Audiobook Extravaganza: Do You Hear What I Hear?

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To bring you amazing stories, beautifully narrated.

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In this Christmas extravaganza

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Do You Hear What I Hear?

Uvi Poznansky	The Music of Us	Ash Suspense Thrillers Trilogy
	Apart from War	A Peek at Bathsheba
A.L. Butcher	The Light beyond the Storm Chronicles	The Last Forrest
	Beyond the Shattered Mirror	The Kitchen Imps and Other Dark Tales
Casi McLean	Timeless Secrets	In Time for Christmas
	Timeless Treasures	Destiny
Chris Patchell	Find Her	Save Her
Diane Merrill Wiggington	Lara’s Story	Angelina’s Secret
Inge-Lise Goss	Fatal Limit	The Cost of Crude
	Cisco Bandits	Diamonds and Lies
J.C. Fields	The Fugitive Trail	A Lone Wolf
Kathleen Harryman	The Promise	When Dankness Falls
Linda Watkins	Storm Island
Linnea Tanner	Apollo’s  Raven	Dagger’s Destiny
	Amulet’s Rapture
M.L. Hamilton	The Peyton Brooks’ Mysteries
PJ Fiala	Saving Shelby	Defending Kierman
	Holding Hadleigh	Ford: Finding his Fire
Sandra Nikolai	False Impressions
S.R. Mallery	When in Rome	Endangered Spells
Susan Keene	Wedding Cake Murder	Finding Lizzy Smith
Valerie J. Clarizio	Covert Exposure
Victoria Dougherty	Breath	Savage Island
	Of Sand and Bone

Does Natasha dream about operating in the shadows, about turning into a spy?

 Now, all these years later, I wonder: does Natasha dream about operating in the shadows, about turning into a spy? When she cries in her sleep, is she still there, in a hideout or on some route of escape? Having lived through perils no one else can imagine, does she still sense the excitement, a heightened vibration of life going through her veins? 

Is there enough time for me to listen to her story, to commit it to paper—even as she is losing the words?

I wish I could sweep her off her feet, the way I did in our youth, and kiss her till she is weak at the knees—but who knows how she will react. At this point I have to be more careful with her.

“I hope you know,” I say, at last answering her question and hoping she can, somehow, hear me on the other side of the glass door. “These were still the good times.”

I slide it open. Her hands fly faster and faster over the keys, to the point of becoming a blur, and her music is no longer the stuff of fairytales. It is becoming wilder, and I sense what it is she brings out of her piano, out of the belly of the beast. 

It is darkness, downright darkness that can not be mistaken. What can it be called, but despair? 

Apart from War

Paperback ★ Hardcover

Audiobook

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.

"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

Animation: The one robbed of its essence

Plucked Porcupine

I miss the swish of grass and clover

The crunch of twigs, no pangs, no hunger,

That place is far--I must not pine--

For a poor, plucked porcupine

I watch out for the angry poet

I stumble back, too late to exit,

She glares at me, at these sharp spines

Her ink has spilled, so here she whines

I hate, I hate to wish her ill 

She writes this poem with my quill

I often feel, when drawing a person especially, that I'm 'robbing' them of their essence in order to give it to my art. So this poem is written from the point of view of the one robbed of its essence for the sake of art... 

This was quite a challenge to animate because the poem is so short -- a whole story in a capsule -- to the point I cut off some of the earlier animation idea because less is often more...

The finishing touch for my Plucked Porcupine

The finishing touch for my paper sculpture, Plucked Porcupine: eyes. They hang down by a thread, which allows them to twist in the air as he moves about. 

The quill at his feet is made of the sharp spines of the porcupine, which explains why he stares down at the red ink, contemplating its miserable fate to be plucked for the sake of writing inspiring literature. 

At first, I figure I’ve managed to shake him off—until I catch sight of his shadow

 The library doors come to a near-close behind me and, in a snap, I hear a muffled voice from inside. Somebody calls out my name, which is odd. No one is supposed to know me here. Astounded, I double up on my speed. 

Again, he calls me, louder this time, which turns his voice into a sharp, rather unpleasant squeak. Startled, I turn around. This guy—no, not a guy exactly, rather a boy no older than seventeen—is running up to me, his t-shirt stained with perspiration, especially under those scrunchy arms. 

His upper lip glistens with sweat. “You left your library card on the counter,” he says, handing it to me with a misshapen smile that hangs, quivering, over his chin. 

He’s slightly shorter than me, which forces me to look down at him. “Thank you,” I say. 

As I turn to go, he grabs my elbow, clamping it with a clammy hand. “Hey, can I carry your books for you?”

“No need,” I say, somewhat worried about hurting his feelings, but refusing him firmly all the same, so as not to impart the wrong impression. “I’d rather carry them myself.”

“Wait.”

Shall I stop for him? That would invite more unwanted advances, so I don’t. Instead, I walk toward the near-by public swimming pool, where warning shouts of parents are drowned by shrieks of their children as they slip, one by one, out of the mouth of the water slide. One child after another hits the water with a spattering splash.

 Once these cries fade behind me, I notice another sound, the sound of footfalls. It’s much too subtle, too soft. 

I cast a look over my shoulder, surprised to find him at arm’s length. His milky face riddled with pimples, he appears jolted by my sudden attention. 

Slowing down to a shaky step, he starts asking questions—where I live, how old I am, am I new to this place—all of which I deflect with purposely vague answers. 

I talk little, but can’t stop him from telling me more than I want to know about himself. His name is Paul. He works at the library after school. Not that he likes the job, but it’s better than going home to his mother, who doesn’t understand him at all and cares only about herself. Women are just like that, if you ask him, which I don’t. Seeing me, he says, is the best part of his day. 

In spite of myself, I feel pity for the poor guy. But I ask nothing, nothing at all—until he asks me out, which sets me back on my heels. “What?” I cry, not sure I’ve heard right. “You mean, on a date?”

“Yes,” says Paul. “Is that so hard to imagine?”

“I’m at least five years older than you—”

“Oh, that. I don’t mind. Do you?”

Say something, I tell myself. Anything. “Sorry. I’m already dating someone.” Which is not exactly a lie, mind you. The boyfriend I left behind does love me. I love him too, and now that I’m here I long for his presence. I do. But as I told Michael before leaving Irvine, I need some time alone, away from everyone, away from him, too, at least until I figure out who I am.

In my absence, Michael has thrown himself into his work. I can just picture him, in his garage, fine-tuning the virtual reality world he’s created for this or that gaming client. Being alone, he can delve into his work with a greater focus. Even so, he keeps telling me that he needs me by his side, because he finds our closeness inspiring.

“You’re dating someone, really?” asks Paul, with a bitter note of disbelief. “Funny, I don’t see him around you. Where, then, is he?”

 Overcoming an urge to say, “None of your business,” I resort to excusing myself, somehow. I say, “I have stuff to do. I must hurry. Goodbye.”

I rush back to the pool, enter the women’s locker room, and hide there for a while, occasionally peeking out the door to make sure that Paul isn’t waiting for me. 

At first, I figure I’ve managed to shake him off—until I catch sight of his shadow. There it is on the pavement, the outline of a messy shock of hair, creeping in and out of view from around the corner. 

Overkill

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

Paperback ★ Hardcover

Audiobook

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?

5 out of 5 Overdue Stars for this one!

What a meticulous, thought out review by Leonard Tillman,for my thriller, Overdue. Leonard is an Educator, Author, Book Reviewer, Book Blogger, Writer, and most importantly... Animal Lover! Find him at http://leonardtillerman.com.

Leonard T

5.0 out of 5 stars 5 out of 5 Overdue Stars for this one! 

Reviewed in the United States on September 28, 2022

Verified Purchase

This can be a cruel and mixed-up world we live in at times.  Potential danger lurking around every corner, waiting to pounce on its latest, unsuspecting victim.  It can be difficult to ever feel safe in such an unpredictable environment.  In the middle of such chaos, many people will point out that at least we have ourselves and family.  Nobody can take away our family and personal identity they profess.  Oh really???

In her novel, Overdue, Uvi Poznansky clearly illustrates the flaw with such simple logic.  Particularly if you mix with the wrong type of people.  This is a top-notch thriller that packs a powerful punch!

Overdue is Book 4 of the Ash suspense thrillers,  Vlad, the leader of a Russian crime organization, is lying comatose in the hospital after being grazed by a bullet fired by our protagonist, Ash.  However, is he really comatose like he seems?  Or is this a clever scheme to escape and avoid paying the consequences of his actions?  Ash believes it is the latter and is not about to let him escape her grasp.  Unfortunately for her, life has a way of throwing unexpected curve balls our way.  In this case, it comes in the form of a brutal pandemic.  This forces Ash to step away from her plans and "guard duty."  In the process, Vlad (who was indeed playing possum) escapes and is soon back to his evil ways.  Shortly thereafter,  Ash finds herself smack-dab in the middle of a personal identity theft and health insurance fraud scheme.  Having had her identity stolen, Ash, and numerous other individuals who have suffered the same fate, are at risk of complete ruin.  This has Vlad written all over it, and Ash will stop at nothing to bring him to justice.

Without a doubt, this novel puts the word thrill in thriller!  It is full of action, suspense, mystery, and intrigue.  The author does not throw all of this at the reader right off the bat, however.  No, it is gradually unraveled as the novel progresses.  Bit by captivating bit.  This allows us as readers to truly engage in the tale as we try to figure out for ourselves what is coming next.  Just when we think we know...BAM... something nobody saw coming hits us from behind.  Poznansky truly knows how to weave her tale, so the reader becomes part of the entire experience, as opposed to an impartial bystander.

In regards to characters, we are once again treated to a literary gem.  As the protagonist, Ash could actually be any one of us.  She is put into a terrible scenario through no fault of her own.  This scenario is so identifiable for so many of us in today's world.  This authenticity works to draw us in even further to this clever tale.  As an added bonus, the novel presents Michael as Ash's love interest.  He is an entirely loyal and likable character who, in many ways, is the complete opposite of Ash.  He is much more easygoing and lighthearted.  This allows us not only to see his genuinely positive traits but gives us a real glimpse into Ash's vulnerable side as well.  Very intelligent writing!

In contrast to Ash and Michael, Vlad and his team of antagonists are presented as truly despicable individuals.  Willing to destroy and feed upon any poor soul as long as it fits their particular purpose.  I felt an intense dislike for them, which is needed to make a story like this work so well.  Characterization at its best!

Unquestionably, I was really able to identify and relate to this novel.  While it was an explosive fictional thriller... it all seemed so real!  The smooth flow of the writing certainly helped put all the exceptionally great story elements together into one cohesive and enthralling package.

My doubts make me realize what I already know. I’m in over my head.

I cast a quick look at my bathroom mirror and apply a dab of makeup over the little scar under the corner of my eye. Then I let my golden retriever, Browny, out into the backyard, but instead of rolling happily in the wet grass or sniffing the flowers in bloom, he just stands there, howling, as if to tell me not to leave.

With barely a thud, I close the door behind me and head out for my date with a someone I barely know, except for two critical things. He’s a doctor. Ma would love this little nugget of information, but not the next one. He’s married.

As I said, Michael should be the last to know. But I’m tempted to call back and tell him that love is not what I’m looking for, and neither is the thrill of having a secret affair. 

Dr. Patel, professor of psychology and neurosurgery, is Chair of Neurological Surgery and Physical Medicine in UCI Medical Center. He is world-renowned for his expertise in aneurysms, arteriovenous malformations, neuro-ophthalmology, and deep brain stimulation. You don’t know what that last bit means? Neither do I, but if he performed it on me, it would explain feeling over-stimulated at times. Other times, I feel dead. I wish I had someone to blame for that.

Seriously, though: his resume is impressive, and his fame goes beyond mere paper credentials. During my stay at the hospital, the nurses talked about him with great admiration. 

As I recall, they praised not only his skills but also his stable family life. According to them, if there was any vice in him, it was his constant quoting from scriptures. His bible thumping is anything but endearing, especially when it comes with that over-the-top note of authority. It annoyed me even during my coma.

To everyone but me, he seems like a perfect man. Which is a bit odd, because when I’ve decided to get him to ask me out, it’s taken little effort on my part—not more than sitting across from him at the hospital cafeteria and ever so slowly, crossing my legs. 

Dr. Patel has led a charmed life—until now. His good fortune is about to end, because of one thing I’ve recently discovered about him. 

He is a fraud.

I hope I’m wrong.

Working with Michael on several of his software projects taught me a few tricks, especially when it comes to hacking. Yesterday, after a few false starts, I managed to get through the database firewalls of  Duke Institute Department of Surgery, listed as Dr. Patel’s residency on his resume. 

My curiosity was innocent, at first. It was driven by a chance meeting with him when I came back for a visit at the hospital, last week. Dr. Patel didn’t seem to remember me, perhaps because I was no longer wrapped in bandages, no longer represented by fluctuations of body temperature, pulse rate, respiration rate, and blood pressure. Somewhat annoyed by being so carelessly forgotten, I needed to assure myself of his observation skills. I wanted to know that his medical insight was indeed as advertised: flawless. 

Breaching the firewalls of the department turned out to be easier than expected, although there was a little nagging feeling of guilt for invading their records, as well as Dr. Patel’s privacy. In the process, my cellphone kept pinging with dual-factor authentication codes. I hope it wasn’t pinging this loudly at the other end, or at least that no one in charge of the database integrity was paying attention to me sneaking inside.

Ignoring the palpitations of my heart, I steeled myself, aiming to glance at his achievements during his training period for just a second. But the exploration extended to several long hours. And yet, by the end of it, there was no mention of anyone by that name during any of the years in question. I checked the information over and again, to no avail. He claims to have trained at Duke Institute, but his name is not listed there. Period.

What am I missing? Have I overlooked some part of the data? If not, why is there such a discrepancy? And what else is a lie in the account of his professional life? 

My doubts make me realize what I already know. 

I’m in over my head.

Overdose

Paperback ★ Hardcover

Ash Suspense Thrillers Trilogy Audiobook

"About halfway through reading Overdose I got to thinking that it would make a great movie, a thriller to match anything that Alfred Hitchcock ever put on the screen (except maybe Vertigo). And then I thought 'If only Hitchcock were alive now. He would love this novel."

~Colm Herron, Author