DO YOU EVER WONDER ...

Do you ever wonder
                                      who buys your books?

{Image of Fallen, the last fae, courtesy of the genius of Leonora Roy}

http://www.amazon.com/LAST-EXIT-TO-BABYLON-ebook/dp/B006RZ4R74

 



I checked this morning to see if anyone from the U.K. had bought any books from me.

 

None had so far.  My eyes widened.  One person had bought LAST EXIT TO BABYLON.

 

I wondered who.  The Salvation Army would be the richer:

 

All the proceeds from my books sold this month go to them.

My Valentine's gift to heroes

          who are still helping the hurting of New Orleans.

 

It's in my sidebar this month.

 

I hoped they would like it. 

 

Had they bought the LOVE LIKE DEATH trilogy that

had preceeded it?  

 

What would they make of my world and the tragic trio of lovers who inhabit it?

 

Is there room for beauty in the heroic fantasies of today?

 

Or has lust usurped the throne from love?

 

Because this is my blog here is a snippet that you will either love or hate:

 

There is a dedication to LAST EXIT TO BABYLON:

Dedicated to Michael Di Gesu, Alex Cavanaugh, Donna Hole, and Susan Quinn who came to my aid when I needed it most.

 

"It was too late for Man,

  But early yet for God."

             - Emily Dickinson

 

{In Oblivion, Blake Adamson, clone of The Nazarene, is overcome with the deaths of the two supernatural beauties he failed to save}:
 

         Sobbing.  I heard sobbing on the night breeze, mixed with the rippling of bubbling waters.  And I knew that voice.  No, it was impossible.  She was dead.  Dead and lying naked in my cabin beneath the decks of The Bladeless Samurai.

          I staggered to my swollen, pulsating feet.  I almost fell back down.  I was so weak.  Wherever I was seemed to be draining me.  I straightened my shoulders.  ‘Please, Father, grant me the strength not to let those depending on me down.’

          I shivered.  Whether from the tingles that cascaded down my spine or from the sound of the one voice I had been certain never to hear again outside my dreams, I wasn’t sure.  I made my way slowly to the sound of the voice, of Kirika’s voice.  She began to sing, haunting and lyrical beyond my power to do it justice.

          “My black hair tangled,

             As my own tangled thoughts,

             I lie here alone,

           Dreaming of one who has gone,

            Who stroked my hair til it shone.”

          I eased through the thick trees until I slipped into another glade.  A shimmering stream was slowly flowing in its midst.  And there, laying along its side was Kirika, the filtered moonlight caressing her whole body. 

Dressed in her hunter green leather skirt and vest, Kirika seemed like a Japanese Maid Marion.  Her long legs were gleaming in the starlight.  Her green boots seemed new.  In fact, her whole outfit was fresh as if just put on.

 Her face was a magnet.  Not really Japanese, but Ningyo, Kirika had slanted, gleaming eyes that seemed to breathe mystery.  Gleaming and oh, so, sad.  No, haunted pools of despair were what they were.  Half of her ivory face was masked by her heavy, silken hair that seemed anything but tangled.  Her fingers were absently dipping into the passing waters.

          I froze.  Oh, Father, her fingers.  They were melting into liquid as was her right hand.  Then, I remembered.  She was Ningyo, born of water, mist, and starlight.  She was dying.  Dying because of me.

          She sobbed more than sang,

          “If we could meet but once more,

             Thy soul with mine.

           Softly, I would whisper in thy ear

           These words to thee:

           I am dying, love ... dying for thee.”

          I forced my throat to work, “K-Kirika, pull your hand from the stream.”

          She yelped at my words and sat straight up, her reformed right hand to her mouth.  “Blake?  Blake!  It cannot be.  You cannot be here.  Not here, at the end of all things.”

          “There is no place you will need me, Kirika, that I won’t come.”

          She started for me but the rippling brook was between us.  She looked at it fiercely as if at an enemy.  And with my heart becoming stone, I knew.  She could not cross over.  We were together, yet apart.  I ground my teeth.  Just like we had been all our lives.

          She sobbed in Japanese,

           “Arazaran.                     

             Kono yo no hoka no,     

             Omoide ni                  

         Ima hitotbi no               

         Au koto mo gana.         

          (Soon I shall cease to be.

          When I am beyond this world,

          And I have forgotten it,

          Let me remember only this:

          This last meeting with thee.)

          “I won’t let you go, Kirika.”

          “You must.  I am dead, lost to you forever.”

          And suddenly, I knew one of the reasons Muninn and Huginn had wanted me here. “No, you’re not.  Look at your hand.”

          She stared at her reformed fingers in disbelief.  “This cannot be.  This has never happened before to a Ningyo.”

          She looked at me, fear and hope mixed in her gleaming, wet eyes.  “What is going on?”

          “We ate Idun’s apple together, remember?”

          She nodded and husked, “Yes.  When I said that beyond death, beyond oblivion, I would always stay by your side.”

          “And you will.  It comes with eating Idun’s apple together, Kirika.  As long as one of us lives, the other cannot truly die.  That’s why Nyx tried to trick me into killing myself, so that you and Fallen would both die.”

          Kirika’s face became a mask of hate.  “That one and I shall have an accounting.”

          Not knowing if she meant Fallen or Nyx, I put out a hand.  “First things first.  I’ve got to get back to you before they bury you.”

          She went pale.  “It is Ningyo tradition, Blake, to burn the body.”

*******

So? Do you look at your book sales and wonder the identity of the buyers?

I am sure your numbers are much higher than mine. But do you wonder who bought your book and why?