Saturday, December 9, 2017

A fascinating and well-crafted family saga

It's wonderful to find a new review by Piaras for The White Piano:

on December 6, 2017
Uvi Poznansky is an accomplished author, poet and artist, and any ink that flows from her pen is highly recommended reading. This work, The White Piano (Still Life with Memories Book 2), is no exception.

Captivating and commendable, this work had me immersed from the beginning. The story flowed from scene to scene with ease, and the author shows exceptional ability when it comes to storytelling. There are plenty of attention-grabbing moments in this page turner that will take the reader on a truly mesmerizing journey!

It’s one of those books that come along occasionally that makes you want to read it non-stop until you get to the end. I’m giving nothing further away here. And this, I hope, will only add to the mystery and enjoyment for the reader. A well-deserved 5 stars and a highly recommended read.

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Wrapping my arms real soft, around me around him

“What matters is only what’s here. I touch my skin right under my breasts, which is where the little one’s curled, and where he kicks, ‘cause he has to. Like, he don’t feel so cosy no more. Here, can you feel it? I reckon he wants me to talk to him. He can hear me inside, for sure. He can hear every note of this silvery music. 
It ripples all around him, wave after wave. I can tell that it’s starting to sooth him. It’s so full of joy, of delight, even if to him, it’s coming across somewhat muffled. Like a dream in a dream, it’s floating inside, into his soft, tender ear. 
I close my eyes and hold myself, wrapping my arms real soft—around me around him—and I rock ever so gently, back and forth, back and forth, with every note of this silvery marvel. You can barely hear me—but here I am, singing along. I’m whispering words into myself, into him.”


Anita in My Own Voice


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What she is envisioning is motherhood, which is the subject of my scuplture by the same name. It is hard to imagine this is actually bronze, because the patina is made to look like marble. I polished the piece until it became completely smooth to the touch, as if nature--by gusts of wind and the flow of water--has buffed this rock over time, the way pebbles come to be. 


But in the back, I 'carved' into the piece, so as to make it look as if it has broken. This makes for an interesting balance, as if you try to make a rock stand on edge. But more importantly, it is symbolic, for self-sacrifice is the nature of motherhood.


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“Liberally salted with buttery smooth prose & fascinating insights”

The minute our eyes met, I knew what to do


"The minute our eyes met, I knew what to do: so I stopped in the middle of what I was doing, which was dusting off the glass shield over the ice cream buckets, and stacking up waffle cones here and sugar cones there. From the counter I grabbed a bunch of paper tissues, and bent all the way down, like, to pick something from the floor. Then with a swift, discrete shove, I stuffed the tissues into one side of my bra, then the other, ‘cause I truly believe in having them two scoops—if you know what I mean—roundly and firmly in place. 
Having a small chest is no good: men seem to like girls with boobs that bulge out. It seems to make an awful lot of difference, especially at first sight, which you can always tell by them customers, drooling. 
I straightened up real fast, and it didn’t take no time for him to come in. I was still serving another customer, some obnoxious woman with, like, three chins. She couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted hot fudge on top or just candy sprinkles, and what kind, what flavor would you say goes well with pistachio nut, and how about them slivered almonds, because they do seem to be such a healthy choice, now really, don’t they. 
He came in and stood in line, real patient, right behind her. So now I noted his eyes, which was brown, and his high forehead and the crease, the faint crease right there, in the middle of it, which reminded me all of a sudden of my pa, who left us for good when I was only five, and I never saw him again—but still, from time to time, I think about him and I miss him so.
I could feel Lenny—whose name I didn’t know yet—like, staring at me. It made me hot all over. For a minute there, I could swear he was gonna to ask me how old I was—but he didn’t." 

Anita in My Own Voice
Take a listen to her voice--just the last two sentences:


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My narrator for the voice of Anita is, in a word, wonderful. Heather Jane Hogan brings the words to life, and she does it in a natural way, without overstating them. You can read more about her in my introduction of her, The Woman Behind Anita's Voice.


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Volume I & II, woven together: Apart from Love
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"A literary symphony complete with a cast of likeable, bruised characters"

Monday, December 4, 2017

An urge to leave behind some clue

I turned on my heels and hastened away. Soon I found myself in a wooded area. Worn out by the long, sleepless night I curled over my knees down at the root of a Beech tree. It was smooth to the touch, which brought back a memory of another forrest. I recalled how as a child I had been caught there, scoring the bark with my pocket knife. At the time, I had promised my father never to do that again.
 And yet here I was, all these years later, with an urge to leave behind some clue, some evidence of my being here, just in case this journey would end badly for me. 
I took out my bayonet and with it carved a big heart, into which I wrote, Natasha. One day when I am long gone, she might come here to piece together what happened during my last days. She might find this symbol, this scar that would never heal. 
I could just imagine her standing here in awe. My love for her would continue to grow, higher and higher, along with the trunk.
Above me, beyond the black shapes of branches snaking around each other, a reddish hue began to wash across the sky. At first I thought it was the first hint of sunrise. With great delight I rose to my feet, only to realize my mistake. 
Far from being the subtle light of dawn, there it was, in full glare. 
Fire.



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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

Sunday, December 3, 2017

The busiest time of the year

Jolie touched her stomach and smiled with sadness. “You never stop missing those who have gone before—but after a time, the memories don’t hurt as much. You can think of them with love.”
Zoe hugged Jolie. “Thank you. Now, on to a happier thought so that I don’t spend the rest of the evening blue—when is your baby due?”
“Just in time for the holiday!” Jolie laughed. “The busiest time of the year.”
“Christmas Day,” Heath said in droll tones as he came back up on the main deck. Brayden was right behind him, grinning wide. “And Jolie won’t let me name her Santa.”
“Noelle is nice,” Jolie countered. “And you don’t like that either.”
“Merry?” Brayden suggested.
“Boring!” Zoe and Jolie said in unison.
“There is a lot of pressure involved in naming a kid,” Heath said. “More so than a boat. Come on, sit down.” He handed Brayden a beer, took one for himself and gestured to the wines. “Zoe? What can I get for you?”
“Pinot Grigio is fine.”
 “This way we can talk comfortably,” Heath said. He handed her a glass.
“And he likes to talk.” Jolie touched Heath’s arm with affection. “He used to be the quiet, brooding type.”
“Maybe it runs in the family?” Zoe asked.
“I don’t brood.” Brayden had the nerve to look offended.
“But you are definitely quiet.” She dared him to argue with that.
“Time out, kids,” Heath said, laughing. “When are you off leave Brayden?”
Zoe sipped her wine, waiting to see what Brayden would say.

Excerpt from Returning Home by the Sea by Traci Hall
Included in Love in Times of War


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I can't imagine a better lyrical accompaniment for her tales

Ken Stark is an author of post-epocalyptic and horror books. He was born in Saskatchewan, but has called Vancouver home for most of his life. He was raised on a steady diet of science fiction and disaster movies, so it seems right that his first published book series be about the zombie apocalypse. In his spare time, Ken tries to paint like Bob Ross and play poker like Doyle Brunson, but results suggest that he might have got it all backwards. I am thrilled to find his review of the audiobook edition of my horror book, Twisted:

on November 18, 2017
Uvi Poznansky's talent as an author cannot be understated, and I can't imagine a better lyrical accompaniment for her tales than Heather Jane Hogan. I've listened to this book a half-dozen times, and it always feels as though I'm listening to a discussion on the dark depths of the human condition in front of a roaring fire on a cold winter's day, warm cup of tea in hand

Saturday, December 2, 2017

The lion and the puddle

Here are just a few of the pics I took of this gorgeous lion, during  our safari tour in South Africa.

Our local guide, who is sitting on an extension out at the front of the jeep, spotted him in the distance. It’s very hard to spot the animals, because their coloring is so much like the vegetation of the savanna, but at this time of the year there are no leaves, so it is easier to spot in the dry season than in the rainy season. The lion came out from behind the branches and bushes, and we followed him on his way to a small puddle. By his limping, we knew he was wounded. He found his way to a small puddle, where he started lapping the little water he could find.