Tuesday, February 27, 2018

I stand here before you, not knowing my name

I stand here before you, not knowing my name.
The light in this place is so blinding, so intense, that as far back as I can remember, it has forced me to close my eyes. Now this is about to change. Coming out of a brilliant haze, here is her footfall. Here she is: my Creator. I am clay in her hands. Let her do with me as she pleases; for what am I to do?
Now listen, listen to that sound: the air is vibrating around her. I can feel her breast, it is heaving. I can hear her breathing in, breathing out... Yes, she is coming closer. Is she about to blow life into me? My skin starts shivering. Here, now, is her touch— 
She puts a mark on me, pressing the sharp end of a chisel until it stings, it pierces me right here, under my eyelid. I shriek! I cry—but somehow no one can hear me. If I were not reduced to tears, I would pay more attention to this nagging sense, the sense of astonishment in me. Why, why can’t I be heard? Have I lost the ability to make a sound? Then I wonder, did I ever have it? And even in this crinkling, crushing silence, can’t she sense my pain? 
It is not until later, when she pulls out the blade, that I become afflicted—for the first time in my life—with vision. To you, vision  may be a gift, but I think it a burden. Emerging from the glow that has so far pervaded my existence, I open my eyes.
The haze is gone. Alas, there is not much to see here around me. This is a dim place. A place of doubt. Clutter. Confusion. From this point on, I start sensing shadows. I find myself forced to make some sense of them. 
So first, I spot her, the Creator. She is twice as tall as I am. With a heavy step, she paces around the space, coming in and out of my field of vision. Then, looking down, I spot that other presence, which in my blindness I could only guess. Him.
I used to imagine he was flat, a slab of clay. But now, to my surprise, he is no longer that. He, too, has risen from his slumber, yet he is not fully alive. Like me, he is immobile. At first glance he is blurry, gradually turning sharper and gaining more and more definition.  
His hand is extended, as if to reach, to touch me. This, I figure, is a gesture of hope; which, out of spite, I may as well turn down. Being so close to him brings me too close to blushing, but I will never allow him to put a hand on me, and neither will she. 
With a great deal of precision, the Creator coils a metal wire around the palm of his hand, loops it around and ties it to my fingers, fixing a small distance between us: clay, separation, clay. That way we are close—but not quite intimate. 
From time to time, a slight vibration is transmitted from him. It comes through the coils, in a quiver that pierces me all the way through, right into the deepest parts of my flesh. The sound is, for lack of a better word, metallic. It sings about our pain, about the tension between us. I listen, and so does he. Weakness runs through our limbs, it twists in secret places inside us. He does his best to hold still, bravely maintaining his pose. And so do I. 

This story is told from the point of view of a figure of clay. The inspiration came to me when I was sculpting this piece, and imagining her voice :

★ Love Horror? Treat yourself to a thrill 

"The ideas seem from a different realm of non-reality, but they are so immaculately constructed that each work becomes a little treasure to visit repeatedly." 
- Grady Harp, Hall of Fame Reviewer

Monday, February 26, 2018

These masterpieces added greatly to my enjoyment

Short and sweet review for my art book, Inspired by Art: Rise to Power:

on February 24, 2018
These masterpieces, included in "Inspired by Art: Rise to Power" (many of which I had never seen before) added greatly to my enjoyment of the series. The David Chronicles,Uvi Poznansky, is a truly breathtaking epic. This art, and as the author notes, "arranged by the story moment-by-momecnt, blow-by-blow, as imagined by various artists," captures and enhances the saga. Wonderful.

Saturday, February 24, 2018

How can a girl like me ever claim to be innocent?

All I want to be is alone. Why do I feel guilty when I haven’t done nothing wrong. 
Then I raise the corner of the mattress, which is where I’ve stashed away that old picture, the one that was glued in the middle of the second page of the album. The sight of it calms me down, at first. 
I pick it up and study every detail—like I’ve done so many times before—because like, the image may go on fading, until in the end, nothing’s gonna be left. I’m so charmed by it. This moment delights me as if I had lived it, even though—or maybe because—it’s stolen.
In it, a baby is about to be lifted from a cradle by his mama. His face, it’s awful close to the surface—but barely visible. You can only guess it, ‘cause the paper is a bit damaged, and most of the lines is like, out of focus—except for a dark contour, which is still intact, marking the shadow of his long, curved lashes. 
I put a hand to my belly, and touch my lips to the image, right there, over that shadow. I wonder if this is how my baby’s gonna look, and marvel at the thought of how his eyes would change when he wakes, or falls asleep, or rolls them, like, in the sphere of his dreams, and then later, when he grows up to become a man, ‘cause it’s so easy to fill in the details on a page that’s like, almost blank. 
On the other side, right there behind the cradle, the mother—whose lips, and cheeks, and freckled nose, they’re all just like mine—she’s leaning over him, with open arms. 
Her face is serious, without the slightest smile. She’s looking directly at the camera, at the one taking the picture, whom I’ve previously imagined to be Lenny—but today, I find a change in her. This time, it’s me she is facing. 
The way she looks at me is severe, critical, even disapproving. I bet it’s because the laugh lines have dimmed with time. But then, her eyes! Oh God, they’re so clear, so full of pure, glorious light; which, for a moment, brings me close to despair. I’m in awe. Look, I have goosebumps! The two of us look the same, just like sisters—but oh, how I wish I could be more like her!
Me, I don’t have nothing more I want to say in my defense—except to ask you again: put yourself in my place. How can a girl like me ever claim to be innocent?

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family saga ★
The complete series: 

Volume I: 

"After having read and reviewed several fictional novels by Author Uvi Poznansky, I continue to be a huge fan of her writing style. She has the mesmerizing and enchanting effect of drawing her readers into the heart and soul of her characters." 
Dolores Ayotte, Author

Saturday, February 17, 2018

I found her writing to be irresistible

A short and sweet review for my WWII spy thriller, The Marriage of Us.

on February 17, 2018
Impressed. This story, “Marriage before Death: WWII Spy Thriller (Still Life with Memories Book 5)” by Uvi Poznansky , is both beautifully told and gritty. I found her writing to be irresistible in that the historical drama is fascinating and yet flows in a stylized blend of literary prose and riveting passages. Great read. Highly recommended. Five stars.

She was separated from the rest of us by the innocence in her eyes

The old woman opened her mouth to answer, but before she could utter another word, three things happened all at once: her eyes fell upon me, the girl clapped a hand over her heart, and the master of ceremonies could be heard behind them, stepping out to the center of the stage. 
He bowed to the audience and cheerfully announced, “And now we take great pleasure to present the youngest star of our program, miss Natasha Horowitz!”
“Go, go, you go, girl,” said her mama. 
But to herself she mumbled, “Lordy Lord. Let’s hope these GIs have some taste for something classical.”
She reached over her daughter’s forehead to adjust the feather in the little draped turban, which was whimsically designed by knotting together a couple of scarves. On other women, especially of the working class, such a hat would seem practical, as it was easy to create at home and kept the hair in place. On Natasha it added glamor.  Impatient with all that fiddling over a feather, she removed it. 
Out of the hat cascaded the most gorgeous, shoulder-length red hair, with a curl at the end of it, the tips of which were wet from the rain. The girl shook her head so as to let the drops fly out, slipped out of her coat and stepped out into the spotlight, without her notes.
Meanwhile, her mama turned upon me. She set her fisted hands firmly on her hips and took a big gulp of air, letting her breath expand inside her as if she were a balloon. Then she looked up at me trying to stare me down, as if I were the enemy.
“Who’re you?” she asked, and without waiting for a reply she grumbled, “Go away! Go back!”
Up to that moment I had considered myself a fairly disciplined soldier, but the way she glared at me made me feel quite naughty, which on the flip side, compelled me to live up to a different reputation. 
So feeling an urge, a sudden, irresistible urge not only to make an impression on the daughter but also to spite the mom, I slipped forward through the opening, and came onstage striding ahead of Natasha. Facing the audience I blew my cheeks, rather theatrically, into an imaginary bugle, which gained me a round of applause, as everyone thought my act must have been part of the show. 
Then, with great flamboyance, I took the non-existent brass instrument out of my lips and clutched it to my heart, before making a spectacular leap offstage. While in flight, I totally forgot the injury I had suffered to my shoulder, only to be reminded of it, with a sharp shot of pain, upon landing. Stumbling onto someone’s lap I tumbled further down onto the floor, from where I raised up my eyes to watch Natasha. 
She came to stand at the edge of the stage, with a light from above focused upon her, which allowed me to see her clearly for the first time. 
Her light-pink dress hung just below the knees. It hugged her figure, which was slim and straight like a pencil, with barely any curves. Under the squared shoulders, which were then in fashion, her scrawny arms hung by her sides as if she didn’t know what to do with them, except for the long, delicate fingers that of their own, played in the air. 
And oh, her face! Framed by the lovely chestnut curls, it was pale, and so were the freckles on her nose. This kid could be no older than fifteen. She was separated from the rest of us not only by the height of the stage and the radiance of the spotlight but also by the innocence in her eyes. 

★ Treat yourself to a love story ★

The Music of Us

Paperback  Hardcover


"The atmosphere of the 1940s is beautifully portrayed, and on a secondary level only to the (mostly) unrequited love story, it was my next treasured experience while reading this book. I loved the sounds and sights of the era, the music, the cars, and the lifestyles so well depicted. It was a fascinating dip into the life of those dynamic times." 
Aaron Paul Lazar, Author

Friday, February 16, 2018

Who knows if we shall meet again

Unsure how to overcome the distance between my son and me, I wonder at the apparent ease with which my father seemed to communicate with me, starting at the time when I was drafted to the Army, nearly thirty years ago. 
At the time, this ease surprised me, because back home, talking to the old man had become next to impossible. He had been growing hard of hearing and—even worse—refusing, in his own stubborn manner, to admit it. 
“Can’t you raise your voice?” he would ask. “Why d’you keep whispering like that? What’s the matter, you afraid to speak out?” 
And when I repeated my words, louder this time, he would respond by cupping his ear and blurting out at the top of his voice, “Eh?”
But then, once the conversation was transferred to paper, it started flowing. I found myself waiting eagerly for his letters and care packages, but would never admit it to him, which is something that today, I regret.
In 1940, the idea of the United States getting involved in WWII was unpopular, yet it became real overnight, when Congress passed the Selective Service Act. A year later, in October 1941, I became one of the lucky recruits. To me, it felt like an opportunity for adventure. 
I boarded a Long Island train, and when it pulled with a whistle into the large brick station at the induction center, I was eager to begin my three months basic training. It was intensive: march, drill, read manuals, tend to your rifle. The instructor was all muscle, and the first thing he said was, “I’m your mother, father, and uncle, and you’d better respect me. Anybody who doesn’t believe me, step out!” 
I didn’t believe him, but stayed in line. So did the others. 
“The Marine Corps,” he said, “is one of the most elite fighting forces in the world.”
More or less in unison, we said, “Yes, sir.” 
“We serve on U.S. Navy ships, protect naval bases, guard U.S. embassies, and provide an ever-ready quick strike force. You know why?”
Not one of us dared to ask, “Why, sir?”
So he went on to say, “To protect U.S. interests anywhere in the world. That’s your mission. And as for mine, you know what that is?”
“No, sir.”
“To beat you into shape.” 
“Yes, Sir.” 
After that, we had to get our uniform tailored. Your blouse had to be form fitting and your pants should not be hanging. I was issued my new uniform and equipment, which made me wish, “If my dad could see me now!”
Meanwhile, my father rushed one care package after another to me. Looking now at the shoebox where I stored all of his letters, it’s easy to figure out what connected them, what connected us. 
Knowing my fascination with the stars, and especially with movie stars and with performers of both classical and popular music, he sent me a constant stream of news and magazine clippings. Among other things there was a tape of a song titled I’ll be Dreaming You. Being bashful at the time, I had no girlfriend at the barracks, nor did I have one left behind—but even so, the lyrics evoked a painful longing as if I had one, as if I recalled the sweetness of her lips: 

The magic of your kiss. your eyes
And now like then, the bells do ring
Was it the spell of sunrise
Or the scent of spring?
The fading tremor of the train
Who knows if we shall meet again

Excerpt from The Music of Us by Uvi Poznansky
Included in A Touch of Passion

Love Romance? Get this amazing collection
No longer available

"I love boxed sets, especially romantic boxed sets. A Touch of Passion is a a group of eight well written novels by bestselling authors. It includes historical romance, contemporary romance, western romance, Victorian romance, and even a wounded warrior romance. There is a romance story for everyone. A great collection." 
Book Lover, Vine Voice

Monday, February 12, 2018

I need you so bad

So later, while sticking the key in the door, I turned to him and said, “Trouble, that’s my middle name,” which was a line I used sometimes, ‘cause it sounded so clever. 
“No, really?” he said. 
To which I replied by asking, “What, you think it’s a crime? Like, kissing me, I mean?” And he said, “It’s just... I do not want to start something which can lead nowhere, really.”
What could I say to that, except, “There’s no one home. Stay a minute. Is that a crime, too?” 
I handed him an old record, something slow from the sixties, which years ago used to bring tears to ma’s eyes, because—in spite of looking so tough—she still had a soft spot somewhere in her, even if most of the time you can’t find it. She used to play it often—but now not so much no more. 
So I thought he might like it. Lenny put it on the record player, so in a second the mood was better, even though the thing squeaked from time to time. 
He turned to me the minute I untied my pony tail, and told me I reminded him of a girl he used to know, and would I like to dance. 
I stepped out of my shoes and into his arms, and before he could say anything I slipped out of my dress, too. I thought I looked, like, a little too slender in my panties, so I told him to close his eyes—but at this point, because of being so aroused, and trying so hard not to show it, I forgot all about them tissues at each side of my bra, which now and again, made a slight swoosh. 
Later I wondered if he wondered about that.
I rose to the tips of my toes, feeling the touch of his shirt and the pleat of his pants, right against my bare skin. And I placed my hands on his shoulders, and felt his hands on my hips. 
And so he held me there, a long, long time in the dark. And me, I got to touch his lips, and that crease up there, on his forehead, and we swayed back and forth: I clinging to him, he—to that one girl, the girl he used to know.
Then he moved away abruptly, saying that he was too old for me, and anyway, what was he doing, he had a child, a boy just a year older than me. So I took a step closer, like, to close the gap again. And feeling lost, like a stray kitten out in the cold, I said, “Just hold me, Lenny. Just hold me tight. I need you so bad.” 
And the minute I said it, I knew he needed to hear these words, needed to know that he was really needed.  

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family saga ★
The complete series: 

"Uvi Poznansky's, "My Own Voice," is a creative, gripping and deeply moving tale of a young girl coming of age in unfathomable emotional circumstances." 
Bill Cronin, Author

Stunning images of classic art on the erotic side

A lovely new review for Inspired by Art: A Peek at Bathsheba:

on February 12, 2018
Stunning images of classic art on the erotic side. Beautifully presented in story fashion. I discovered this book after reading Uvi Poznansky's David Chronicles. It is a lovely companion to that series. However, it sends alone as an illustrated chronicle to that classic story "the most torrid tale of passion ever told: David's forbidden love for Bathsheba, and his attempt to cover up the scandal." I recommend all her books. Five stars.

Sunday, February 11, 2018

I very much enjoyed this

A short and sweet review for the audiobook edition of My Own Voice:

Catherine Cox

Kingsport, TN | Listener Since 2012
  • 51 reviews
  • 63 ratings
  • 68 titles in library
  • 19 purchased in 2018

Friday, February 9, 2018

Why didn’t you write to me?

I figured I had to soften the tension between us. I had to speak out, and do it fast, in my smartest, most eloquent manner, and come up with something, anything that would make her want me backbut somehow I could not find the words. 
My heart started hammering. Standing across from her I found myself, somehow, more isolated than ever. I was beset by anxiety, by rage that had been wrought by waiting, desperately waiting on the other side of the ocean months on end for a letter, a word from her.
All I could do was burst out with, “Why didn’t you write to me?”
In turn she blurted out, “Why didn’t you?”
Which set me back on my heels. I gasped, realizing that I should try to start this conversation over, this time in a gentler manner, without pointing blame. But it seemed to be too late. Not only silence stood between us now but also words.
“All these long months dragging by,” said Natasha, “and not a word, not a sign of life from you! My God, I thought you were dead!”
“What? I wrote to you every week,” I countered. “Sometimes a few times a week.”
To which she cried, “No, that can’t be! I never got a single letter.”
“How can that be?”
“Are you doubting me, Lenny?”
“No, but—”
But what, exactly?” she asked, flustered by the way I persisted with my resistance to her. “Every morning I asked Mama, as she went out shopping, to go to the post office, bring my fan mail and stuff, and send my letters to you. And then, when she came back, I would ask her, each and every time, if there was anything from you. Invariably, the answer would be the same.”
“Let me guess! It was this: No.”
She shook her head angrily, which brought a bit of color back to her cheeks. For a moment she was unable to utter a word.
“Natasha,” I said, “anyone could have told you the answer even before the question was asked. Your Ma, she hates me
“Does, too!”
“So I bet it was her! She discarded my letters, or else she has them stashed somewhere, deep down in some dark corner, out of sight.”
“No,” said Natasha, shaking her head. “She’s protective of me, but still. Ma would never do anything like that. I mean, I trust her. I rely on her, totally.”
And a minute later she whispered, mostly to herself, “Would she?”

Excerpt from The Music of Us by Uvi Poznansky
Included in A Touch of Passion

Love Romance? Get this amazing collection
No longer available

"I love boxed sets, especially romantic boxed sets. A Touch of Passion is a a group of eight well written novels by bestselling authors. It includes historical romance, contemporary romance, western romance, Victorian romance, and even a wounded warrior romance. There is a romance story for everyone. A great collection." 
Book Lover, Vine Voice