And that's how their tango begins

 And that's how their tango begins -- he holds up his hand inviting her to join...

A snippet of my upcoming animation.... Stay tuned.

Guided by nothing but an instinct to survive, farther and farther away from home

There he sits, pressed in between bundles and things that keep rattling around him, on top of a horse-driven wagon. Looking up at his parents he can sense something big, something fearful and unspoken casting a shadow over them; and they bend their heads together over him and his sister. He can see an endless line in front, an endless line in back—horses and wagons, wagons and horses as far as the eye can see—all advancing towards the same gray, unclear horizon, all escaping towards the same destination: Unknown.

The sun rises in front of the wagons, and sets behind them. Towns appear and disappear. Rivers pass by, then forests, brick houses, motels. In Minsk they stop. He finds the three-story hotel quite fascinating at first, especially the curved rail of the staircase, which is meant, no doubt, for sliding down and yelling at the top of your voice. Of course, landing down on your butt, he finds out, is an entirely different matter—and so is the harsh, unforgiving look cast down at him by the hotelkeeper.

They settle down for the night. In the rented room, his mommy blesses the Sabbath candles. Her hands are tightly clasped, her eyes closed. And early the next morning they mount the wagon again, and the journey goes on in the dim light, guided by nothing but an instinct to survive, farther and farther away from home. Squinting at the rising sun, Zeev finds it more and more difficult to keep his eyes open. His mind is going numb listening to the wheels as they spin and turn, spin and turn, beating incessantly against the mud.

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I love your bald spot, your dwindling hair

 So this is a snippet for my animation, Tango, which is based on a series of my clay sculptures, featuring a middle-aged man who dances with a different girl in each of the sculptures. Here, she whispers to him, in her most sexy, throaty intonation, "I love your bald spot, your dwindling hair..." 

Her voice will be narrated for the animation by Sarah Mallery, also known as S.R. Mallery. in different phases of her life she's been a singer, a composer, a calligrapher, a quilt artist, and an ESL/Reading teacher. Nowadays she's a USA Today Bestselling Author and a longtime friend of mine. I'm thrilled to incorporate her voice in this animation. Stay tuned...

Then the traveller in the dark... Thanks you for your tiny spark

 I go on to tell him that I knew the old woman who used to occupy this bed. He seems to be listening, so I start drawing from memory how, on my first visit here, she would hunch her shoulders over her empty hands, and lift her head to gape at me, and how her mouth would breathe slowly into the air:

 

Then the traveller in the dark... Thanks you for your tiny spark... He could not see... Which way to go... If you did not twinkle so...

I sing these words for him, with a voice that is thin and barely audible, just like hers used to be. And I hope that it brings to his mind the musical mobile I have seen, in the window back home, hung between one blind and another. I hope he can fall asleep now, dreaming of reaching up, of pulling that string, to make the plush animals turn around, and go flying overhead faster and faster till all is a blur, to the sound of that silvery note, which is chiming, chiming, chiming, as if to announce a moment of birth. 

Afterwards, I cannot figure out for certain at what point my voice has trailed off, leaving me lost in a jumble of memories, fearful to open my eyes, fearful to glance at my watch, to figure out the moment, the exact moment when I have realized that I am alone. 

All I know is that somewhere along its arc, the light has crawled across the wall and leapt onto their pillow, and it is resting there now, on his open eyelids. 

It is a fairly strong light now, a glare that can blind you if you look directly into it, which strangely he seems to be doing. So I rise to my feet to pull the curtain shut, and then, in spite of myself, I glance at him. His chest barely rises. 

He lays there, having wrapped himself in my mother’s arms, his eyelashes still somewhat aflutter, his hands still shivering slightly over his heart, his face pale, nearly blue, and I know that if I would leave him at this moment to go look for Martha, the care giver, it would be over. Dad would be gone by the time I rush back. 

So I draw closer and stand there, behind the head of the bed, over my sleeping mother. From this angle, his ribs seem to move—but I think it is because of her body clinging to him, and because of her breathing, which is so deep and so peaceful. I lean over her arms to take his hands in mine, absorbing his shiver, taking it into my flesh, until finally it dies down. 

And the light, growing even brighter, washes his face, till all that is left is a smile, frozen.

The White Piano

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"Few authors would be able to pull off the manner in which the apparent polar opposites of Ben and Anita begin to bond... but Poznansky has the visual and verbal and architectural skills to create this maze and guide us through it." 

- Grady Harp, HALL OF FAME reviewer

A lady's man

This guy -- a lady man, for sure -- is going to star in my next animation. Stay tuned!

One hell of a wild ride!

A lifelong reader, Cynthia Hamilton turned to writing in 2000 as a means of coping with a debilitating illness. She now has 13 books in print, all of which are available on Amazon. I am greatly honored that she read my thriller, Overdue, and wrote a great review for it:

Cynthia Hamilton

5.0 out of 5 stars One hell of a wild ride!

Reviewed in the United States on August 22, 2023

Verified Purchase

The action in OVERDUE starts in the first line and it doesn’t let up. The pace is at a gallop, and the tension and madcap adventure continues all the way to the end. The characters that populate the book are a quirky and dangerous blend of twisted pranksters and murderous thugs. It’s impossible not to laugh at the way they are portrayed, these menaces to society, despite their odiousness and ghoulish plans. They are wild characters without fear, hellbent on wreaking havoc.

While all this criminal activity is afoot, the protagonists―Ash and her boyfriend―are blissfully unaware of the mayhem coming their way. They are adjusting to the new rules under the pandemic as best they can, and they blithely sidestep the chaos until they are completely surrounded by it and seriously outnumbered.

But even then, Ash, is not without her wits or resources.

This is one of those highly entertaining yarns that keeps the pedal to the metal from start to finish. The predicaments Ash finds herself in are laugh out loud funny, as well as seriously creepy. I read this book in two settings while recovering from an illness and it was the perfect pick-me-up. I really look forward to reading more by this talented author!

Dust -- my stop-motion animation

My stop-motion animation is complete, please check it out.

It is based on my dance sculptures (clay and bronze) and a poem-duet I wrote the night I started creating the first sculpture in this series.

The poem is narrated by brilliant voice actors, Heather Jane Hogan and Bob Sterry, with whom I collaborated on my audiobooks. Please kick the volume up to enjoy their voices.

One way for Vlad to avoid me, avoid paying the price for his crimes, is to play dead

 One way for Vlad to avoid me, avoid paying the price for his crimes, is to play dead; another is to play dying. And who knows, perhaps it’s for real. Perhaps it’s not a game. 

Still, I can’t help but remain on guard, even if to others, it may seem pointless. Last time I saw him—about half a year ago—he lay contorted on the stretched hospital sheet, seemingly immobile, and never once lifted an eyelid to meet my gaze, which brought pity to my heart—but didn’t expunge the fear. 

I keep telling myself there’s no reason anymore to be cautious. I shot him, and now he’s said to be in a coma. About that, I have my doubts. Having spent enough time in his company before the hit, I know him all too well. Vlad rejoices in the pain he inflicts. To him, it means being in charge. He is not likely to relinquish it. Even if his power slips away, it’s not going to be for long.

My brush with his Russian gang is something I’d like to forget. It left me struggling to piece my life together. Like an ink stain, the memory of what happened to me in their hands is somewhat shapeless and yet—indelible. Perhaps the only thing I can do now is give it more definition. If only I can learn his secrets.

I try to think the way he does. What would Vlad do now that the police arrested most of his gang, now that he is no longer in control? He would bide his time until finding the right moment to grab it again. And what better place to lay low than a hospital bed?

My boyfriend, Michael, says I’m overly suspicious. There’s no way to fake being in a coma. I do want to believe that—but having been diagnosed a few months ago as a vegetable myself, I know from experience that faking it is not entirely out of the question. Especially when you start to regain your senses, and no one but you knows you’re already alert.

So I just smile at him and say, “Time will tell.” 

Overdue

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

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Animation snippet "Our limbs entwined"

 So by now I'm seeing the end-of-the-tunnel of my three-minute animation. This snippet is one of my favorites, because it requires the animator (me) to think about not only the motion of the figures but more importantly, of how they express their feelings.

Stay tuned for more...

Can bronze sculptures fly?

 Did you know bronze sculptures can fly? 

This is another snippet for my upcoming animation. Stay tuned...

 

The final chapter in this portion of Ash's life

 A thoughtful review for my thriller, Overdose.

Kindle Customer

5.0 out of 5 stars The final chapter in this portion of Ash's life

Reviewed in the United States on May 4, 2023

This is a fast-paced easy-to-read book. Ash finds herself in a bad situation with an evil doctor manipulating her and wanting to totally control her. She fights off what he has done to her and goes after the truth about him. She meets others who have suffered at his hands and tries to help them. Even his deceased wife assists her from the grave with a message she has left on a cell phone.

Ash's parents are still the difficult pair as they have always been, but seem to be warming up to each other after her dad's new wife dies unexpectedly. Ash has moved back to California and tried to resume her old life, but the doctor that treated her for her head injury that put her on a coma has other plans.

Ash's boyfriend Michael plays an important role in this story, showing his love for her and some of his talents that end up saving the day. Reading this story is sometimes tense, but worth it in the end.

The life of a bronze sculpture

 Stop-motion animation consists of hundreds of split-second snippets. Here is one snippet, bringing to life one of my bronze sculptures. 

Stay tuned for more...

Two dozen partisans, wearing threadbare clothes and shoes that were falling apart at the seams, advanced towards us

Two dozen partisans, wearing threadbare clothes and shoes that were falling apart at the seams, advanced towards us, headed by their leader, a tall man with bright eyes and a square jaw, and followed by the boy, with whom I had escaped from the burning truck. 

They surrounded the two SS soldiers, forced them to kneel down, and tied their hands behind them. 

The Germans were shivering in fear. Were these the same people who—only a few days ago—had strutted around their victims on the way to the execution site? Were these the same people who had charged ahead, wielding their batons, to capture the boy and me? Their sense of authority had collapsed. 

And the little French they used to know must have flown right out of their heads, to the point that not a word was left. One of them cleared his throat a few times, started to say something, then took a breath, somewhat haltingly, only to end up swallowing his spit. And the other made a failed attempt to deny who he was. In a weak, shaky voice, he mumbled, “Ich bin kein Deutsch.”

“Really?” said the leader. “You are not a German? Could have fooled me!”

He made a slight gesture to his men and at once, they raised the Germans to their feet. Then they took them away, not before stripping them of their boots. After all, good footwear was nothing to sneeze at.

Meanwhile, the traitor wiped the beads of sweat off his upper lip. “Will they be shot?” he asked, anxiously.

“No,” said the boy. “They will join the others, down at our camp.”

“What others?” 

“Those who escaped from the burning vehicles. We have rounded them up.”

“Too bad,” said the traitor, who must have been hoping, up to this moment, to be rescued by the Germans. “I mean, too bad for them.”

With that, he swung around and was just about to dart out into the woods when two of the partisans laid their hands him. They relieved him of his Pistolet Automatique and shoved him to the ground.

Marriage before Death

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"The author is able to weave love and war into a captivating story which held me riveted to my seat for the duration." 

- Serenity, HALL OF FAME, TOP 10 REVIEWER

The humble beginning of a new sculpture

This is the humble beginning of a new sculpture. Usually I don't show the process, and wait until the piece is finished in as polished a state as can be. But today, I'm sharing with you how I start building it. I always start by creating not only the face but also the hands and feet -- those are the parts that are most expressive and I give them the attention they deserve. Then I creat a wire armature--a 'stick figure' if you will--and start building the limbs and the body onto this armature. Next time, I'll share how it'll look.

So this is close to the finished piece-- one of two pieces I have in mind. I touched its 'vallies' with brown shoe-polish to accentuate the depth and its ridges with a dab bronze acrylic paint to accentuate the lines. Because I used oil-based clay on a metal armature, he can move his limbs and my next step will be to try and animate his movements.

A thriller that is hard to put down!

 Great review for my mystery thriller, Overkill.

Kindle Customer

5.0 out of 5 stars A thriller that is hard to put down!

Reviewed in the United States on May 3, 2023

Verified Purchase

Several stories here, woven together masterfully! Ash has moved to Florida to help recover from her ordeal of being raped and left in a coma to die. In the new community where she has settled, she finds herself in the middle of another mystery. Missing boys and evidence of someone dying in the house she is renting. Of course Ashley has to find out what happened.

Conveniently her father lives in the same town of Clearwater along with his new wife, Heather, who encounters Ashley and tries to befriend her. She provides some good counsel, but Ash still cannot stand her for what she did to her mother.

Although trying to distance herself from her past, Ash is confronted with a new stalker who is just a boy. But it turns out he is more than a teen who seems to have lust on his mind. When Ashley becomes witness to the murder of the father of a boy she is tutoring, the story takes on a violent twist that puts Ash in mortal danger. How she survives is a combination of recklessness and bravery.

Finding David

Author Anna Belfrage invited me to write a special feature for her wonderful blog--aptly named Stolen Moments--and I'm grateful to her for the opportunity! 

Please check out here 

From art to art – how writer Uvi Poznansky found her David and Bathsheba in various paintings

 

At first I am nothing. A shred of a shred

 So, here is my animation of SHRED (with my paper-engineered creation) -- turn up the volume!

At first I am nothing. A shred of a shred

Not alive… not even dead

An inanimate object lying limp in your hands

Dreaming of oceans, of faraway lands.

When you cut me I won’t cry

You flesh me through pain. I won’t utter a sigh

You give me breath, you make me blink

But I cringe when you paint me pink

You give me eyesight, you give me smell

You control every move. So I must rebel

I’ll rise to a limp and in search of glory

I’ll take my own steps, write my own story

My existence is flimsy, I am destined to fold

But until that time, let me out of your hold

Let me go, let me go… Loosen your grip

Until that moment that ends with a rip.

I pulled him down, bringing him on top of me, and there on the dirt we grappled, blow by savage blow

Having reached bottom I caught his arm and twisted it behind him till he screamed. He crumpled in agony. I pulled him down, bringing him on top of me, and there on the dirt we grappled, blow by savage blow. 

In this scuffle, there was no pretense of civility. No rules—except one: the man who got the upper hand would live to see another day. I punched him in the gut. He kicked me in the groin. With a grunt I rolled away. 

The traitor caught my wrist and sunk his teeth into it. Maddened by the bite I pulled my hand, pulled it free only to come back a moment later and cover his mouth, his nostrils. Gagging, he flailed his arms about, then sank to the ground. I relished the sound of his gasping, gasping for air. 

His bloodshot eye bored into mine. It seemed as if any second now, it would burst. The wounds across his neck, where my chain had choked him in our earlier fight, were smeared with dry blood. Under them, a vein that had been barely visible up to now began throbbing furiously. 

The beret he had taken from the boy fell from his head and rolled across the dust. He became limp. I thought he might pass out—but then, once more, he bit my hand. With a slight tremor in it, my grip started loosening. He squirmed away, only to come back at me with a blunt punch. 

Knock. Strike. Slap.

With that last blow, a strange thing happened to me: time seemed to slow down. I saw his knuckled fist growing larger, coming at me. It seemed so dreamingly sluggish—until at last it hit me. 

My head bounced back. For a moment, everything around me became fuzzy. 

I wiped the sweat off my eyes, only to see his hunched figure— blurred, still—staggering into a stand over me. 

For a while, I must have lost consciousness. When I looked again he was not there anymore, only a hazy background hanging in his stead: distant blue smoke swirling into the sky, marred with ash. 

I was too weak to stir. Oh, how easy it would be to give it up, all this senseless suffering! 

But no: despite the pain, my body screamed to live. I propped myself up against a tree trunk, and wondered: Where was the traitor? Where did he go? 

This scene happens in a forrest, and a fire is spreading from the armed cars that have just been ambushed by the French Resistance fighters. Lenny and the French collaborator, who has helped the Nazis in the selection process earlier, are at each other's throat.

★ Love suspense? Treat yourself to a thrill ★

The complete series:

Still Life with Memories

Volume V: 

Marriage before Death

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"Uvi Poznansky raises the stakes in a high stakes story, filled with uncertainty, drama and suspense... This book is a nail biter and one I found hard to put down. For me, this is Uvi Poznansky's best novel to date." 

- Richard Weatherly, Author

I knew it! She can twist him around her little finger, if she wants to

Lenny’s gone, but still, I’m thinking about him, about how he’s touched on that time, the lost time nearly five years ago, when I went out the door, swearing I ain’t gonna come back to him, not ever. What he hasn’t said—and what left such a bitter taste in my mouth—is how he told me, back then, “You are a nice kid, Anita. Go, go back to where you came from. Go back to your mama.” 

And what he don’t know is that ma wasn’t all too happy to see me, “Because,” she said, “I told you so, didn’t I? Didn’t I say, he’s gonna grow tired of you, and dump you before you know it? He’s gonna go back to his wife, ‘cause it’s her that he wants—not you! And if not her, then—then, it must be something else with him, always something else, like, looking for other women. Maybe they remind him, somehow, of that thing, who knows what it is, which he found in her. Maybe what he’s really looking for is just, like, the idea of her.” 

And when I mumbled, “Whatever,” ma said, “I knew it! She can twist him around her little finger, if she wants to.”

She didn’t tell me nothing else about this thing, this idea of her, which ma thought was fixed, somehow, in Lenny’s head, like some piece of music; and I, I didn’t ask. Instead, I bought a six-pack for her and a six-pack for me, and we sat down on her pillows, on the narrow iron bed, drinking beer; she talking, me weeping all night, after which ma wiped my face, and grabbed the palm of my hand—like she used to do in the old days—to read it. 

And she told me to stay put, to wait for her, ‘cause she had something crucial, something real big to tell me, like, about the future. I reckon she saw some clue of what was coming—but didn’t quite grasp it, not in full, anyway, ‘cause the next thing you know, ma went out, came back a second later, picked the empty beer bottles, and took them with her. Along the way she gave me a peck, smack in the middle of my forehead, which surprised me. 

Then, having kissed me goodbye, she went out again, and then... Then, on her way to work, right there on the corner of Euclid Street—Bang! I could hear the sound, out there—she was killed in a car accident.

★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a family saga ★

The complete series: 

Still Life with Memories

Volume I: 

My Own Voice

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