Wednesday, June 29, 2022

Floating over a river cutting through a white landscape

Imagine yourself floating over a river cutting through a white landscape:

 

To see how I created it, click HERE.


Monday, June 27, 2022

A Diamond short: Paper robotics animation of Sleepy-Eyed Sam

  

About a week ago, I sent a note to my wonderful narrator, Justin Harmer, who played King David in my book, A Peek at Bathsheba. This time I had in mind a totally different character for him:


I’ve been toying around lately with a variety of artistic projects. The latest one is my “paper robotics” which I named Sleepy-eyed Sam. You can see it in action here. I wish I were a better puppeteer to make it justice…


My next move with this project is to have Sleepy-eyed Sam read a tongue-in-cheek poem I wrote a while ago. This is where I hope you can lend me a hand—or rather, a voice—for a one-minute recording. Once I have the recording I’ll fit the motion to it as best I can. (It's just for fun so the recording does not need to be done in a recording booth.) 


Are you game?


I was thrilled when he joined me in creating this animation. It’s only a minute or so, but with this over-the-top rendition of the character, it becomes a piece of life captured on paper.


To see the paper engineering project in progress, click Work in progress: paper robotics.


A Diamond Short, A Decade Late

Uvi Poznansky, 2007



A diamond short, a decade late

I come to stand outside your gate

Unlock and open, let me in

Forgive me, love; what is my sin?


I fled from you across the land

But now I ask you for your hand

A decade late, a diamond short

I can't imagine why you snort


My limbs are frail, my breath is cold

I must admit I may look old

I fall, I kneel, whyI implore

You are the woman I adore


I feel so weak, I feel so brittle

Don't touch! I may be impotent a little

You loved me onceor so I thought

Stop! Take your fingers off my throat—



Sunday, June 19, 2022

Trust me, it is with a heavy heart that I must kill you



Then he pulls open a drawer and takes out a small bottle, filled with pills. I strain my eyes to read the label, but from where I’m sitting, it’s a bit too far.

Kabir casts a sly look at me. His lips curl, as if he’s about to tell some joke. “This is the single most prescribed psychiatric medication in the U.S. I ought to know, not only because I am a medical professional and not only because I married into a family that owns a pharmaceutical company but also because of my wife. She passed away because of it. Overdose, you know.”

Kabir takes a pause, perhaps to see if I would ask anything about her death. I don’t. Why upset him? What’s at risk at this point is my own life! 

A moment later, he pivots to an entirely different subject. In his professional tone, he asks, “Are you pregnant, or plan to become pregnant?”

“Not anytime soon!” I gasp, somewhat in shock. “Why?”

“Because.” He shakes the bottle to a loud rattle. “Your pills are about to run out.”

“Pills? What pills?”

“Xanax.” 

He steps closer to me and raises the bottle to my unbelieving eyes. The name, printed on the label in bold letters, is mine. 

“What? That can’t be!” I cry. “I’m not on any medication, let alone this—”

“You’ve been taking it for months, to treat your anxiety.”

“Oh no, I haven’t—”


“Why try to deny it?” Kabir laughs in my face. “You seem to be in panic, even now!”

About that, he’s right. But the only cure for my dread is for him to let me go, which is doubtful, or for me to find a way around him, which is far-fetched. 

Kabir crushes a bunch of pills into a small heap of powder, transfers it to a glass, and pours some wine into it, all in plain view, as if wanting to show me the method of my own demise.

I can’t afford to give him what he seems to want: the pleasure of seeing how scared I am. 

He swirls the wine about, then raises it to my nose, so I may smell its aroma. “I’m happy to hear you’re not expecting a baby.” His tone is loaded with sarcasm. “I wouldn’t want it to suffer any ill-effects, once you have your little drink.”

I brace myself into being stubborn. “You can’t force me.”

“You know I can.” He coughs up a sharp laugh. “And then, there would be no more need to have this prescription renewed.”

What I want—even more than a chance to save myself—is to give the doctor a taste of his own medicine.

In a heartbeat, my hands turn clammy. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.” 

He growls, “Sure you do! You’ve been asking too many questions about me, about my trip to India years ago, and about the woman I married there. No one gets to do all that and live to tell the tale.”

I hesitate to ask, “Not even your wife?”

“Especially not her.”

“What about me?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Am I going to survive the night?”

“Trust me, it is with a heavy heart that I must kill you.” Kabir comes closer, strokes my chin. “Such a beauty.” For a second, his eyes seem sad, almost. “Such a waste.”

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"I am a devoted fan of Uvi Poznansky, and keep coming back to her wonderful books. In Ash Suspense Thrillers are three gripping novels all in one, each suspenseful with a wonderful, courageous young character who will stay with you."

J.A. Schneider, Author




Friday, June 17, 2022

Let me in, hold me tight

  

   Mirrored in the open wing of the piano, her face is so young, so alive with the red glow of her hair. Her green eyes shine back from the polished surface. This, I suppose, is why my father is so drawn to Anita. Apparently, he wants her to learn to play the piano, but then—even though she is just a beginner—he expects her to reach a level which no one can sustain. Not even mom.
In our family, forgiveness is something you pray for, something you yearn to receive—but so seldom do you give it to others. 
“Go away, Ben,” says Anita, without even turning around. “I don’t want to play. And you, you can’t make me! Hell,” she says sharply, “I’ll do as I please.” 
Now she darts a glance at me as if to ask, What, you laughing at me? 
No, I wish to say. What I want is... Well, I am not really sure: perhaps, just to lay my head here, on your shoulder. Perhaps, to lean my brow against your lips. Perhaps, to touch the tiny freckles on your cheek. Above all else, I want—but cannot bring myself to tell you—I really want to hear you laugh. 
Just like here, this note. Listen, can you hear it? This soft sound, rolling, rising, ringing up here?
Anita shakes her head, as if she could detect the whisper, the quiet whisper of my thoughts. To me, her pose is so alluring when she bends down to the floor, in the shadow of the piano, to pick up some crumpled piece of paper. Then she starts twisting away under me. For all I know, she is aiming to get up, to leave me here, alone. 
Is this a game she is playing with me? I do not have the faintest idea. But if it is, perhaps I can beat her in it. 
So then, bang! I pound the keys, this time fortissimo—with full strength!—as if to cry, Stop! No more darkness, no more gloom! There’s a thud, there’s a boom! Hear this, right here? Hear my voice? Tell me, Yes—you have no choice! 
And before this phrase fades out Anita straightens her back, and places her hand on the keys. Then, to my astonishment, she plays the next phrase of music, this time with raw, intense force, which I never knew existed in her, bringing it to the verge of destruction, making it explode all around me. And I, in turn, explode with the following one, because how can I let her outdo me? I am, after all, The Entertainer... 
Here I come! Here I drum! No more woes. Let me close! Let me in, hold me tight! Don’t resist me, do not fight—
At this point Anita kicks the bench back, and I tip it over behind us. She sways her hips to the beat, and I tap the floor. And we find ourselves bouncing there, almost dancing in place, playing the piano side by side: she on the high notes, I—on the low. 
Her intervals are somewhat uneven, her melody is off, here and there. But these things do not matter—not to me, anyway—because just like Anita, or even more than her, I happen to be out of control, maybe because it has been a long while since the last time I practiced. I have not touched the keys for so many years, out of nothing else but rebellion, a silent rebellion against my mother. So my fingers feel a bit rusty—and yet I respond, quite swiftly, to the way Anita plays. I do it in an instant, harmonizing the sound, filling in some of the awkward intervals with a flurry of chords. 
Sometimes I find myself having to take my hand away, so she can play the same key immediately after me. On some notes, my right hand crosses her left hand, in an exchange that is wild and fiery—like no duet I have ever seen, or listened to! One way or another it blends, it mixes into a sound, which you might call a crude, unruly, unrestrained racket. But to the ears of a madman, it can be called music.
If my mother could see me now... If, out of nowhere, she would appear—which would make me jump to attention—I can only imagine how she would draw back, how she would wince at having to listen to this thing, this terrific uproar, which for some reason, makes it all the more delightful to my ears.



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


The White Piano

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 "A feast for the armchair psychologist. 
Reveals insights that can touch and frighten each of us"

Thursday, June 16, 2022

Can I save her? Is she still present?

 

Sometimes I wonder: after such a long time together, how little do we know each other?
Who is this woman, with whom I have built a family? Behind this frightened gaze, is this really Natasha, my love, my inspiration? Can I stop her from becoming even more damaged? Can I save her? Is she still present?
And if this is no longer Natasha as I know her, Perhaps this is Rochelle? Perhaps she is just fooling me—and not only me but everyone else too, including the doctors—because... Because to win a victory against a dangerous foe, sometimes you must work your way through deception, through secrets and lies.
Is she just pretending—for reasons known only to her—to be a new person, different from the one I thought she was? 
Oh, how I would like to believe that!
I lean over to comb that unruly strand of hair away from her eye. 
At first, Natasha seems startled. Then she lets me tuck it, ever so gently, around her ear.
I say, “There’s so much I want to ask you, sweetheart.”
“Really?” she asks, with a reluctant tone. She stares blankly at the corner of the kitchen floor, evading my eyes as if in anticipation of some trick question. “Like what?”
“Remember that night, in Vernon?”
She replies, “Yes,” but does so with a shaky tone, which means no, I don’t really remember but I’ll give you the answer you want. Just let me be.
I wipe a bit of syrup from her chin. She must have licked it when I wasn’t looking. “You told me,” I say, “that come what may, you would never forget that night.”
“That night?” she says. “Which one?”
“In Vernon, when we woke up in each other’s embrace, to the sound of shots.”
I pause for a second, so she may reply. And as I wait for her, the memory comes back to me. It seems so fresh, so vivid, as if it happened just yesterday...
Following the failed attempt to blow the bridge, fights erupted between French Resistance fighters and German soldiers. Rochelle and I ran frantically through the narrow streets to join Monsieur Antoine and about forty other fighters. 
Upon arriving at city hall, he handed us some home-made explosives, which we started hurling, along with the other fighters, at German tanks and trucks. I remember the shine in her eyes. “This,” she cried out to me, “is a life worth living!”
Just then, one of the tanks caught fire. The blast pushed her back, accidentally, into my arms. Oh, what a fiery woman she used to be!
And still, there is fire in her. 
I dread the day when she will stop playing altogether. As long as her music—such as it is—is full of rage, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps there is still hope. 


Up to the moment I listened to this passage, I thought that acting is merely the skill to pretend. Then, I heard Don Warrick read it and learned that the opposite is true. Acting is the journey to find the truth from within.



"In this collection of WWII love stories, Lenny and Natasha had an unforgettable romance and love story from the 1940's through the 1970's. He was a marine. She was a concert pianist . Their story is heart-rendering." 
~ BJ Robinson, Author

Tuesday, June 14, 2022

So, are you ready to spend your last moments with me?

 

 “So, are you ready to spend your last moments with me? I promise not to disappoint.” Vlad leans over me from behind, his left arm tightening around my waist, his right elbow resting over the tip of my shoulder so as to steady his wrist, his control of the knife. 

I try to swing my arm back and hit him, which only serves to make his grip more painful.

“What is the point of resisting me? Give it up, will you? I’m going to tell you a little story.” Vlad gives me one rough shake after another, which brings me to the verge of fainting. 

When I come to, he presses on. “Long ago, when I was a child, my mother used to be a seamstress. I would watch her pluck pins out of the pincushion and mark the design on the fabric.” 

His story sounds nostalgic, at first—but I know it is a prelude for a kill.

Next to my ear, he’s grinding his teeth. “Oh, how I hated her customers for nudging her to hurry! How I hated her for bowing down before them like a common servant! All for a few meager rubles. I was embarrassed by it. Infuriated.”

I say not a word, as I recall him sharing a childhood memory with Linda before slitting her throat.

“By the way my darling Mamushka averted her eyes from me, she probably knew how I felt,” he says, his voice cracking. “But she never acknowledged my hurt; never shared her own. Instead, she focused only on the stitch, on executing it with absolute precision. In a barely audible hiss, she would quote this Russian proverb, which has guided my hand ever since. ‘Measure seven times, cut once.’”

I can’t see his smile—but feel it, somehow, at my back, leaching into my flesh, sinking into my bones. He lets the blade hover over the base of my neck, barely coming into contact, barely imparting its cold touch. 

“For you,” says Vlad, “I am willing to take things real slow, real gentle—not like I did with Linda.”

With effort, I find my voice. “Let me go.”

“Later.” He scores my skin, ever so lightly. “This is going to be real easy. Like slicing through butter.” 

Hoping someone out there would hear me, I scream at the top of my lungs. 

Vlad draws in a deep breath, which tells me how aroused he is, preparing for the slash. Just then, a sudden noise outside catches our attention. My body trembles; his shakes. 

“What the hell was that?” he asks.

And now, here is that sound again, only louder. A second rock hits the window, this one busting it wide open, shards of glass sent spinning across the floor, one of them catching a dim ray of light. 

Caught by surprise, Vlad inadvertently loosens his hold on me for a second, which is time enough for me to slip out of it, fall to my knees, and grasp the sharp fragment from the floor—at long last, a weapon!—which I slam, with all the power I can muster, right into his foot.

Yowling, he folds over. He tries to take a step, but the shard pins him in place. Tearing his foot away would free him—at the cost of cutting open the wound and causing even more damage. In torment, Vlad seems to have no courage for that.

Just in case he manages to muster it, I crawl away as fast as I can. Hands bleeding, I gather more glass splinters from the floor so if he comes after me, I can use them to fight him off. 



Overdue

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

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"Overdue, by Uvi Poznansky, is a thrilling ride through pandemic-ridden Los Angeles with a fiery heroine, the nastiest of villains, and plenty of heart-pounding action." 
~Aaron P. Lazar, Audible reviewer

Monday, June 13, 2022

When tears well in your eyes, I will kiss them dry

 I wish I could lie here forever, by her side, but it’s time to get up. First I turn on the radio. A song is playing, and it is so beautiful, so poignant, such a fitting note to accentuate what I feel, to bring about a possible conclusion to the highs and lows of the music of us.


In times of sorrow, when you sigh

When tears well in your eyes

I will kiss them dry

I’m on your side

You’re not alone, no need to cry

Between us there is no divide


If you’re in trouble, if you stumble and fall 

I will help you rise

If you happen to falter, if you crawl

I will help you rise


I put my pants on, go to the kitchen, fill a small pot with water and bring it to a boil for the eggs. Meanwhile I squeeze grapefruit juice into two glasses and wait for the two slices of bread to pop out of the toaster. I set two plates on the table, one on each side of the crystal vase. It is the same vase her Pa bought for her Mama to mark their anniversary a generation ago. 

I had been too drained to think about it until last night, when on a whim I bought a bouquet of fresh flowers in lovely hues of white, pink, and purple. Why did I do it? Perhaps for old times’ sake. By now I have stopped hoping to surprise my wife with such frivolities, because she pays little attention, lately, to the things I do. So for no one in particular I stand over the thing, rearranging the orchids, spray roses, and Asiatic lilies as best I can, to create an overall shape of a dome. 

And then—then, in a blink—I find myself startled by a footfall behind me. A heartbeat later I hear her voice, saying, “Lenny?”

I turn around to meet her eyes. My God, this morning they are not only lucid but also shining with joy.

In a gruff voice, choked, suddenly, with tears, I ask her, “What is it, dear?”

And she says, “Don’t forget.”

“What, Natashinka?”

“I love you.”

Spreading my arms open I stand there, speechless for a moment. Without a word she steps into them. We snuggle, my chin over her head. She presses it to my bare chest. I comb through her hair with my fingers. And once again, we are one.

Then she points at the vase.

“For you,” I say. “Looks like some old painting, doesn’t it?”

“Still life,” she whispers. “With memories.”

Then Natasha lifts her eyes, hanging them on my lips as if to demand something of me, something that has been on her mind for quite a while. Somehow I can guess it. She is anticipating an answer, which I cannot give. 

Instead I kiss her. She embraces me but her eyes are troubled, and the question remains.

“Without the memories,” she asks, “is it still life?”


Apart from War

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This trilogy includes three novels, where one begins where the previous one ends, so you keep yourself immersed in the times and in the saga that begins when Lenny and Natasha first meet. Follow them from the US to England to France during WWII.



"Excellent character driven stories. Enjoyable and exhilarating. tragically heartbreaking but beautiful at the same time. The lengths we go for love is never defined and Lenny and Natasha prove this."
~Jason, Audible listener

Monday, June 6, 2022

Meet my author friends

 Meet my author friends!

We bring you amazing stories

Narrated by great voice actors

just in time for summer! 

Join us as a GOING guest

for a chance to win our audiobooks:


Summertime Blues

Stories for a lazy time





Uvi Poznansky


"I paint with my pen and write with my paintbrush.”


@UviPoznansky

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Allen Kent


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


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@AllenKent19

A.L. Butcher


“A. L. Butcher is an award-winning author of alchemical dark fantasy, historical fantasy, short stories and twisted verses.”


@libraryoferana

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Casi McLean


Escape into imagination ... discover the magic of Casi McLean—romance, suspense, & mystery thrillers.


@CasiMcLean 

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Chariss K. Walker


“I write to inform, delight, and inspire readers.”


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Colleen Mooney


"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!”


@Mooney_Colleen

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Cynthia Hamilton


@AuthorCynthiaH

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Dänna Wilberg


To me writing is like dancing, dancing with words.


@DannaWilberg

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Debra Parnley


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Eric J. Gates


“Our small blue marble in space is replete with the unexplained, just sitting there, waiting for a thriller writer to come along and have some fun with it.”


@eThrillerWriter

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Inge-Lise Goss


Award-Winning multi-genre author. In my former life I was a CPA and now I love the journeys where my characters take me.”


  @ngeGoss 

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J.C. Fields


"Suspense Thrillers that keep you turning the page"


@TheJCFields 

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Libby Fischer Hellmann


"Author of compulsively readable thrillers"


@libbyhellmann

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Linnea Tanner


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


@linneatanner

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Malcolm Tanner 


"I write twisting, turning thrillers where characters intertwine, yielding mysteries with plenty of 'who-done-it' options that build to surprising climaxes.”


@Bill8728095211

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M.S. Spencer


I write mysteries full of red herrings, straw men, and other creatures ~ a tale spinner who loves to live & lives to write.


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P.D. Workman


Writing riveting mystery, suspense, and young adult fiction about real life issues.


@pdworkmanauthor 

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S.R. Mallery


"History is woven into my stories with a delicate thread."


@sarahmallery1

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Susan Keene


“I write so people can travel without leaving their homes.”

 

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