Saturday, October 21, 2017

A chance meeting with a Pinguin

A chance meeting with a Pinguin who decided to walk among us in my recent visit in South Africa. Isn't he lovely? (video taken by my friend, Judith Parnass.)

Fascinating Characters and a Fascinating Story!

Born in Oakland, CA, Kathy Parsons has been an independent piano teacher since early 1981. Kathy lived in the San Francisco Bay Area until mid-2007 when she relocated to Florence, OR (on the central Oregon Coast). She continues to teach locally and via the internet in addition to reviewing many recordings and interviewing artists for her website,, and editing new sheet music. I am so pleased to find her review of my WWII Spy Thriller, Marriage before Death:

VINE VOICEon October 13, 2017
This is the fifth installment of a six-part series of books (Sill Life With Memories) by Uvi Poznansky. I have read all of the previous volumes and have really enjoyed them all, but this one was my favorite. A couple of interesting things about this series that makes it unique are that it is not linear storytelling - it jumps from one time period to another from book to book - and the story in each volume is told from a different character's point of view. Because of that, you can really read the volumes in any order you choose. The characters are well-developed and believable, as is the plot of the story. I enjoyed this book very much and look forward to the final installment.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Unique Spy Thriller

Thrilled to find this new review for my WWII Spy Thriller, Marriage before Death:

on October 15, 2017
This is the first book in this series I have read, it is a stand alone book. Lennie and Natasha are reminiscing about their World War II days. Natasha is trying to write her memories from that time, with little success. This books is a love story, a mystery, a war story altied together. Very fast paced, sit on the edge of your chair book. Uvi Poznansky has a unique way of telling the story. I will get the first books and read them now. Highly recommend this book.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Being locked here I have managed to squash these memories

She leans back, sinking deeper and deeper into the frayed cushion, not doing much of anything except breathing heavily. Naturally, it annoys me. Hell, it sucks the air out of my lungs. The danger of oxygen deprivation does not occur to me at first. But if there is one thing I have come to hate more than her breathing heavily, it is me, having to hold my breath. 
So many months have passed since I smelled fresh air. Come to think of it, it must have been years since I crossed the threshold, since I stepped outside, into the sunlight, which—as I remember—is so warm, so gloriously magnificent. Yes, it must have been decades since I sunk my paws into the moist ground outside, or lifted my eyes to the blue sky, or chased birds. I remember how, having caught them, I would ruffle their feathers, and lick their throats ever so playfully. 
Being locked here I have managed to squash these memories. I have grown quite resigned, somehow, to the stale perfume rising here, from these blankets, which she now gathers around her. 
Trust me, I don’t miss the fresh air anymore. Out of boredom I have lost the urge to prowl around this place, from one room to another. All I do is groom my tail, which is a sorry sight, because the limp thing has lost most of its hair by now. There is only one small clump of fuzz, clinging by a thread to its very end. I brush around it ever so gently, then lick my fangs, which have become somewhat dull lately. I find the hairline cracks in them, polish them with my tongue, ponder the perils of old age, and try to stay calm, keeping my eye on her. 
True, her scent is overwhelming, her heartbeat palpable, her presence inescapable. In spite of my best intentions, she makes me hate her. Yet, she draws me in. I am focused on her as if she were my prey, and she knows it. 
I ignore the chirping of birds, drifting in through the windows—yet the taste of their flesh fills my mouth. They flap, flap, flap their wings out there... So darn free, so delectably fluffy! And here I am. I try to pay no attention to that immensely heavy key, hanging way out of reach up there on a rusty nail, by the main door. Why should I.
I never show weakness. And most certainly, I never meow. 

Feline creature in Twisted

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"A sensitive melding of poetry, prose, and art"

Sunday, October 15, 2017

Wonderful writing

Short and sweet review for Dancing with Air:

on October 4, 2017
Poignant story from WWII full of love, memories, continuing to love when the mind forgets. Enjoyed every word. Glad I got to read it.

Saturday, October 14, 2017

Another well crafted story in the series

Just found this lovely review by Piaras for my WWII Spy Thriller, Marriage before death:

on October 3, 2017
Whatever flaws we might identify or frustrations we might feel are trivial in comparison to a reader's pure joy in losing himself/herself in a narrative. When all the elements come together: an intriguing plot, thoughtful, profound themes, complex, troubling, characters, and language that make us shudder for its honesty, clarity, and confidence; we gratefully set all analysis aside and give ourselves up to the sheer magic of a great book. And for me, Marriage before Death: WWII Spy Thriller, is such a book.

I absolutely enjoyed this story and would highly recommend it. Five stars from me.

Thursday, October 12, 2017

Pretending to be that which I am not

My mother gets up. She is a petite woman, but the snakeskin shoes give her some stature. She throws the remains of the damaged coat back into the chest. Then she pulls out one of her fur hats and sinks her face into it, taking in the smell. “The air of the hunt,” she says, then hands it to me. “Here, put it on.”
After that, my mother attends to the cooking. I can hear the hiss, the slight hiss of the pot as it comes to a boil. I can smell the aroma. Somewhat bland to my taste—but then again, this is the way my father likes his meat. At any rate, he can barely swallow food nowadays. 
She ladles a steaming hot portion onto a platter and sets it upon a large tray, so I can carry it over there, to his bedside. Then she gives me the slightest of hints. It is all set up. The time is now.
My arm covered with the hide of a kid, I stand up. Pretending to be that which I am not, I am ready, at long last, to do her bidding. Ready for my defining moment with my father: The old man is on his deathbed. He is waiting for me. Waiting there, in his tent, for his trusty, favorite son.

Excerpt from A Favorite Son

★ Love reading? Get it now 
A Favorite Son
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PaperbackAmazon ★ Barnes&Noble
AudiobookiTunes ★ Amazon  Audible

She opens the old story to be instead a lively psychological study of family and of greed and longing for paternal love and more. It works spectacularly well
-Grady Harp, Hall of Fame Reviewer