Friday, August 31, 2018

There I was, held by a spell

“This place is amazing,” said a soft, sultry voice in a slight Russian accent. “It’s abuzz with excitement!” 
I looked up. A young woman swung around in my direction, wearing full-length satin gloves that extended up above the elbows, a sparkly black evening dress with a slit on the side, and a necklace that dipped into her cleavage. Her hair swayed around her, shiny and bleached blond, as she gave a little nod to me. With a little sigh, she lowered herself into the empty seat.
“No, this must be a mistake,” I said. 
“What is?”
“This seat is taken.”
“Is it?” 
“It is.”
She checked her ticket. “Oh yes, you’re right. My seat is on the other side of you.”
She stepped around my knees on her way to that seat. I looked the other way, but felt her staring at me.
“You look familiar,” she said.
I shrugged, not knowing how to respond, or if this was some ploy to draw my attention to her. Meanwhile, someone in the row behind us tapped her shoulder, trying to hint that she should stop it, and no more chitchat, because the sounds of musicians tuning their instruments was already heard behind the scenes.
She licked her red lips and offered a gloved hand in a gesture that confused me. What are the proper manners here? Should I shake it or kiss it? 
“My name,” she said, “is Lana.”
“Lenny,” said I.
“Oh!” She touched a gloved finger to her forehead, and a sudden glint of recognition shot from the corner of her eye. “What a surprise! What a small world! Now I know who you are!”
“You do?”
“You’re a marine, aren’t you?”
“I am
“You’re Ryan’s friend, right?”
“You know Ryan?”
“I do! I’m his girlfriend, you must have heard about me, no? Anyway I got a letter from him, just the other day, with picture of both of you, looking so, so striking in uniform. You were standing there with those English girls all around you, in front of the embassy in London. Don’t tell him I said this,” she hissed in my ear, “because if you do I’ll deny it, but you’re even more handsome in person, especially in this fine suit, if you don’t mind me saying so
“But I do!” said the man from behind. 
And another one said, “Shush!”
She shrugged him off with a pretty smile, confident that no one can resist her charms, but she did lower her voice, just a bit. 
“Talk about a coincidence,” she said, crossing her legs and shifting position to cuddle up to me, as if she were my babe.
I left her question unanswered, because the house lights started dimming. To the sound of applause, which mixed with the sound of wind instruments from the orchestra pit, an announcer stepped out from behind the curtain and headed to the front edge of the stage.
Meanwhile, “Why are you here?” Lana went on to ask. “Is everyone coming home? I mean, has the war ended?”
There was a gasp from behind. 
I said nothing to her, because nothing is something at which I am the best at saying, and because this was not the time to say a thing, especially not to someone who was so oblivious to what was going on in the world. 
It maddened me to think that my friends were risking life and limb on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean and that civilian casualties were mounting all over Europe, only to be utterly ignored by the likes of this woman, whose only thought was finding someone, anyone to amuse her.
By now, the announcer came to a stand directly in front of us. “Tonight,” he said, “we’re proud to present a brilliant pianist whose lyrical sensitivity has been honed by acclaimed performances, in every concert hall all over the country, from Los Angeles to Boston.”
I felt ignorant for not checking the program ahead of time, because of doubting that I would find myself in this place. I had no idea of what music to expect, nor did I know the names of the performers. Now my heart quickened with a sense of anticipation, which was as remarkable as the boredom that registered on Lana’s face. I was surprised to see her subduing a yawn.
Meanwhile, the announcer went on. “If you haven’t heard the name up to now,” he said, “you’ve been missing out. Quite simply, this performer is known for an amazing virtuosity. One thing I can promise you: after tonight, you’ll never forget her!”
 Then he stepped back and cast a glance over his shoulder. With ghosts of light fluttering around its circle, the spotlight followed him, widening its focus as it went, until reaching the outline, the curvy outline of a grand piano. It washed the heavy, carved legs with light, then climbed over the Steinway and brought a figure standing by its side out of the shadows.
And there, against the background of richly decorated panels around the stage, in a long, shimmering evening gown that seemed to be aglow, was the one who had vanished, mysteriously, from my life. I looked at her bright, green eyes and for just a moment thought I felt her looking back at me. 
No, I said to myself. From up there, she couldn’t have spotted me. To her I am part of a crowd, a dark, anonymous mass with a glint here, a glint there, flashing across the glass of a pair of binoculars, aimed at her from this and that direction.
It was at that moment that by the pang, the sharp pang in my heart, I knew: love was not something I could decide not to do.
There I was, held by a spell.

The Wrong Girl offers samples from books in the Still Life with Memories series. These samples give a taste not of Natasha (the girl Lenny loves) but rather of another woman, Lana, who appears time and again, in several scenes in the books. She is flirtatious enough to stir suspicion, upsetting the course of his life time and again.  
I hope you will find these samples not only delicious but also arousing an irresistible craving for more.

So, you ask, what is this series all about?
For a long time I had this idea of creating a series around the events in the life of a unique family. The characters had to have not only a compelling voice, but they had to see things in an entirely different light, which would create contrasts and conflicts, as each one of them comes from a different background and has different passions, needs, and aspirations.

Monday, August 27, 2018

We are sinking. Repeat. We are sinking

The wind snakes across the waves and catches hold of the boom. It jibes with terrific force and slams into his shoulder in a blinding flash of pain. He sprawls to the deck. The scream of the splitting metal hinge sounds as the gooseneck rips free. The boom flails above.
He’s lost control.
The deck tilts and he’s sliding—sliding toward the edge. He screams. His hands scrabble desperately across the wooden surface, searching for something to grab onto, to stop him from plunging over the side into the churning black sea.
His fingers graze a rope and he grabs hold. Hand over hand, he hauls himself up the deck, muscles straining as the next wave hits. The storm is intensifying.
He needs to get below deck.
The boat pitches and he loses his footing as he scrambles toward the cabin’s opening. He grabs hold of the ladder and climbs down into the darkness below. The bilge pump huffs as it tries to empty the cabin. The water is already thigh-deep—as heavy as wet cement as he struggles toward the red light.
The radio.
Teeth chattering, he drives his legs forward, gathering his last bit of strength. Stumbling. Reaching. Gasping until he makes it. He tears the radio microphone from its perch. Thumbs the button. He screams out the words in a torrent of panic hoping somebody will hear.
“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is the Dreamcatcher. We’re three miles east of Deception Bay. We are sinking. Repeat. We are sinking. One on board, one overboard. Over.”
One overboard… Scott. He can’t think about that now.

Excerpt from Deception Bay
By Chris Patchell

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Sunday, August 26, 2018

I wish I could go on keeping this from you

“Oh Lenny,” he said, shaking his head. “I can see how much you miss her.”
I said nothing a third time, because what was the point in saying, “I do.”
So he suggested, “How about making your babe jealous? Have you thought about that?” 
“Natasha is different from other girls. She’s a pianist, a rising star.”
“Oh, now that explains it!”
“Explains what?”
“Don’t you see? She’s in show business.”
“So?” he repeated, as if there was no need to explain anything beyond that single word. “So she meets men, handsome men, all the time! They’re always around her: actors, musicians, singers, dancers, conductors, producers, stage managers, music hall directors, composers, and others, all of whom have more in common with her than you’ll ever do!”
At hearing this, a sudden weakness came over me, which Ryan must have noticed, because his tone changed.
“There, there,” he said, and gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Do yourself a favor, don’t pray for a letter from her, much less faithfulness.”
I took a step back from him, mounted my bike, and bolted away from there, producing hellish noise for no better reason than to drown his advice, but to my dismay it went on rattling, rattling, rattling inside me. 
I rode for a long while and when at last I came back to my quarters, surprise! There was an envelope on my pillow, and it was from my father.
My first thought was that by arriving here, this letter served to prove a point. It showed me that I was reachable. If you wanted to contact me, you could, which meant for some reason, Natasha didn’t. She must have stopped caring for me. What else could explain the silence of my muse?
My second thought was not exactly a thought. Rather, it was a jolt of alarm. I could see, quite plainly, that his handwriting had changed. It was with a shaky, trembling hand that my dad wrote,

Lenny my son, I wish I could go on keeping this from you, but at this point I can no longer do it. I’m in pain, severe pain, and it’s been wrecking me for the past three months. 
You know me, I’ve always resisted—perhaps too stubbornly—to set an appointment with my doctor, because despite being a learned man, he can never help, and all he does, in my opinion, is rely on the wisdom of ignorants and prescribe drugs for them, drugs for which the unintended side effects are worse than the disease they’re supposed to cure. 
At last the pain became unbearable, so I dragged myself, somehow, to his office, and after a long series of exams I finally got a diagnosis, and Lenny, it’s not good. 
Too bad you’re so far away. I know that the Battle of the Atlantic is a crucial one. I heard Winston Churchill call it, ‘the longest, largest, and most complex naval battle in history.’
I know you’re doing your duty there, and for that I’m proud of you, son. Thinking of you I read the paper every day, but find myself too tired to cut clippings out of it and send them to you, which may seem to be a simple task, but for me, it’s daunting. Besides, there’s no real need for these clippings, is there, because you are right there, in the thick of things. 
From listening to the radio I’ve learned a lot about the war. The Germans seek to prevent the buildup of Allied supplies and equipment in the British Isles in preparation for the invasion of occupied Europe. 
This cause, fighting an evil enemy who threatens to overtake the entire world, is greater than both of us. So the last thing I would want is to take you away from where you are, by asking you to come back home to see me. 

The words one last time did not appear on the paper, but I knew they must have been weighing on his heart. Perhaps that was why the letter was left unfinished. 
In place of a signature he scribbled,

I miss you. Always remember—

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a love story ★

"What an amazing story! I have heard of Uvi Poznansky, but I had not previously read her work. Wonderful! Her writing is as beautiful and lyrical and sad as the story she lays out, that of a husband trying to reconnect with the love of his life... This is a deep romance and a true love story, as opposed to so much shallow trivia that's labeled romance. Elegant, classic, and classy, The Music of Us is a top of the line read. " 
Sandy Nathan, Author, Vine Voice

Saturday, August 25, 2018


Mimi Barbour is a NYT & USA Today, best-selling, award-winning author, Mimi Barbour, has seven romance series to her credit. I'm honored that she reviewed my WWII Romantic Suspense novel, Dancing with Air:

Dancing with Air is an incredibly well-written, well-researched historical tale that takes place in the WWII era. Surprisingly, the author weaves music throughout the story in a beautiful, enticing way that added a whole new dimension and made it more enjoyable.
A lovely passage - He will be running his fingers down, all the way down to the small of my back, touching his lips to my ear, breathing his name, breathing mine… here I am, dancing with air…
I liked the two main characters, Lenny and Natasha, and felt very sad for Lenny when it became clear he was losing her to a horrible illness, though her body was there beside him. Ms. Poznansky, a master in story-telling, developed the plot in such a way that it kept my interest from page one until the very end. I also appreciated the well-phrased descriptions, especially while in London - in fact all my senses were drawn in as the author created this intrigue. Danger, deception and romance are woven together perfectly and will keep you turning the pages… captivated.

Friday, August 24, 2018

This place isn’t my home without you

It’s awful nippy here, inside and out, even though this is only mid-fall. Shut tight in front of me is the glass door, which I can’t hardly open, on account of being tired, and a bit wobbly on my feet. Even so I can hear a sound, a muffled sound from the other side, out there on the balcony. From this angle I can spot him, kinda: at least his outline, bent over the desk, and the slant of the shoulders. 
And I can’t barely see a face, but somehow I can tell it’s a familiar voice out there, saying, like, Here is one thing I hope she knows: she deserves better
Which makes me shiver, even in my coat. The man, he’s tapping his fingers tensely on the edge of the record player, pressing one key, then another, which brings up the voice saying, louder now, She deserves better, and again, deserves better, then, better
That voice, it’s Ben’s voice—but them fingers, they’re the old man’s fingers. The instant he hits Pause is when my doubts go away, and like, I know who it is. 
So I don’t even need him to turn around, and I don’t even want to ask him, like, Where was you, ‘cause I don’t want to hear no lies, and no long stories either, and above all, I tell him in my heart, I don’t want to admit how lonely I am here, in this place, which isn’t my home, Lenny, without you.

★ 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

Can't wait for the next one of the series

A short and sweet review of my novel, My Own Voice:

on August 22, 2018
A good read for people who are in to the series recommend highly can't wait for the next one of the series a really enjoyable read but quick shaping up to be a enjoyable series must read the next one of the series

Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Paper fish Jumping through hoops

This is a second paper fish I've designed this summer, a smaller one. This time, I decided to make him look as if he's jumping through hoops, which hint at the envelope of his body. Here is a closeup of the hoops and of the vertebral column, which is designed to move flexibly left and right, nearly curling upon itself.

Here is the closeup of the head.

The fish is now opening his mouth which turning to you.

Here is the first paper fish I designed, swimming in the air

And here they are, both of them, swimming in the air:

Having fun with paper! 

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Had someone died? #LoveUnderFire excerpt via @aplazar

Carmen passed two men in white uniforms urgently pushing an empty gurney along the hall. No smiles, no greetings. Just full speed ahead.
She’d never seen them before. Could they be weekend staff brought in to help in Rocco’s absence? 
Was someone ill? 
Worse, had someone died?
Were they ambulance attendants? 
The men didn’t look like the normal paramedics she’d seen around town. Then again, she’d only worked over a week here, and there were probably many workers she hadn’t run into yet.
When she reached the nurse’s office, she found Detective Ritchie sitting with Mrs. Hood and Nurse Blair. She passed through the room, trying to catch Ritchie’s eye. 
“Carmen?” The detective noticed, and crooked a finger in her direction. “Can you spare a moment?”
Mrs. Hood half stood. “This girl doesn’t have time for interviews. She’s needed in the next room.”
Ritchie held her hand palm out at Hood. “One moment, please. I need to share the latest news with her, and then she can be on her way.”
News? Carmen’s heart skipped a beat. Had they found Rocco?
Nobody was smiling with relief. In fact, the mood between the three women was somber. Far too somber. 
She approached Detective Ritchie. “Did you find him?”
The detective bit her lip. “Sorry, no.” She stood and took Carmen’s hand. “But we found his wallet.”
Carmen clutched Ritchie’s sleeve. All the emotion she’d so carefully tamped down while working that day suddenly burst out of her. “Oh my God. Where?”
“It was on the beach parking lot, covered with snow, so we assume he drove there the night he disappeared. Today, with the bright sun, it began to melt. Someone turned it in an hour ago.” 
The world spun. Carmen clutched the side of the desk. “Then where is he?” she whispered.
“We have two theories. Either he was attacked and robbed last night down by the beach…”
Carmen’s eyes blazed. “You mean they kidnapped him, too?”
“It’s possible.” Ritchie raised one eyebrow. “But the other option isn’t so nice. He may have walked into the bay.”
Mrs. Hood straightened her shoulders, looking puzzled. “Suicide?”
Nurse Blair sputtered, “Not our Rocco.”
Carmen felt the blood drain from her face. Had Rocco harbored a secret depression? Did he have demons he never shared? She wobbled, then blinked hard. “No. He wouldn’t have.” She locked eyes with Ritchie. “It makes no sense. Where’s his car, then? It would be in the lot if he did something that crazy.” She shook her head adamantly. 
Mrs. Hood snorted. “Ridiculous.”
“Someone may have stolen the car, especially if he left the keys in it.” 
“No. He was taken,” Carmen said.
Ritchie’s eyes widened. “What makes you think—”
An eruption occurred in the sunroom, visible through the window. Lolly was dancing on the puzzle table, kicking pieces gleefully all over the room. Evie—the mousy little nursing assistant—stood beside the table, wringing her hands and begging Lolly to get down. She didn’t seem to have much effect on the crowd, which now erupted into chaos. Magazines flew through the air, a table was overturned, and almost every one of the residents were either sobbing or shrieking with laughter, standing on chairs and clapping for Lolly. 
“Get in there,” Hood shouted to Carmen and Nurse Blair. “Now.” 
“Come back when you’re done,” Ritchie hissed. “I need to know what you meant by that.”
“Of course. Be back as soon as I can.” Carmen rushed into the sunroom at the same time that she saw her mother push through the visitor door with her usual basket of goodies. Shocked that Rosita would follow through on her daily routine while in the middle of the Rocco disappearance, she ran to her side. “Mom? What are you doing here?”
Rosita set the aromatic basket behind the television set and waved her daughter off. “I had to do something, Carmencita. I can’t just sit around all day and worry.” Before they could say more, Rosita walked steadily toward Lolly, who still danced like a Woodstock hippie on top of the table, head down with her long hair swirling about her, arms outstretched, and her feet propelling her in small circles. 
“Miss Lolly!” Rosita said firmly. “En el nombre de Dios! What are you doing?”
The residents stopped in their tracks, watching and shuffling back to their seats. Several eyed the basket of cookies. 
Lolly’s head shot up. “Rosita?” She flushed, slumped to a crouch on the table, and held out her hands. “Rosita, they’ve taken my Rocco.”
Evie helped a few residents back to their seats in front of the television. Carmen reached up to help Lolly down from the table. 
Once on solid ground, the woman ran to Rosita, falling into her arms. “Oh, Rosita. He’s gone. Everyone says they took him.”
Rosita’s eyes widened. “What did you say, Miss Lolly?”
“Who’s everyone?” Carmen leaned in closer. “Who took him, Lolly? What have you heard?”
Lolly’s eyes shifted in terror toward the nurse’s office. She whispered in Carmen’s ear, “The mean ones.”
“Do you mean Mrs. Hood?” Carmen glanced sideways at the woman who still sat with the detective with a haughty expression on her face. Could she have hurt Rocco? And why in God’s name would she?
“You said ‘the mean ones,’ Lolly. Who exactly do you mean?”
Lolly’s expression softened and she fixed her eyes on the basket. “Cookies? For me?”
“Yes, Miss Lolly. Snickerdoodles today.” Rosita exchanged a puzzled glance with her daughter, mouthing the words someone took him? 
Carmen put a finger to her lips. “I’m going to find out what happened. Can you stay with Lolly? Keep asking her questions, but don’t let the staff hear you.”
“Okay, cariƱo.”
Mr. Harvey sat on the ground, a dazed look on his face. A small scratch bled over one eye.
Carmen called to Nurse Blair, “I’m going to take Mr. Harvey down to his room to clean him up. Is that okay?”
Blair nodded impatiently, still trying to calm one of the more excited patients. “Fine, fine. Grab the first aid kit on your way there. But come right back once you get him settled.”
“Yes, Nurse Blair.”
Gently, she bent down to speak to Mr. Harvey. “Would you like to come with me? I can clean up that scratch and get you a Band-Aid.”
He looked up into Carmen’s eyes with relief. “Oh, yes. Please, Miss.”
“Call me Carmen, remember?” She smiled at him and helped him to his feet. “Come now. Let’s get you to your room.”
With hand gestures and a wave at Detective Ritchie that implied she’d return after tending to her patient, she slowly walked the shaking man down the hall.

Excerpt from The Asylum
By Aaron Paul Lazar
Included in Love Under Fire

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Sunday, August 19, 2018

The first bullet whizzed by my head

The first bullet whizzed by my head. I saw a flash of light but couldn’t make sense of what was happening even when the shell found a target behind me. I stood, frozen in place, on the front porch of the elegant private cottage Aunt Letty’s lawyer reserved for me. I hugged Marlowe who was barking fiercely and took a step backward into the foyer. Marlowe wriggled free and jumped to the floor. 
A hand holding a white Stetson whacked the porch light, shattering the fixture and the bulb. The owner of the Stetson bumped into me as he bounded indoors. That sent me sliding over the polished wood floor of my rustic chic suite. I yelped as I landed on my well-padded derriere. A barrage of bullets flew over my head. 
My heart raced as the shots sank into some surfaces and ricocheted off others. When I struggled to sit up, the stranger tackled me and forced me flat onto the floor. I fought to wrestle free. Marlowe snarled and pulled furiously at the man’s sleeve. 
“Stay down,” he said as he rolled off me. He shook his arm forcefully and Marlowe tumbled, end over end. Furious, I punched the man as he kicked the door shut with a firmly planted, exquisitely carved leather boot. In almost the same motion, he reached up and yanked the lamp off a table near the entry. As the room went dark, two bullets slammed into the heavy wooden front door and sent splinters flying. 
Moonlight streamed in through the sliding doors leading outside from the great room behind me. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see the shadowy figure straining to shove the sofa in front of the door. Marlowe had a grip on his pant leg, growling, and shaking his head as he tore at the fabric. 
Were Marlowe and I hostages? I wondered as my stomach roiled in terror. 
As my would-be captor peeked through the blinds he shut, I flipped over onto my belly and scrambled, crablike, toward the safety of my master suite. The door could be bolted from inside. I didn’t get far before he grabbed me and pressed me flat again, knocking the wind out of me. This time the bullets shattered glass and the maniac returned fire shooting at someone behind us. My heart sank realizing that he had a gun. 
In the distance, I could hear a siren blaring. As it drew closer, I heard shouts, and then footsteps. The footsteps came from the deck outside my bedroom. A minute or two later, tires screeched as a vehicle took off.
“I’ve told you, already—stay down.” When he rolled away, the intruder pulled a phone from a pocket. Then he handed Marlowe to me. “Take this and keep it quiet.” 
“Rikki,” he said almost immediately after he placed a call. “I’ve got a situation on my hands.” Those sirens blared now. I imagined them racing toward us up the long driveway leading from the roadway to the cottage. 
I considered making a run for it again while the madman spoke on the phone in a low voice. The sofa blocked the front door, but maybe I could escape out the sliding doors to the deck taking the same route the gunman had used. With my luck, running in the dark, I’d impale myself on an enormous shard of glass. A piece of glass might make a good weapon, though. With my free hand, I carefully explored the ground around me, searching for anything that I could use to hurt this guy. He hadn’t even flinched when I landed a blow earlier.
“How should I know? Hang on a second, and I’ll ask her.” No longer speaking in a whisper, his voice jolted me.
“My boss has a question for you.” The glow of light from his phone lit the space around him. He was leaning back on his haunches, squatting down like a catcher behind Homeplate. 
“Who wants you dead?”

Excerpt from Lily’s Homecoming Under Fire
By Anna Celeste Burke

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