Twisted (6 page)

About This Book

 

I
n this unique collection, discover diverse tales, laden with shades of mystery. Come into a dark, strange world, a hyper-reality where nearly everything is firmly rooted in the familiar—except for some quirky detail that twists the yarn, and takes it for a spin in an unexpected direction.

This is the reality you will see in hell, through the eyes of a ghost of a woman, trying to reclaim her name by appealing to the devil; the eyes of a clay figure of a woman, about to be fired in the kiln, longing for her Creator; the eyes of a woman in the midst of a free fall, about to become a ghost; and the eyes of a feline creature with cracked fangs, trying in vain to resign herself, by hook and by crook, to being locked. These characters explore their identity, and challenge their fate.

Inspired by her art and by literature, these tales come from different times and places. Yet all of them share one thing in common: an unusual mind, one that is twisted. So prepare yourself: keep the lights on.

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

U
vi Poznansky is a California-based author, poet and artist. Her writing and her art are tightly coupled. “I paint with my pen,” she says, “and write with my paintbrush.”

She earned her B. A. in Architecture and Town Planning from the Technion in Haifa, Israel. During her studies and in the years immediately following her graduation, she practiced with an innovative Architectural firm, taking part in the design of a large-scale project,
Home for the Soldier
.

At the age of 25 Uvi moved to Troy, N.Y. with her husband and two children. Before long, she received a Fellowship grant and a Teaching Assistantship from the Architecture department at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, where she guided teams in a variety of design projects; and where she earned her M.A. in Architecture. Then, taking a sharp turn in her education, she earned her M.S. degree in Computer Science from the University of Michigan.

During the years she spent in advancing her career—first as an architect, and later as a software engineer, software team leader, software manager and a software consultant (with an emphasis on user interface for medical instruments devices)—she wrote and painted constantly. In addition, she taught art appreciation classes.

Her versatile body of work can be seen on her
website
, which includes poems, short stories, bronze and ceramic sculptures, paper engineering projects, oil and watercolor paintings, charcoal, pen and pencil drawings, and mixed media.

In addition, she posts her thoughts about the creative process on her
blog
, and engages readers and writers in conversation on her Goodreads
Q&A group
.

Uvi published a poetry book in collaboration with her father, Zeev Kachel. Later she published two children’s books,
Jess and Wiggle
and
Now I Am Paper
, which she illustrated, and for which she created animations. You can find these animations on her Amazon
author page
, and her Goodreads
author page
.

Apart From Love
is an intimate peek into the life of a strange family: Natasha, the accomplished pianist, has been stricken with early-onset Alzheimer’s. Her ex-husband Lenny has never told their son Ben, who left home ten years ago, about her situation. At the same time he, Lenny, has been carrying on a love affair with a young redhead, who bears a striking physical resemblance to his wife—but unlike her, is uneducated, direct and unrefined. This is how things stand at this moment, the moment of Ben’s return to his childhood home.

Home
, her deeply moving poetry book in tribute of her father, includes her poetry and prose, as well as translated poems from the pen of her father, the poet and author Zeev Kachel.

A Favorite Son
, her novella, is a new-age twist on an old yarn. It is inspired by the biblical story of Jacob and his mother Rebecca, plotting together against the elderly father Isaac, who is lying on his deathbed. This is no old fairy tale. Its power is here and now, in each one of us.

Rise to Power
,
A Peek at Bathsheba
, and
The Edge of Revolt
are volume I, II, and III of
The David Chronicles
, telling the story of David as you have never heard it before: from the king himself, telling the unofficial version, the one he never allowed his court scribes to recount. In his mind, history is written to praise the victorious
—
but at the last stretch of his illustrious life, he feels an irresistible urge to tell the truth.

With the exception of her newest release, these books are available in all three editions (audio, print and ebook.)

 

Follow her on these sites:

•
Goodreads group: The Creative Spark with Uvi Poznansky
.

 

 

 

 

About the Cover and Artwork

 

A
few months ago, a pile of bones captured my fascination. Scattered across my desk, they were ashen, rather small, and of fanciful shapes. I was unable to identify the animals whose remains these were, nor could I name their skeletal parts. Which left me free to mine—out of these crumbling, fragile relics—an entirely new presence. Coming to life on brown paper with with a few stokes of white, red, and brown pencils, there she was: my Bone Princess.

Set upon a patch of scorching desert sand, she casts a one-eyed look at you, which masks how vulnerable she really is. Her soft flesh is shielded
—
and in places, nearly crushed
—
by her armor of bones. She is damaged: no arms, no legs, yet she accepts her pain with pride, and with regal grace. Inside and out, she carries a sense of morbidity.

As all creations, she became an independent spirit. As such, she made me wonder what had happened to her. I imagined her turning to me, curving the elegant, elongated lines of her neck, to tell me her story. This was how my novella, the first one in this collection
—
I Am What I Am
—
came to be.

Twisted.

 

 

T
o illustrate the connection between the poem
Dust
and the story
I, Woman
, I included two photographs in this book.
Together, these photographs suggest the transition a piece of art undergoes in the foundry.

•
One photograph shows my nearly completed clay model (still in my studio, where the armature holds it in place) for a sculpture of two dancers. The sculpture is titled
Can We Take Flight
.

•
The other photograph shows my finished bronze sculpture titled
From Dust
. Having been fired, its armature is no longer necessary and has been removed.

In each photograph, the dancers strike a different pose, which represents a verse in my poem
Dust
.
The poem, which comes directly from their lips, is a duet describing a love-hate tension in their relationship.

When the sculpting process takes several labor-intensive months, an intimate feel develops between me and the clay. So much so that the dancers come alive even before I place the last mark on them. They start having a voice, describing not only their finished state, but the process, the change they undergo, starting at the studio and ending at the kiln.

“I stand here before you, not knowing my name...”

So starts one of the strangest stories I have ever written... Having witnessed the casting process
—
which takes as long as six weeks from the time the clay model arrives at the foundry and a bronze sculpture is made
—
made me think of death and rebirth, which is the theme of my story
I, Woman
. 

 

 

 

 

A Note to the Reader

 

 

I
would love to learn what you thought of this book. You have the power of bringing it to the attention of more readers, by posting your own review.

 

 

 

 

Bonus Excerpt: A Peek at Bathsheba

 

 

 

W
rapped in a long, flowing fabric that creates countless folds around her curves, she loosens just the top of it and lets it slide off her head—only to reveal a blush, and mischievous glint, shining in her eye. It is over that sparkle that I catch a sudden reflection, coming from the back window, of a full moon.

Looking left, right, and down the staircase, to make sure no one is lurking outside my chamber door, I let her in. Then I lock it behind her, so no one may intrude upon us.

In a manner of greeting I raise my goblet. It is a gift from my supplier, Hiram king of Tyre, and unlike the other goblets I have in my possession, this one is made of fine glass, with minute air bubbles floating in it. With a big splash I fill it up to the rim with red, aromatic wine. In it I dip a glistening, ruddy cherry, and offer it to her, with a flowery toast.

“For you,” I say. “With my everlasting love!”

Bathsheba takes the goblet from my hand, and raises it to her lips. “Love, everlasting?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “What does that mean, in this place?”

I hesitate to ask, “What place is that?”

“This court,” she says, with a slight curtsy, “where the signature feature is a harem, which is as big as the king is endowed with glory.”

“Glory is a good thing,” say I, lowering my voice. “But sometimes it is better to meet in the shadows.”

“Especially,” she says, matching her voice to mine, “when there are so many others.”

“Here we are,” say I. “It’s just us.”

“Really,” says Bathsheba, sipping her wine and ever so delightfully, licking her lips. “It must be a special night, then! Just you and me, and no one else, no one else at all.”

Yet I cannot avoid feeling the presence of someone other than me in her thoughts, perhaps her husband, Uriah, who is one of my mighty soldiers and the most trusty of them. Earlier today he must have received his transfer orders to join the cavalry in the eastern hills, where he would be stationed outside the city of Rabbah.

 

I have a catch in my throat as I tell her, “I’m so glad you came.”

Bathsheba lifts her eyes and looks straight at me.

“Really,” she says, in her most velvety tone. “You mean, I had a choice in this matter?”

Her question stumps me at first, because how can I admit that she is right, so right in asking it? Instead I just shrug.

“You do have a choice,” I say at last. “And I hope you’ll make it.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” says Bathsheba. “With that ape, I mean, that bodyguard of yours knocking so loudly, so rudely, and for such a long time at my door, I had my doubts about it.”

“You can go, if you wish,” I stress, with a reluctant tone. “But I wish you wouldn’t. Stay with me, tonight.”

Bathsheba picks the stem of the red cherry, and takes little bites out of it. In her pleasure she hums, and smacks her lips. Then she raises the goblet to my lips, letting me take in the aroma. I do, and then I take a long gulp.

With a slight sway of her hips Bathsheba walks past me, knowing I cannot take my eyes off of her. She wanders about my chamber as if she were the one owning it.

“You’ve been brought here by my order,” I whisper to her, across the space. “But I am the one held captive.”

 

 

 

 

Bonus Excerpt: A Favorite Son

 

 

Y
ou may have heard those rumors about me: how I escaped by moonlight, how I hid inside each one of the seven wells of Beersheba, with nothing in my possession but the shirt on my back, how I eluded my enemy, my brother, and then, how frightened I was, how alone. I’m afraid you have been, at best, misinformed
—
or, more probably, mislead by some romantic foolery, some fiction and lies, the kind of which can easily be found, and in abundance I might add, in the holy scriptures.

I insist: it was not moonlight but rather, high noon. I was wearing no shirt whatsoever—nothing, really, but a goatskin sleeve. There was only one well in which I could hide, not seven. And most importantly, I was hardly alone, for the entire camp—all the maidservants, the shepherds, the guards—stood aghast all around me. So now, you must see that I could not, despite my best intentions, escape stealthily out of there, nor could I elude anyone.

Instead I was flung out, kicking and screaming, with tugs and pulls loosening the remaining shreds of my clothes, and whacks and smacks coming at my bare back from all directions. My left eye swelled up to such a degree that out of necessity, I resorted to use the right one—only to discover, once I raised my head from the dirt, that my brother was standing right over me. His foot could be seen coming straight at me, at an easygoing, unhurried pace, until it turned into a full blown kick.

I managed to roll away, mainly by flailing my arms wildly over my head. With a great sense of urgency I crawled on all four through the crowd, and hid inside the closest well. Luckily it was bone dry, thanks to a yearlong drought. And so for a second, I could hang there by my fingernails and pant, and catch my breath. Then I tiptoed behind the corner, right into the shade of my mother’s tent.

From there I took a plunge and hurled myself downhill—where, to my utter disappointment, I found out that my brother had already caught up to where I was headed, and was waiting there for me with open arms. He made a point of letting me know that his hate for me would, by no means, stand in the way of our closeness.

“Come, Yankle,” said Esav. “I promise not to hurt you.”

“Really,” I said. “Can I trust you?”

“Aha,” said he. “I will just kill you.”

His bulging, bloodshot eyes were full of vigor, and so, unfortunately, was his fist. It met my chin once, then again, attempting to drive the point home, but on the third try, he missed—which was the sole reason why I still had my wits about me.

I staggered away, aided in my movement by the quaking of my knees. A desire to live made me, somehow, light on my feet. I turned and ran, leaving my brother behind, way back in the dust. I could no longer see him. He may have given up the chase—but still, knowing his skill as a hunter, I had to keep on going, opening a measure of distance between us. An hour later I found myself crossing the dry river bed, which was such a long distance from camp, so far from where I used to feel safe, that it was, for me, an unknown, dangerous zone.

The sun scorched overhead, beating upon the steep, rocky slopes. I hesitated. I looked back. The peaks of the tents had shrunk away. A short time later, they disappeared completely from view.

The notion of asking my brother—no, begging him—to forgive me, crossed my mind. I thought of retracing my footprints and perhaps, finding my way back home, only to realize, by nightfall, that those footprints had led me astray.

I must have been walking around in circles that entire day, which made me feel helpless. I thought that in the future, if I was lucky enough to have one, I could never become more helpless than this. How wrong was I then!