.

I am in awe at how Pozanansky’s first person narrative transforms the distant legend into a flesh and blood man.

During my first listen, I raced from moment to moment taking in one amazing insight after another. Now, I will return to the Audible and listen in sections, allowing time to reflect about how David’s choices are still relevant today. The David Chronicles will make the perfect, long-lasting gift for several of my friends.

Why am I compelled to listen again? I could bullet hundreds of fascinating revelations. Here are a few:

· As if David’s mind is under a microscope, he discloses rich details such as his first night with his bride, Michal, paid for by giving her father one hundred Philistine foreskins.
· To make Bathsheba his own, David contrives to have her husband killed.
· David nonchalantly states his reflections about having no objections to slave labor.
· When David’s son, Amnon, rapes his own sister, David faces the horrible responsibility of dealing with his son’s sin and his daughter’s victimization.
· In his final years, David agonizes over his regrets and unresolved dilemmas such as how to forgive his son Absolom for murdering his other son, Amnon.
· David’s longing to enjoy his lyre-playing and psalm-composing is ever present in spite of the political demands on his life.
· His longings, blunders, triumphs and frailties constantly echo those of our leaders of today.

A writing bubble where inspiration may arise

Let me share a few questions from a recent interview I did for The Write Stuff:

What’s your latest project? 

In the last few month, I've been translating my father’s book of poetry, Can We Still Love, from Hebrew. This book, published when I was a child, expresses his life during WWII and its aftermath. It raises a powerful question: “In a world that is full of wonder on one hand, and on the other — full of hate and destruction, and faced with the threat of a flood of hatred and a new holocaust that may be immensely more horrific, can we still love?”

Tell us about a piece of work you’ve written. 

My novel, The Music of Us, is a WWII love story. In it, Lenny goes as far back as the moment he met Natasha, when he was a wounded warrior and she—a star, brilliant yet illusive. Natasha was a riddle to him then, and to this day, with all the changes she has gone through, she still is.

Here is a passage:

It’s a new day: January 1st, 1970. The first rays of dawn break through the blinds. They stray gingerly into the room, crawl across the floor, and reach for the mattress as if in hesitation, careful not to touch her ankle, dangling from the bed, or the folds of the blanket, gathered around her chest. 

Natasha is asleep by my side, her hair spread over my arm. I hold my breath, watching the shadow of her eyelashes flutter upon her cheeks. Where are her dreams taking her? She looks so beautiful, so peaceful. I have to stop myself from cuddling up to her, let alone allowing my passion to take over, because who knows what Natasha may do, thinking me a stranger.

She is not the only one confused: I am too, because even as I remind myself not to touch her, I can barely help myself. My body has a mind of its own. It compels me into arousal. 

I stroke her skin, ever so tenderly, and I ache for her, because more than ever before, she is absent.

Until she opens her eyes I can make believe everything is going to be all right. Perhaps the change in her is still reversible. Perhaps there is some cure for it, or at least some treatment to stop it from worsening. It can happen this way, can’t it? With a little bit of luck she may heal, and then go back to teaching piano. Her students will all come back. So will the friends who have drifted off.

Until then it’s a rough time for me. I have to survive it all by myself. My son is distant, in every sense of the word. How that happened, I am yet to figure out. In my loneliness I feel so weary, so close to despair—but somehow find a way to pull myself together, simply because I must. 

If I break down, what chance would she have?

To get a grip over myself I direct my thoughts elsewhere, to my craft. I think of writing about us, about this adventure called life. The few who may read it will surely complain about the story not having a happy end. Like them I wish for it. I pray with all my heart that it’ll happen. But even if doesn’t, here is what I have come to believe: perhaps the best anyone can hope for is to have a happy beginning. 

I am grateful to have lived through so many good moments, so many memories to cherish.

What’s the best thing about writing?

The best thing about writing is imagining how my characters leap from my heart and soul into the pages of the manuscript, and from there they leap into the heart and soul of the reader, and inspire her by stirring her own memories and imagination.

Describe your writing room.

My writing room is rather small, with a small table laden with my art instruments — brushes, knives, assortments of colorful papers, scissors and other tools. There is just enough room on the table to set my laptop, and when I write, I am surrounded by my art. On the wall to my right, my charcoal sketches. On the facing wall, a triptych of oil painting in rich red. At my left, my easel and behind it my paper sculptures are watching as I write the next passage into the manuscript. 

My oil painting depicts my artistic environment, with painting implements travelling across the writing surface, and an oil spill visible on the floor below forming a writing bubble where inspiration may arise: