Wednesday, April 29, 2020

An Engaging, Chilling Read

I'm delighted to find this great in-depth review for for my medical thriller, Overdose.

Reviewed in the United States on April 27, 2020
“Overdose,” the third book in the Ash Suspense Thrillers, by Uvi Poznansky is a captivating medical thriller. After Ash suffered a life-threatening accident, she underwent brain surgery. Now she’s experiencing reoccurring severe headaches causing her question the impressive credentials of her surgeon, Dr. Neil Patel.

Ash discovers there is no record of Patel’s graduation from his claimed medical school. When Patel, whose bio says he’s married, asks her out on a date, she accepts, hoping to learn more about his past that might substantiate her suspicion that he’s a fraud. During dinner, he tells her his wife recently past. Their date is cut short when he receives an emergency call from the hospital. Ash stays to eat, but receives news that her father is in the ER.

As she prepares to leave the restaurant for the ER, a waitress gives her a pink cellphone, saying Patel’s wife wanted his girlfriend to have it, but won’t divulge any more information. Ash refuses to accept it. The waitress follows Ash and drops it in her lap as the waitress is shot.

Patel attends to her father in the ER. Her father’s condition is improving until he has his follow-up visit with Patel and then his severe headaches begin.

Michael, Ash’s computer whiz boyfriend, changes the pink cellphone’s GPS location so it can’t be tracked. Ash and Michael survey the phone’s contents, finding a recorded video made by Patel’s deceased wife. In it, she says she’ll be overdosed before anyone sees the video and warns whoever is watching to look out for Patel. The video closes with “Neil is my undoing. Make sure he isn’t yours.”

As Ash delves into Patel’s questionable past, another waitress who knew Patel’s wife tells her, “Someone is listening to every word you say, every word you hear.” Ash believes it’s Patel. It’s chilling where she finds the concealed listening device. After it’s removed, Ash redoubles her efforts to uncover Patel’s well-hidden past, exposing a dark secret. Can she find the evidence to prove Patel is a fraud or, like his dead wife, will Neil also be her undoing?

“Overdose” is an amazing medical thriller, full of mystery, suspense, and tightly woven plots with a nice touch of romance. The intriguing storyline kept me turning the pages from the start to the finish. I highly recommend this engaging read.

Don’t try to fool me. Something’s the matter with you

When Heather and I arrive at the sidewalk outside the Clear Sky Beachside CafĂ©, I recall that according to Pa, this is where he met her for the first time. Upon his late afternoon arrival at Sandpearl Resort, he was glad to find this restaurant a stone’s throw away from his hotel room. He went in for Happy Hour and was smitten not only by the good looks of the waitress but also by the ease of talking to her, which was in stark contrast to his conversations with Ma.
Heather picks up her pace, clearly eager to get to work on time. Leaving a thin plume of smoke behind her, she gives a casual nod to the regulars, already seated outside on the patio, and with the tip of her shoe, grinds the butt of her Marlboro into the sand-swept pavement. Then, with a sway of her hips, she knocks the door open. 
“Come in, Ash.” She casts a look at me over her shoulder, while tying the strings of her black waitress apron around her waist. “You don’t look so good. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing.” 
“Ash, dear? What is it?”
Somewhat lightheaded, I wipe the cold sweat from my brow. “Have to get used to the climate, is all.”
With that, I stumble over to the closest table and plop down on the chair. My dog, Browny, raises his paw to my lap and ever so gently, licks my limp hand. He must sense how faint I feel. 
Heather sets a glass of water in front of me and whisks the ice cubes around with a long spoon. The clinks are downright irritating. “There, there,” she says, now in a tender tone.
I guzzle down the water. “Thank you,” I mutter, distracted by how light breaks, how it gets refracted at this angle and that through facets of ice mirroring each other. Staring into the glass, I think I see the bottom. Maybe it’s just an illusion of one. “I’m feeling better already.”
She refills my glass. “Don’t try to fool me,” she says. “Something’s the matter with you, I can tell, and it’s not just the heat.”
“You’re right.” I take another thirsty swallow. “Wish I knew what it is.”
I’m lying, of course. I know exactly what the problem is. It’s not just one but three, coming at me all at once. First, there’s the mystery of the blood in the place I’m renting, which begs the question who used to live in the boarded-up room directly above my bed. Second, there’s the all-too-real prospect of being pregnant, which I’m trying not to think about because what would I do with a child born of violence? And third, of course, is my stalker.

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?

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Liquid Prose

Love this short & sweet review for my WWII romance boxset, Apart from War:

Reviewed in the United States on April 24, 2020
Wartime tale of romance, intrigue, and covert assignations. Written as visual poetry with heavy seasoning. Love the smooth flow from one time to the other.

Saturday, April 18, 2020

A threat to her, and a warning to me

The next morning, Karishma texts me. 

I was right about one thing

I ask,

What’s that?

She replies,

Someone is listening to every word you say, every word you hear.

I ask,

How d’you know that?

Karishma replies:

Because coming to work, this is what I’ve found at the doorstep just now. 

The image she sends shows three chickens. Only one of them is still alive, picking at the slit necks of the other two. 
I’ve wanted to learn more about the unlikely friendship between these women—Karishma and her two friends, Martha and Susan—but at this point, I can’t bring myself to text any questions, nor do I want to talk to her. In the near future I must isolate myself. I must become a recluse, because somewhere out there, a stranger may be reading my words, recording them, examining every little thing I want to hold secret. 
Worse of all, I have no idea how he’s managed to get this close to me. The pink cellphone has been spoofed—of that I’m convinced—so it can’t transmit any sounds, any signals. Even so, there must be a backup method, one I haven’t yet managed to discover, by which my privacy is being violated.
I try to recall if anyone stood next to us when Karishma relayed her story about the sacrifice, but all I draw is a blank.
The image is even more disturbing on a second and third look. How else can it be interpreted but as a threat to her, and a warning to me?

"This book is exactly the kind of complex psycho-drama I've come to expect of Uvi Poznansky. The characters are full blown and full of contradictions and there are more plot twists than switchbacks on an Tibetan mountain side." 
- Aurora Dawn, VINE VOICE

Friday, April 17, 2020

Audiocover reveal: Overkill

I'm so excited to announce that the wonderful voice actor, Heather Jane Hogan, will be narrating my thriller, Overkill. She simply steps into the skin of the character and brings the story to life. I can't wait to share some of the voice clips with you.

While this work goes on, I designed the cover for the audiobook edition. It is inspired by the moment Ash finds an access to a hidden room:

An hour later, the installer comes out again. “Miss?” 
And I say, “What now?” 
“I found a space.”
“What? Excuse me?”
“Well, while nailing a new tackless strip in the closet, I took a back swing with the hammer and—quite by accident—hit the wall behind me. I expected to feel brickwork. Instead, I felt plasterboard, which cracked against my blow. I was pissed at myself—oh, forgive me! I should be more careful with my language around you, Miss.”
“No matter, just go on.”
“Like I’ve said, I was angry with myself for the extra work I created. Then I noticed something behind the hole. So I knocked through and found a passageway to a spiral flight of stairs.”
I follow him into the closet, which is now full of swirling dust, and lean in through the hole, thinking this hidden space should have been obvious to me right from the start. After all, I could see a little window up there from the outside, but thought nothing of it.
There is a chalky taste in my throat, and the dust is clogging up my airways as I climb. The rises are high, and the industrial pole that holds the treads seems a bit unstable. Each one of them in turn clangs as I step up, higher and higher, but the sound soon dies away below me. The walls close in on me as it this is a trap. There is barely enough headroom and practically no light except at the top of the staircase. 
By the time I reach it, my trepidation grows. Here is a narrow, barely lit room, with a tiny window looking out across the backyard. It has a distant view of Clearwater High School. I recognize it by the slightly curved facade of that building, although the slogan etched on it is too far to read, even if I squint. But I do know it. Home of the Tornadoes. 
For a brief moment I consider turning this space into a new office. Finding it should feel great, should feel like adventure. Except for one thing.
The dread.

 Love Suspense? Prepare to be thrilled 


(Volume II of Ash Suspense Thrillers with a Dash of Romance)

Audiobook US UK FR DE iTunes

Paperback Hardcover

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?

He comes up here, to check if I’m still breathing

Seeing how exhausted I am, Abishag takes the feather, ever so gently, from my fingers, careful not to touch the tip, and withdraws from me. Washing the ink off at the other end of the chamber, she bends over the windowsill, glancing at the lush trees swaying down there, in the royal gardens. Without words, she hums a little tune under her breath, and her voice is so sad, so melodious, that it tells me how desperately she misses her faraway village, from where she was taken to the palace. 
She must have been eager, at first, to meet the notoriously dashing young hero, the slayer of Goliath, the idol drawn so perfectly out of legends that belong to a dying generation. Only now does she realize that I belong nowhere else but in her aging mother’s dreams. 
I tell her, “Listen, daughter, and pay careful attention. Forget your people and your father’s house. Let the king be enthralled by your beauty. Honor him, for he is your lord.”
And at once I wonder, why do I take this fatherly tone with her, all of a sudden? And why do I speak of myself as if I were not here?
Abishag cannot help but yawn, which I happen to understand, because the lecture I have aimed at her bores me, too. 
“So many young men, out there,” she whispers.
“So much noise,” I complain, over her excitement.
“If it’s disturbing to you, your majesty, I can go down,” she offers. “I can ask them to keep things more quiet, for you.”
“No,” say I. “Stay with me.”
“Are you cold? Shall I close the curtains?” 
“No. Keep them open.”
Then, with slight hesitation, “Your son,” she says. “What does he want? Why did he come?”
“He loves me so,” I say, hoping she would not catch the irony in my voice. “Once in a long while he comes up here, to check if I’m still breathing.”
Abishag says nothing in reply. After a long pause she asks, “Did he invite you to the festivities? I would love to escort you—”
“Festivities?” say I. “No one tells me anything these days, which is why I am becoming so pitifully suspicious.”
“I see him down there,” she says. “His guests are arriving now, gathering around to greet him. They’re laughing. He’s not.”
At that I wave my hand. “Adoniah must be tired. He’s utterly weary of life here, in my palace. Luxury can be such a boring thing when you’re born into it.”
She glances back at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Is it, really?”
“It must be,” say I. “Unlike me, he’s never fought for what he has. To entertain him, his mother throws one party after another in his honor.”
“He’s young,” says Abishag. “And so tense. She just wants to make him happy.”

★ Treat yourself to a true gift 
Historical Fiction with a Modern Twist...

The Edge of Revolt

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"Her ability to capture character and emotion is nothing short of literary excellence, and the modern flair really only adds to that, allowing for a more engaging voice and style."
-Book Crazy, Top 1000 Reviewer

Monday, April 13, 2020

We interrupt this special news bulletin...

If, by some lucky, unforeseen twist of events, I were to find myself in her presence ever again, which I doubted, I would probably freeze, not knowing what to say. I was a nobody, and she—a star. Unreachable. Glamorous. There could be no connection between us, except through her music. It would illuminate my life and at the same time, deepen its shadows, giving full meaning to what I felt, in joy and in pain. Such is the power of a muse.
I leaned over the radio, eager to hear, ready to find delight in what she was bringing my way. I was hoping to grasp every note before the battery would run out of power and go dead.
It was then that my ear caught the first interruption. From a distant radio at one side of the building, a CBS anchorman broke in. At the beginning of the sentence his voice was still subtle, but by the end it became amplified into a blare. 
“We interrupt this special news bulletin...”
Before I could cry, “Hey! You deaf? Lower the volume, down there,” a second interruption occurred at the other side and a third one right here, out of Aaron’s radio. In place of the music, which came to a strange halt after just a couple of notes, a deep, resonant voice said, “We interrupt,” which was echoed once over, “We interrupt...”
Struggling not to become downright emotional, it trembled now on the airwaves from three different distances, to deliver the same grave message. 
“The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, by air. Details are not available. They will be, in a few minutes.”
I caught my breath. The cook came running through the corridor, and several other guys gathered around him, all in shock.
"What did they say?”
“What do they mean?”
“Where is Pearl Harbor?”
“Should we do something?"
"Well, we're in it now,” said the cook, and to my surprise he added, “We cannot let Japan get away with this."
“Let's whoop them,” said one. 
“Yes,” said another. “Let's whoop them."
Meanwhile I was flipping stations on the radio, trying desperately to learn some details about what happened. The reports were vague, all except one. A reporter for KGU radio climbed to the roof of the Advertiser Building in downtown Honolulu, microphone in hand, and called the NBC Blue Network on the phone, with the first eyewitness account of the attack. 
“This battle has been going on for nearly three hours... It's no joke, it's a real war,” he said. 
Then his voice was cut off. 
My heart was racing—no, it was running the gauntlet of emotions, stricken by disbelief, confusion, fear, guilt, and most of all, profound sadness. I had never thought that anyone would dare attack the United States. Now I was wondering what was to come and how it would affect us, how this would affect America as we knew it.
I thought about the dead, and asked myself how many lives would be lost before this was all over. 
Feeling lucky for staying behind, on safe ground, and at the same time blaming myself for it, I slapped my hands over my face and there, there was my friend, Aaron. He was, at this moment, on the other side of the world, but I felt his presence awakening in me, in the darkness of the palms of my hands. First he winked at me, as if to ask what’s a little joke between friends, and I shouldn’t ask him any questions for now, because he wasn’t prepared to answer, not yet.
Then he turned away from me, and in a snap, a strange thing began to happen: as if I came to be in his skin I shivered in fright, and saw it all through his eyes. 
What I saw was a vision of the battleship where he was stationed, which was one of our eight battleships under attack. The USS Arizona, which used to be the symbol of our national might, of our naval dominance, was now engulfed in flames. 
Falling into it through the black clouds of smoke was a bomb. It was coming with a shriek, and when it hit, for a split second there was no air. 
Then sparks came raining down, all the way down through the hollowed floors. They hit the ammunition, then the gasoline, and soon the whole place caught on fire. The blaze roared with such maddening intensity in my head that I paid no attention to the silence, the sudden silence on Aaron’s radio. Its battery must have run out of power. It was dead. 

 Love reading? Treat yourself to a love story 
The complete series: 

Volume III: 

"That generation has been called the Greatest Generation for the sacrifices they made and their amazing accomplishments in later years. If you enjoy historical fiction with a touch of romance. If you enjoy believable, complex characters, this is a book for you."
 Richard L. Weatherly, Author

Wednesday, April 8, 2020

It’s not immediately that I notice the smell

 It’s not immediately that I notice the smell. 
Perhaps it’s been covered—at least at the first moment, when I’ve stepped over the threshold—by the salty spindrift blowing in from Tampa Bay. Or else, perhaps I’ve been too distracted, too stirred up by this fever of mine, this excitement, which has been caused by my impulsive move to Clearwater, at least until the end of winter break. If I like it here, I may stay even longer, and who cares about school. Far from UCI Campus, free from the pressure of exams, and away from everyone I know, I can experiment with who I want to become. Let me start making a life for myself. 
Let me start healing.
The muggy Floridian heat seems to come to a boil around me, even though the calendar says it’s still winter. My heart is pounding, my body—drenched with sweat. Having arrived here with my dog, Browny, who’s as agitated as I am during long car rides, I need to catch my breath. Over and over again, I feel like throwing up, which is a new thing for me. 
Down to my sports bra and short pants, I’ve already vacuumed the sand that has caked into the damp old carpet, opened all the windows, some of which resist me at first, and tried to swat down a few flies. I’ve adjusted a few of the window screens as they are too warped to fit properly, taken down the heavy curtains to bring in more air, removed the cobwebs from the corners, oiled the hinges so the entrance door wouldn’t squeak, and attempted to fix the doorbell so it would produce some ring. No, not a ring exactly, it sounds more like a rasp, but at least it’s audible now. 
Up to this point, I’ve considered myself lucky for renting this dilapidated beach house for next to nothing. Because of its quaint charm, I’ve overlooked some of its flaws. Now, too late. 
Undeniably, there it is. The smell. 
It hits me at the worst possible moment, when Ma rings the doorbell—it croaks—and I open the door—it creaks—feeling reluctant to lean on her, knowing that her love may push me back over the edge, it may turn me into a child. 

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?

Friday, April 3, 2020

To see her more clearly I must squint

Leaning over my chamber window to watch the sun rising I think I spot something new: a silhouette standing there, at the edge of the royal garden, where it falls into a deep ravine. Sunlight glows all around her. To see her more clearly I must squint. 
There she stands, facing away from me: a dark figure with a slender, long shadow fluttering over the field of flowers behind her. She reminds me of my daughter and of her self-imposed absence from my home. No longer does she consider it safe. 
Raising a thin arm, the figure waves a hand and releases something into the wind. It flaps once or twice between the ground-sweeping branches of the weeping willows. Then it flies higher, hovering for awhile, till at last it soars away.
I follow it as it glides this way and that in the direction of a distant oak tree, on the other side of the ravine. Caught up there, at the tip of the highest limb, the thing flickers, its folds steaming in the air like the feathers of a wounded dove. 
Hours later, when the diplomats, advisors, generals, suppliers, architects, carpenters, contractors, lawyers, tax collectors and brick layers have all retired for the day, I find myself free to ride out there, beyond the edge the royal garden. On my way there, a magical mist hangs all around me, like tears, suspended. 
It must have rained earlier that day, because the soil is soft. It gives way under the hooves of my stallion. Sloshing around that oak tree I come to realize what it is, hanging down from its highest branch: a shred of Tamar’s garment, her coat of many colors. The fabric is aglow in the evening sun, releasing every reflection, every hue of the rainbow, up to the border of a large, irregular stain of browned blood.

★ Treat yourself to a true gift 
Historical Fiction with a Modern Twist...

The Edge of Revolt

Audiobook US UK FR DE  iTunes

Paperback  Hardcover  Barnes&Noble

"How Ms. Poznansky created such a vivid, detailed, true-to-life account leaves me awestruck. It's as if she peered inside the Bible, spoke with the characters and witnesses who were there, and then created a realistic and moving portrait of David's life." 
Aaron Paul Lazar, Author

Wednesday, April 1, 2020

Let me introduce you to my author friends

Let me introduce you to my author friends:
They have joined forces with me
To bring you amazing stories
Looking for the perfect Mother's Day gift? 
Come listen to these audiobooks  
You may win one of them!

Join us:

"I paint with my pen, and write with my paintbrush"

Award-wining author of the popular Unit 1 thrillers series and the Whitlock Trilogy.

"Each book takes you places you have never been in ways you will always remember."

"Suspense Thrillers that keep you turning the page"

"There is no second chance at first love."


"I live in a New Orleans where Mardi Gras Balls, festivals, parades, are always going on. The hardest part is to pick one thing to write about because there's no place like New Orleans to have a good crime!”

“An Epic Celtic Tale Weaving Forbidden Love, Sorcery, and Political Intrigue in Ancient Rome and Britannia.”

“Author of compulsively readable thrillers”

"Passionate Romance ~ Paranormal Suspense”

"Addictive, award-winning fiction. You'll fall in love with the characters and love to hate the villains.”

“Close to home! Close to Heart!”

Tired~Stressed? There's A NAP for that ESCAPE into Imagination with 5 star Suspense, Romance and a Sprinkle of Magic. Read my story and you'll want more!

“I write the stories the characters dictate to me. Best of all worlds. Get to read a book while I'm writing it.”

“Escape with a book by Angela Ford.”