Do No Harm: Shatter Proof by @JudithLucci

I jumped from my bed and crouched on the floor my arms folded around my head like fragile armor. My eyes searched the dark frantically for my enemy. Finally, I saw it. I saw the apparition of the monster – my father! His cruel eyes shone black and glittered with hate.  I waited, my breath ragged, for the noise. My body quivered with fear and anticipation. Terror consumed my soul as panic shot through my body. I waited for it to begin. My heart thudded against my ribcage. I placed my hand on my chest to keep it from exploding. I didn’t want to be discovered.

A sharp noise - the slap! The noise echoed in the room.  My face dug into the floor as I tried to escape the sound of my enemy and his havoc. My brain emptied conscious thought as my sympathetic nervous system took charge and prepared my tiny body for action.  

A second smack and a cry of pain. I heard bones crack. I felt a thousand eyes watch me. They scrutinized my every move. I was frightened, as terrified and panicked as I’d been years ago when I was three years old. The slap and splintered bones that shattered my life forever over 35 years ago.

I felt a wisp of air touch my cheek as a large hand sliced through the air and separated the molecules. Another slap!  I heard bones crack.  The victim whimpered. The sob became a quiet moan.

My mother lay crumpled like a broken doll as she cried softly on the floor near me. Her breathing sounded funny. My mother’s cheeks glistened with blood and tears. Her broken nose destroyed the symmetry of her beautiful face. Her long blonde hair was matted with blood. Radcliff-educated Melody Fitzpatrick, the daughter of a famous American diplomat, was a mass of crumpled flesh, blood and bones. My mother had fallen in love with a monster who now assaulted her body and mind, blinded by the love that only comes once in a lifetime.

Of course, he wasn’t a monster when my mother married him – that came later when he became a jihadi terrorist, filled with hate for all things Western, including his once-devoted wife.

I lay helpless for an eternity. I felt the sweat dry and evaporate from my body. I opened my eyes. It was dawn. I was at home, in my apartment, safe and sound in the outskirts of Washington DC.  I was safe.

At least for now

Excerpt from Shutter Proof by Judith Lucci

No Longer Available

Do No Harm

A time that should not be forgotten

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A. Lee

Marriage Before Death: WWII Spy Thriller

• Still Life with Memories, Book 5
• By: Uvi Poznansky
• Narrated by: Don Warrick

 A time that should not be forgotten 

Overall ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

    

5 out of 5 stars

Reviewed: 12-23-18

Uvi Poznanski writes of a time almost forgotten by those who were not there, the Freedom Fighters and their continuous fight to free France from the Nazis. This is the story of two individuals, a personal story. She has the ability to give life to the time, creating characters fighting for their beliefs. For lovers of war stories, romance, and spy stories.

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Beautiful and fun book!

A short and sweet review for my illustrated children's book, Jess and Wiggle:

B Nelson

5.0 out of 5 starsBeautiful and fun book!

April 19, 2019

Format: PaperbackVerified Purchase

What a beautiful book! Such colorful and creative original illustrations, playful and whimsical hand lettering - each page is like a work of art. A joy! And then there is the story, written in rhyme. So sweet. "Jess and Wiggle (Imaginata Children's Books)" by Uvi Poznansky is like reading a dream. Everyone will love this delightful and imaginative book.

WWII Collection of Heart-Rendering Love

A short and sweet review for my WWII romance box set, Apart from War:

B. J. Robinson

5.0 out of 5 starsWWII Collection of Heart-Rendering Love

April 18, 2019

Format: Kindle EditionVerified Purchase

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. The author also includes Alzheinner Disease. If you enjoy WWII love stories, this is the collection for you, so don't miss it!

There came the sound of heavy footfalls down the corridor

He remembered how he had stood there, dumbfounded, in front of the body. Some distance away, a sailboat seemed to be floating in midair. From time to time, gusts of wind had filled her black sails.

“Bring in a sailboat.” He pointed at a spot on the blue surface that represented ocean. 

Wiggling slightly over the blue, painted surface that signified water, there it came: a huge sailboat that seemed to fill the entire space of his office. 

Its keel formed the centerline at the bottom of the hull. It extended downward as a blade beneath the vessel, increasing its stability. From time to time it rubbed against the office floor, giving a shrill sound of friction.

With a swift hand gesture, bringing together his thumb and forefinger, Michael shrunk the vessel down, till it appeared to be at same scale as the seascape underfoot. Flow vectors appeared, forming wavy blue pleats capped with foam, over which the sailboat started rocking. 

Meanwhile, Michael remembered Mr. Armstrong telling him how he had steered his sailboat away all by himself, how his muscles still ached from pulling up her sails. Just for fun, shouldn’t he place him aboard this vessel?

“Create man.” Michael pointed at the deck. “Name him Mr. Strong.”

A broadly constructed wire figure stepped out. It held on to the mast for dear life and occasionally, gave a sharp, abrasive pull to raise the black sails. 

“Let Mr. Strong wear a life jacket.”

Selected at random from some e-commerce site such as eBay, an immensely thick vest appeared, featuring large armholes for unlimited range of motion. Its bright straps and adjustable belts tightened around the waist, to keep the vest snug and in place. It wrapped over the wire shoulders, barely concealing a somewhat crooked back. 

The sailboat wiggled about over the geometrical waves when—splash!—Mr. Strong fell off, nearly sinking between one blue pleat and another. He would dutifully climb back onboard, only to fall off and climb back again.

Michael was determined to find out why this infinite loop started to play out. “Show me an internal view of the code.” 

A storm of pixels whipped across the space, settling here and there in small heaps of dust. Out of it grew long, straight links. These, in turn, produced round, hollow nodes that started to arrange themselves into a complex structure, a structure that represented logic and data. 

And just as Michael identified a broken link in the midst of it all, there came the sound of heavy footfalls down the corridor. 

His heart skipped a beat. 

“Stop,” he said hurriedly, and the structure melted away just as the office door swung open.

In stepped the real Mr. Armstrong.

Virtually Lace

(Volume I of High-Tech Crime Solvers)

Paperback ★ Hardcover

Audiobook

Haunted by discovering the body of a beautiful dancer, Michael sets out to create a virtual reality simulation of her murder. Can he bring the mystery to life? Can he solve its clues in time, before the killer turns on the woman he loves, Ash?

Witness to a Murder Becomes the Prime Suspect

Richard Weatherly is the talented author of Closed Doors. I am honored to read his thoughtful review of Virtually Lace:

Richard L. Weatherly

5.0 out of 5 starsWitness to a Murder Becomes the Prime Suspect

April 17, 2019

Format: Kindle Edition

Virtually Lace ads a new twist to the work of Uvi Poznanski. I’ve read most of the author’s work and have enjoyed each. Virtually Lace is no exception. In this novel Uvi relies on past experience as a designer and work as a software manager. This novel features extensive use of virtual reality to help clear Michael, the protagonist, of suspicion by the police.

As the story opens Michael is approaching the beach when he suddenly discovers the body of a beautiful dancer with her throat slashed.

It is sad when a person who experiences such a traumatic event finds himself the chief suspect of a police investigation. Michael repeatedly answers police questions truthfully but he becomes frustrated by their refusal to believe him.

Michael decides the best way to defend himself is to collect his memories and build a virtual reality simulation of the chain of events. He is fortunate that the woman he loves is a designer who can help with his project. Ironically, when Michael tried to enlist Ashley to assist with his projects at work, his manager refused to even consider his recommendation. As the story comes together, it seems the manager has engaged in nepotism by hiring a relative to assist Michael in his project rather than Ash.

Together, Michael and Ash eventually construct a comprehensive virtual reality simulation that is sufficiently detailed to finally convince police of his innocence.

As the book progresses, other events surrounding Michael and Ash begin to hint at the identity of the guilty party. At the same time, Ash is placed at risk of becoming a victim of the murderer who killed the girl Michael discovered. Virtually Lace is a fast paced, well crafted suspense novel by Uvi Posnanski that is sure to keep you turning pages. I highly recommend it.

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Do No Harm: The Marburg Mutation by Allen Kent

A few minutes before 3:00 a.m., the man residents of Ålesund, Norway, referred to as den Serbisk, the Serbian, slipped quietly from bed. He had showered and shaved the evening before and dressed quietly in the half-light of the Norwegian summer night that filtered through the open windows of the Hotel Brosundet. Below his window, the silent harbor mirrored the Ålesund fishing fleet like a tarnished silver mirror. In an hour, men would begin outfitting the boats. Gulls would wheel and squawk over the departing fleet. He needed to be gone by then, headed to the airport. But on the way, there was cleanup work to be done.

    Before leaving the room, he paused to admire the figure of the young woman who remained sound asleep on her side, the sheet covering her to the waist. He allowed his eyes to linger for another moment on the breasts that were so beautifully accented by the white patches of her bikini line. She had been among the best of his Ålesund conquests. He had her number and would call her again when he returned to the city.
    The Serb took the elevator to the main floor, assured the night clerk that the room should be left on his card and that the lady would check out before eleven, then retrieved his rental from the small harborside lot. Five minutes later, he descended into the tunnel that crossed beneath the fjord to Ellingsøya Island. Upon exiting, he turned right past the sleeping village of Hoffland and drove east along the coastal road until a gravel lane turned away from the water’s edge up into the pines. The lane skirted the side of a steep, rocky hill, then looped back toward its crest. Near the top, he braked in front of an ornate wrought-iron gate.
    Leaning from the window, the Serb entered a six-digit code into an electronic pad that stood on a black post beside the gate. The barrier swung silently inward. He eased the vehicle forward through the wall of heavy gray stone. The inner drive was paved and curved left through trees that circled a small lake to the front of a dark two-story country manor of the same smoky-gray rock.
    As he stepped from the car in front of steps that led to an arched portico, the wide beam of a flashlight circled him from the far edge of the house. A hoarse voice demanded in Norwegian, “Who is there?”
    “It is just me, Geir,” the Serb said in English to the caretaker. “I need to pick up a few things before flying back to Frankfurt. I will be about an hour and will close the gate when I leave. My flight is at eight.”
    The ancient caretaker grunted an acknowledgement and turned back toward a cottage that was no more than a dark impression among the trees beyond the drive. The Serb unlocked and entered the house, closing and latching the door behind him. Down the central hallway, a door opened beneath a staircase onto steep steps that descended into a musty half -basement. By the light of a single dim bulb, he made his way through a scattering of old outdoor furniture and lawn statuary to a row of rough wooden shelves. Pulling a stool from beside the stairway, he climbed carefully onto it, pushing upward on what appeared to be a section of ceiling beam. The shelves in front of him slid forward and to the side, revealing an aged steel door with a wheel-combination lock and lever handle. He lowered himself heavily from the stool and knelt before the door, twirling four numbers into the lock. As he forced the handle downward, the man rose to his feet and pushed against the massive door.
    The metal plate swung inward into a brightly lit stainless-steel prepping station with two showerheads to his left suspended over a circular drain. To his right, an open closet held three white hazmat suits and, on a shelf above, contamination masks and goggles. The Serb stripped to his underwear and donned the largest of the suits. He carefully taped his wrists and ankles, then pulled on mask and goggles. When certain he was properly protected, he pushed through a second metal door into a long, narrow observation room. A tightly sealed full-wall window separated him from another stainless-paneled cell beyond.
    This third room was a twelve-foot box, furnished with a plain metal table, wall-mounted bench, and steel toilet and sink. On the table, assorted fruit browned in a wooden bowl. A partially eaten loaf of bread and block of white cheese sat on heavy paper plates. The emaciated body of a woman faced him on a thin mattress that covered a low cot attached to the back wall, her corpse seeping thin red liquid from weeping blisters that covered most of her exposed skin. Dried blood covered her chocolate face, staining it even darker where fluid oozed from her eyes and nose. She wore only a pair of tight red shorts. What had been a white tank top lay beside her on the floor. Little of the white remained, a few unspoiled islands in a sea of reddish brown. The floor beside the cot was splattered with dark, bloody vomit.​

Excerpt from The Marburg Mutation by Allen Kent

No Longer Available

Do No Harm