Monday, July 26, 2021
Captured and maintained our attention. We listened to this on our car trip and everyone was in agreement that the narrator has a great voice and did a good job with conveying different emotions and characters.
Story was well thought out and shared a very interesting view. Have been reading a few books about the electrical system in the USA being disrupted and the fallout. This book did not disappoint and definitely will look for more from this author.
Sunday, July 25, 2021
I dragged myself up, somehow, with Ed laden on my back, his arms slung limply over my shoulders, his blood oozing around my neck
- J.A. Schneider, author of suspense and psychological thrillers
Wednesday, July 21, 2021
It was beautifully written and flowed so well. I thoroughly enjoyed every second of it. The narrator was great and did a wonderful job with the voices and narration.
Monday, July 19, 2021
To avoid being noticed, my spy must wait until nightfall to creep up there and take a look.
At last, the sun is setting. He climbs up the hill and within minutes, I lose sight of him.
The wait is long. I tremble as the chill intensifies. Saul has ample provisions of food, water, and warm clothing—but here in the wilderness, my men are cold and hungry. I am eager to sneak into their camp and wreak havoc on them, in revenge for all the hardship, all the misery we have been suffering lately.
Upon his return, the spy reports, “Good news! the king and his first in command, Abner son of Ner, are tired.”
“They are?” I ask. “How can you tell?”
“Saul starts yawning, and a second later, so does Abner. Any minute now, they’ll be fast asleep.”
“Where is Saul lying?”
“Up there, in the center of the camp, with his army around him.”
I glance at the serrated edge of the rocks, which rise against the blueish black heavens, and doubt enters my heart. Ghostly shapes loom before me out of the yawning hole of darkness. I imagine them to be a swarm of scaly lizards, slumbering fitfully around the king’s camp. In a snap, they may pounce upon the intruders, upon us.
The feeling is so daunting that it brings me to my knees.
“Hear my prayer, oh God,” I whisper. “Listen to me, listen to my words. Strangers are attacking me. Ruthless men seek my life.”
I sense the eyes of my fighters upon me. Have they heard me? If so, what is the impact of my words?
One by one they fall to their knees and press their hands together, which tells me one thing: there is a great power in prayer. I should use it more often. It works for me. It works better than any other skill I have used as an entertainer.
At the risk of having Saul detect where we are, I raise my voice, not only because my heart is hammering in me, it is bursting open—but also because my men must hear this, loud and clear. They must believe in our cause.
So with great fervor I come to a blast, “Let evil recoil on those who slander me.”
And my fighters echo me, word for word. “Let evil recoil on those who slander me.”
Then I stand up, and call two of them to my side: Ahimelek the Hittite and young Abishai.
I ask them, “Who’ll go down into the camp with me to Saul?”
“I’ll go with you,” says Abishai.
He is Joav’s brother, one of my three nephews, sons of my sister, Zeruiah, who has a reputation in Bethlehem as a strong, formidable woman. All the other men I know are known by their father’s name. Not so here: Abishai is his mother’s son.
And so, guided by nothing more than faint starlight, the two of us climb up the rocks to the enemy, to find Saul. Let evil recoil on those who slander me.
Ash is in the wrong place again
I haven't listened to an audio book in quite awhile. Heather did a great job and really made the characters come alive. Uvi has written another story that kept me wondering what was going to happen next. I hope there is another book after this one.
Monday, July 5, 2021
Then, just as the driver starts revving the car, a hand appears in my window, knocking, slapping, tapping at it at a frantic pace.
It’s that waitress again. Why has she followed me? What does she want? Have I forgotten something behind?
For a moment, I think about that slice of sumptuous cheesecake that has been left behind on my plate. Seized by a sudden sense of craving, I wonder: has the waitress wrapped it up for me? Is she braving the elements just to hand it over? How gracious is that! Do I have enough money to tip her?
“Wait, don’t start,” I tell the driver. Then I lower the car window a bit, which lets in a wet whiff of wind
She leans in, empty-handed. No cake, no nothing. Wrapped in a barely zipped yellow windbreaker with a drawstring hood that she’s neglected to fit over her head, she heaves a breath that makes the glass between us foggy.
Gasping, she says, “I must talk to you.”
And I say, “About what?”
In an incredulous tone, I ask, “Dr. Patel, you mean?”
“Yes,” she says, struggling to catch her breath. “No, not him. His wife.”
“What about her?”
“She gave me something for you.”
I’m flabbergasted. “For me? How come? I never met Mrs. Patel—”
“Her name is Susan.”
“—And she doesn’t know me!”
The last thing I need is to establish a connection with a jealous wife. Actually, envy is the least of her problems, especially when compared to being dead.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m curious to learn more about Dr. Patel, especially about his professional life. Don’t ask me why. I have my reasons. But his wife? I want nothing whatsoever to do her!”
She huffs. “I don’t believe you.”
I insist, “What’s between them is not really my business.”
“It is, if you’re dating him!”
I’m at loss for a good comeback.
Meanwhile, the waitress pulls something out of her pocket. It slips down her windbreaker and over her drenched apron. She bends over, snatches it off the ground, and raises it to me over the edge of the cracked-open window.
Then, with a trembling lip, she says, “It’s yours now! I want nothing to do with all this trouble.”
I shake my head. “Keep it. Trouble is not what I need in my life, either.”
“Please,” says the waitress. Her voice is inundated with fear, which makes a shiver go down through me. “Take it!”
Is she out of her mind? Who is she to order me around? I have Ma for that!
I give a subtle hint to the driver to get us out of here and start closing my window, so as to block this woman out. “No, thank you,” I say. “You hold on to it, whatever it is.”
The waitress clutches the edge of the window so hard that her nails—chipped and painted red—nearly scratch through it.
Just then comes the second flash of light. It outlines her shoulders, fizzes around her hair like a fiery halo as she stumbles forward towards me. This time, lightening is clearly what it’s not.
She’s been shot at, she’s been hit.
Her fingers loosen, letting something drop inside, some small object that misses my lap, rolls over, and lands somewhere underneath me on the car floor.
Meanwhile her eye bulges over. It turns, turns, turns in its socket, until its iris seems to roll back around and over the eyeball, until her chest slips down along the sudden spill of blood upon the glass, until the terror finally lets go of her, leaving her wrung out by the wayside like an old dishrag.
“Stop,” I tell the driver. “Let’s pick her up, take her to the hospital.”
“No way,” he says, stepping on the gas. “Let’s get out of here, save our own skin!”
In the back window, she looks like a mound of tatters crumpling into the night as the car jerks into motion. It maneuvers wildly left and right as we make our escape.'
Months after recovering from coma, Ash discovers that the man who performed her brain surgery has a questionable medical experience and a dark past. Should she expose him, at the risk of becoming vulnerable to his revenge?
Thursday, July 1, 2021
A long time ago, I used to think that my youth was to blame for failing to understand my wives. No longer can I use that excuse, because I know all too well, there is no youth in me anymore. Which leaves me as baffled as ever, especially when it comes to the one woman I adore: Bathsheba.
When I catch her scent, or even when I imagine it, something in me turns to liquid. Then, trying to harden my heart and remove her from my mind I find myself confused, and the rage in me intensifies, perhaps because I cannot remember the last time I have seen her. Alas, the distance between us seems to expand in so many ways with each passing year.
So imagine my surprise this morning, when I wake up to the soft sound of her footfalls, which makes me turn my eyes to the wall to try, to catch sight of her reflection. There it is, moving fluidly across the blade, the wide, polished blade of Goliath’s sword which is hung in my chamber, right here over my head.
First Bathsheba throws open the window, letting in a cold morning breeze. As if to tell me that this is already autumn, a smell of dry leaves wafts in. The silk curtains start swishing as they sway, they billow wildly around her, blotting and redrawing the curves of her silhouette, which in a blink, brings back to me the fullness of her figure back then, when she was expecting our first child. I remember the way I held her in my arms that hot summer evening, right there by that window. Together, we looked out at the last glimmer of the sun, sinking.