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


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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

Saturday, October 7, 2017

This was my favorite book so far

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

on October 5, 2017
This was my favorite book so far by Miss Uvi. It had romance, suspense and kept me on the edge of my seat to know what happens next! I love how Uvi reminds the reader of what has happened in the past books so you don't feel lost and they can really be read as stand alone but I will definitely read the whole series! I am looking forward to reading on in this series!

Friday, October 6, 2017

Just the thought of bananas makes me drool

“I think I’ll come back later,” said I.
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Babcock. “Here I am, right in the middle of cooking supper, so do come in, will you? There are biscuits in the tin, up there, see? Help yourself while you’re waiting.”
Her dress was an expression of prudence. Made out of industrial blackout cloth, it was trimmed with lace that, by the yellowing of it, must have been used to decorate some old pillowcases. Wearing a flowery, ruffled apron that puffed around her belly, she had a soft, pillowy breast, which could not be avoided, no matter in which corner I tried to tuck myself or how fast I stepped out of her way, in the close quarters of her kitchen. 
A coal stove, which served not only to cook meals but also to heat the place, was already roaring. 
“This evening, just for the two of you, love birds, we’re going to have a special meal!” said Mrs. Babcock, with a great sense of familiarity, as if she had known me forever, or at least since my childhood. “If you ask me—which for some reason, no one cares to do—tinned food is anything but healthy. No one believes me; they say that even if I’m right, which I usually am, what of it? In the end you’re dead, no matter what.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“To being dead?”
“No,” said I. “To supper.”
“No tinned meat tonight!” she said. “Lately, it’s forced down our throats, thanks to this glorious war, because unfortunately, fresh fish are in short supply, and so are bananas—ah, just the thought of bananas makes me drool, I crave them so, I do! But they’re no longer imported on ships from abroad, because nowadays, their space is filled by other things, such as oil and guns. Forget bananas, then.”
“Consider it done.” 
“The only thing we can get in abundance, these days, is carrots,” she complained. “Carrots, carrots, and then, guess what? More and more carrots. We’re drowning in them, to the point that the Government keeps telling us it’s a good thing, which it can’t be. They claim that the exceptional night-flying vision of Royal Air Force pilots is due to nothing else but eating carotene. And they insist that it would help us see better in the blackout, but if you ask me—”
She paused, waiting for me to ask, “Really? Is there any truth to that?”
“No,” she stressed. “I don’t think so!” 
“Neither do I.”
“I must admit, I dislike changes. They’re quite a challenge for me,” said the woman. “And this war, unfortunately, it’s all about changes! I’m a grammar school geography teacher, trying to teach my pupils the boundaries of European countries, and guess what? From one day to another, borders are being altered, they get erased and redrawn in the course of Nazi invasions.” 
While she was talking I cast a look around the kitchen. There was no refrigerator or icebox. Instead, there was a meat safe, which was a small, wooden cupboard. Colored dull red, its hinged doors were inlaid with tin plates, decorated by a lovely design made of punched holes. It was not only pretty but also served to ventilate the products stored inside, while keeping flies away from them. 
Mrs. Babcock took out a small package of ground beef. According to her it was a great find, which meant that she had to spar over it with other customers at the market. She unwrapped it and placed it in a large skillet with a pinch of salt and pepper. Then, just as she added carrot and onion, the front door opened and there was Natasha, taking off her hat.  

Lenny in 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