I’m really excited to introduce out next guest–I know, I say that every time, and I mean it! Kimberly Comeau is a long time friend of mine and published her first book this year. It’s about time! (I never miss an opportunity to say that. Heh heh.) Kim is a fabulous writer and one you won’t want to miss. She writes mainstream science fiction of epic proportions. Don’t believe me? See for yourself. Let’s make a stop in Russia where Kim is keeping a close eye on Santa.
I’m in full-fledged countdown mode. It’s 1 p.m. in Virginia, which makes it midnight in Yekaterinburg, Russia. Santa has completed his few Russian deliveries and is working his way toward the East Coast of America. I’m so excited!
“Wait! Russia has over 142 million people! That’s more than a “few’ deliveries.”
You’re right. But after the 1917 Revolution, the Communist government banned religious celebrations. Not until 1992 did Russian citizens again openly celebrate Christmas, which they celebrate on January 7th in accordance with the Julian Calendar, which was in use during Roman times.
During those 75 years of Soviet suppression of religion, St. Nicholas was replaced by Grandfather Frost, who wore blue robes and delivered New Year’s gifts. New Year’s trees were adorned with fruit and homemade decorations.
But all this talk of Russia is sending a chill up my back. Do you know how cold it is in Yekaterinburg right now? Look at this picture of Grandfather Frost standing in the snow. Brrr. I wish I had his coat and hat! Since I don’t, I’m tucking my feet up, tugging a blanket across my lap, and losing myself in a book while I wait for Santa’s arrival. Come join me!
Merry Christmas everyone!
They found him in the South Ofrann Desert, where everything evil lived. Most called him a demon. One leader thought this man-without-a-past held the key to tribal peace and prosperity. That leader’s enemies saw an opportunity to gain control of the nation.
Excerpt–
“Aya.”
He resisted that call, afraid if he acknowledged it, the pain would return with sanity-robbing intensity. He clung to the colors of the dream, both fascinated and appalled by the vividness of the images. He lifted his wrist toward the bird that hovered, that wanted to alight, but the bird was being plucked by the wind. Its feathers cascaded around him like iridescent snow.
“Aya, I need you to hear me.”
He opened his mouth and gasped a breath of air.
“Someone saw you fall, saw you carried here, and told others. Citizens have panicked. Korrane’s on the roof, so is Manerra, but they aren’t being heard. The mob thinks you’re dead. They want Kayarra.”
Aya turned his head but could not open his eyes. Something prevented him from doing so. “House,” he whispered, although it was hard to talk. Even harder to think.
“If we carry you to the roof, can you stand, just until you’re seen?”
“Yes,” he said, although Shurna didn’t answer his question about the house, about its security. How many peacekeepers were there to hold the doors? The garden entrance was the weakest barrier.
Hands dug behind his shoulders, brought him to sitting; shifted to his armpits and started to lift him before he gasped, “Slowly.” They let him sit then, just for a moment, before they lifted him. When his feet touched the floor, he tried to support his weight and could not. His muscles had the strength of water. He couldn’t lock his knees. His arms were brought around necks, across shoulders, and held against chests with bruising grips on his forearms. Arms crossed beneath his buttocks and he was lifted off his feet. They carried him across the room, shuffled sideways through the door, hitting his knee on the doorframe before they made it into the hall.
A sound like the distant roar of a river grew louder as he was carried along the hall, and louder still as they started up the stairs to the roof.
“Hide Kayarra,” he said, not certain the men who carried him up the stairs could hear him over the sound of their own panting breaths. It was crucial that Kayarra not be on the roof when he arrived and he wasn’t certain they understood that. Shurna would understand, but he couldn’t figure a way to tell her.
I’m giving away two digital copies of Moons’ Kiss. Leave a comment and let me know about your Santa sightings or Christmas shopping. Are you still braving those crowds?
About the author:
I was sixteen or seventeen when I began writing a story set in the Ofrann Desert of Axxord. I never finished that story, but the setting and characters, Kayarra and Aya, stayed with me through graduation, marriage, the birth of a son, full-time employment, and part-time vocations. Twenty years passed. I completed the draft of a novel I called Rainbow Gold. Then, while searching through notes and partially completed manuscripts, I located a handwritten copy of that early, unnamed manuscript. Many of the elements that had captured my imagination all those years ago captivated me again. I began writing. Not from where I’d left off, but from a new page one. In those intervening years, both the original story and I had matured. And for the next fifteen years, I wrote . . . first the draft, then a full rewrite. And during that time, I met and befriended other writers. I studied writing. I wrote short pieces. I was appointed director of an online writing workshop. I taught what I’d learned through experience and education. I joined a critique group, PC Quill. And finally, I finished Moons’ Kiss, and wept as I wrote the final sentence.
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