Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Surreal and thought-provoking!

Just discovered this review of the audiobook edition of my horror book, Twisted:

Susan Patterson

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  • Twisted | [Uvi Poznansky]
    Twisted
    UNABRIDGED
    "Surreal and thought-provoking!"
    Overall
    Performance
    Story
    A collection of short stories written in surreal prose. As a listened to I, Woman I envisioned Uvi's sculpture of "Can We Take Flight" and it helped me understand the story.

    As a cat owner, I appreciated the cat's point of view in her story of the demanding but aloof cat.

    Heather Jane Hogan, narrator, brought the characters to life.

    I was given a free review copy of this audiobook at my request and have voluntarily left this review.
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Friday, February 2, 2018

I once was lost, but now am found

Coming off the plane I noticed a group of three silent figures and by their deathly pale faces I recognized them: his mother, father, and pregnant wife. They stood together, strangely separated from the hustle bustle of the airport, waiting for me.
They watched in solemn silence as I wheeled the casket toward them. It was a tense moment. No questions were asked, no tears shed. The mother, still reeling from the shock of losing her son, did not cry. Instead she bit her lips, hard. The father wrapped his arm around her for support, but he was the one that seemed closest to the verge of collapse. 
Then he steadied himself, somehow, and with a gentle motion, stroked the flag that wrapped the coffin. 
“So sorry for your loss,” I said, feeling awkward for using a phrase that was too weak and all too common to convey what I was feeling.
He nodded his head to signal that he heard me, but neither he nor the mother could utter a single word. In their place, the soldier’s young wife came to me, holding something in her hand. 
Softly she said, "When Charlie came home on his last leave, he gave me the Marine Corps emblem off his hat. At first I refused it, knowing that without the emblem, he risked not being readmitted to the base.”
I said, “Perhaps he had a premonition of what would come his way and wanted you to keep it.”
“Yes,” she whispered, clutching it to her heart. “I still have it. It's a cherished memento.”
Meanwhile, from out of nowhere, a lone bagpiper came by. In the midst of a busy airport he looked like an apparition from a different place and time, marching slowly towards us. As he strolled past the flag-draped casket I caught the music he was playing: it was an old song, written by an Englishman who in the early part of his life had been an outspoken atheist, libertine, and slave trader, only to find his faith after riding out a storm at sea.
Amazing Grace.
The sound of it was magical. It quelled the noise of people fussing, people walking all about, rushing to and fro with suitcases and stuff. At the same time it calmed the silence, the angry silence in my heart, opening it anew to sadness and to joy.
It was then that the soldier’s wife took a step forward to the casket and placed the emblem on it, which for her meant the beginning of farewell, and for the fallen, the end of a long journey, the journey home. 
Her voice trembled as she started singing for him,

Amazing grace... How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now am found
Was blind, but now I see.

Her voice was so soft, so heartbreakingly delicate, and yet it made the hair rise on my head and the flesh quiver on my bones. I felt—oh, I can’t explain what I felt! It was not only grief for this man, who was a brother of mine even though I had never come to know him, but also pity for his family and for all us, civilians and soldiers, the fallen, the wounded, the loved ones back home, all the lives forever changed by this horrific war.
In my childhood, my mother used to sing Amazing Grace to me in place of a lullaby, because it had always calmed me down before she tucked me in, before she said good night. 

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come
’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The music made me think of Natasha. In a complete reversal of emotion I found myself overcoming my rage, my sense of betrayal. Suddenly I realized that whatever had caused the break between us should be set aside. It was time to accept and be accepted in return. 
I, too, was coming home. 
And I could not wait to see my father.

 Lenny in The Music of Us

 When my amazing narrator, Don Warrick posted this chapter for my review, he told me, 

"Ordinarily, I would not have posted another chapter for you to listen to until corrections were completed on the chapter du jour, but since the corrections for 11 are pretty slight, I went ahead and posted 12 New this morning. This is a tough one.

Not at all sure about it yet, even though I have listened several times. The real challenge is the "Amazing Grace". Give it a listen and let me know what you think."
In reply I said, "I thought it was beautiful, Don! Your voice singing as the young widow (and later, as the mother) really lend the meaning of this heart breaking moment." 


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"The Music of Us" is a wonderful love story from the first sentence until the very last. It touched my heart." 
- Cary Allen Stone, Author

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Wednesday, January 31, 2018

I’m Not Sorry

A poem by my father, Zeev Kachel

I'm not sorry for the hours that I wasted
Suspended in my dreams and idle thought
I'm not sorry for the days I ruined
The only thing I care about is the luster I did blot

I care that that’s the way our lives are going
In power games, for which we'll pay the price,
I ache, because of our misunderstanding
Because that which is between us turned hard as ice

I care nothing for the roses that have withered 
Over their fleeting fragrance I will shed no tears
What pains me now is the way I hurt you
And that if I ask forgiveness, no one hears

No way to settle this, to heal the cuts
In this world there's a price for everything
The echo of our steps is the witness left behind us
As the light that glowed upon us is already blackening.

Excerpt from Home


★ Inspired by poetry? Treat yourself a gift ★


"I was dazed with the beautiful enormity of emotions as I read through the pages of this eloquent read. The range in which this read has stretched my heart and soul through an abundant of emotions that have enraptured my mind. I found myself laughing with joy for the wonder of greatness felt." 
- De Ann Townes Jr., Poet


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Will you tell me already?

I could hear the bedsprings moan under the weight of her Mama. Perhaps now she was sitting up, pulling the bedspread all the way up to her three chins, and adjusting the glasses over her nose so she can glare at me over their frame, even though I was all the way across the ocean. 
I imagined seeing her cheeks through those lenses, with a detailed, dilated view of the crinkles under the droopy eyelids. 
“I’m sure that waking us up makes no difference to you,” she said.
To which I said, “Why would you think that, Mrs. Horowitz?”
“Because,” she said, “you must think that we here in the Big Apple are up and about around the clock, and besides, we can’t wait to get a call from an important persona such as yourself at any time whatsoever, day or night!”
Utterly dumfounded I could not bring myself to say another word, which made it all the more difficult to put together a whole sentence, to beg her to wake up her daughter.
So I was just about to say goodbye and so sorry, my mistake, this will never happen again, I promise, when all of a sudden Mrs. Horowitz said, “Natasha isn’t here.”
“What?” I cried. 
“You deaf? I said, she isn’t here!”
“Where, then, is she?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“You’re her Mama! Aren’t you supposed to know?”
“It’s all your fault,” she said.
To which I said, “Naturally.”
She had always been known for being overbearing, but even for her, this relentless attack on me seemed a bit much, which made me realize, suddenly, that this was her way of dealing with something else, something that made her feel powerless.
And indeed, a heartbeat later she started crying. “I’m very, very worried about Natasha,” she sniveled. “And because of this I wasn’t able to fall sleep all night!”
I hesitated to point out that according to her own words, Mrs. Horowitz had just been rudely arisen from a snooze. 
Instead I asked, “Did Natasha say where she was going?”
“She did,” said her Mama, in a teary voice.
“And—”
“And you’re not going to believe it. I heard it with my own ears and I still can’t believe it.”
“Please,” I pleaded. “Tell me!”
“Natasha,” she said, “is a delicate girl.”
“She’s a princess.” 
“Exactly! And until you showed up in her life, she was in a slumber, so to speak. She lived in a world of dreams, smiling at a rainbow, crying for a lost star, and giving herself to nothing else but her music, all of which made it easy for me to manage her career. Well, perhaps ‘easy’ is not the right word, ‘possible’ is. But no, not anymore! Now, unfortunately, my daughter knows what she wants and has an opinion of her own about every little thing, which of course has to be the exact opposite of mine, and the worst thing is, she takes bold action about it, which is quite clearly a mistake, and she does it with half-witted haste, which means that as forceful as I thought I was, I can do little to stand in her way. Oh my, she is out of control!”
“So sorry to hear it,” I said. “But—”
“You should be, because without me by her side, guiding her, she’s going to find herself in trouble in a big hurry.”
“Will you tell me already?” I said. “Where is she?”


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Dancing with Air

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"The writing of this intense story of love and heartbreak is what makes it a classic. You'll go through the wringer with this one, but you'll never forget it."
 ~J.A. Schneider, author


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Saturday, January 27, 2018

Sunlight glows all around her

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.


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 "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
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Friday, January 26, 2018

Tell me 5 interesting things about you

I was asked to mention 5 interesting facts about me, so here goes:
  • I taught myself to swim breast stroke, so my style is rather unusual to observe, but it works, somehow... lol. I do my laps for a whole hour, twice a week.
  • I cannot sing to save my life, which is just the reason why I adore anyone who can. Perhaps that is why my characters have musical talents. I would like to think that I have a feel for rhythm, which expresses itself in my poetry, but music is more than a beat, it allows you to soar over the notes.
  • In both my series, The David Chronicles and Still Life with Memories, I find it amazing--and hope you will too--to live in the skin of the character through an entire series of novels, and to experience events from youth to old age. In a way, this is similar to the way I sculpt: I let the figure age under my fingers, letting it go back and forth in time until I fix its features and its skin.
  • I am an artist, poet, and author. I have published 25 books, including novels, novellas, poetry collections, and children’s books. My art and my writing are two sides of the same coin: I write with my paintbrush, and paint with words. In art, I use different mediums, which enriches my designs: I sculpt (in bronze, clay, and paper); I draw in charcoal, ink, and pencils; I paint in watercolor and oils and create animations. Similarly, in my literary work I write in different genres, which enriches my thinking. 
  • I find great joy in working on challenging projects with other creative individuals. This is especially true when I am working on the audiobook editions of my books with amazingly talented voice artists. 
Now tell me 5 interesting things about you!

My charcoal drawing, inspired by a small animal bone

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Thursday, January 25, 2018

Brave comes in all shapes and sizes

A short and sweet review for the audiobook edition of my WWII Spy Thriller, Marriage before Death:

Susan Patterson

Listener Since 2015
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