Twelve Cold Days of Christmas

This is more of a song than an essay. It’s certainly inspired by a song; one I’m sure you know. You’re welcome to do your best to sing it to the tune of the Twelve Days of Christmas. Or rap it, if you prefer. Doesn’t matter…as long as you take it into your heart. Maybe if it stays there over not just these next twelve days, but twelve months, you’ll find the spirit of these words and their concurrent offerings will accrue.

Don’t be fooled – this man works all year round.

On this first day of Christmas, chilly and clear, a dusting of snow on the mountains outside my window, I, a humble author who writes about True Love an awful lot, gives to you, dear reader, a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree.

On the second day of Christmas, this author who writes about True Love an awful lot, as I said, also offers you two shots of good whiskey plus two handsome middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (although one of those fetching males is a canine), and a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree.

On the third day of Christmas, this True Love obsessed author with a curious interest in killers, spies, and grandiose destinies, gives you, my faithful reader, an on-going story trilogy made of ancient curses, star-crossed lovers and archaeological adventures, two shots of hella good whiskey plus two true-hearted handsome middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (remember, one is a canine), and a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree.

That’s some great lipstick.

On the fourth day of Christmas, this author who fervently believes that the transcendental power of love belongs in even the most harrowing, dark, and war-torn stories, is honored to give you four heart-felt whispers of devotion, an on-going story trilogy made of ancient curses, star-crossed lovers and archaeological adventures, two shots of really great whiskey that burns so good as it goes down plus two handsome, true-hearted, unafraid to make grand romantic gesture-type middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (although one is a canine, and yes, even he makes romantic gestures. Like the way he greets me every time I come home), and a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree.

A true-hearted middle-aged male.

On the fifth day of Christmas, your favorite love scribe with a serious fixation on mystery, thrills, and noir gives you five unapologetically sentimental and spiritual Christmas carols sung by an amateur choir of rum-drunk revelers!

Four heart-felt whispers of devotion, an on-going story trilogy made of the craziest ancient curses, starry-eyed star-crossed lovers, and bold archaeological adventures, two terribly handsome middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (although one is a canine), and a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas, this love-drunk, thriller-lover of an author is so happy to give to you six handmade marionettes gyrating at the command of a bawdy mistress (that would be me), five unapologetically sentimental and Spiritual Christmas carols sung by an amateur choir of rum-drunk revelers!

Four heart-felt whispers of devotion, an on-going story trilogy made of only the most powerful ancient curses, charming star-crossed lovers and riveting archaeological adventures, two shots of great, artisan whiskey (ah!) plus two handsome, true-hearted, full of soul and mischief middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (although one is a canine), and a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree!

Vladimir, the hand-made marionette that hangs in my office. I’ll make him dance for you!

On the seventh day of Christmas, this noir-fixated hopeless romantic of an author gives to you seven bad and beautiful dames with velveteen voices and shady pasts that would make you shudder, six handmade marionettes gyrating at the command of a bawdy mistress, five unapologetically sentimental and spiritual Christmas carols sung by an amateur choir of rum-drunk revelers!

Four sweet, heart-felt whispers of devotion, an on-going story trilogy made of monstrous ancient curses, impassioned star-crossed lovers and wild, time-traveling archaeological adventures, two fine shots of my best whiskey along with two handsome, true-hearted, romantic, and mischievous middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (although one is a canine with terrible gas), and a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree.

I don’t know about you, but I think this dame’s up to no good.

On the eighth day of Christmas, this lover of love, evangelist for old souls and unapologetic prose junkie is dying to give to you eight haunting phases of the moon shining upon the wintry alleys of an old Gothic city center, seven bad, gorgeous, and wanton dames with smoky, velveteen voices and pasts so shady you wish you hadn’t asked, six handmade marionettes gyrating twerking at the command of a bawdy mistress, five unapologetically maudlin and resoundingly spiritual Christmas carols sung by an amateur choir of rum-drunk revelers!

Four sweet, heart-felt whispers of absolute devotion, an on-going trilogy of time-spinning ancient curses, bewitching star-crossed lovers and spine-tingling archaeological adventures, two super handsome, true-hearted, witty, over-fed middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (although one is a canine and not particularly witty), and a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree!

Prague was made for moonlight.

On the ninth day of Christmas, this shameless maven of love scenes (among other things) gives to you nine lingering kisses bestowed by a lover pure of heart though not pure of thought, eight haunting, utterly enigmatic phases of the moon shining upon the enchanting wintry alleys of an old Gothic city center, seven bad dames with bad attitudes and smoky, velveteen voices who have the kinds of shady pasts that make them the sorts of ladies you’d never bring home to your mother, six handmade marionettes twerking and gyrating like Meghan Thee Stallion at the command of a bawdy mistress, five unapologetically gushing and soul-screaming Christmas carols sung by an amateur choir of rum-drunk revelers!

Four sweet as hell, heart-felt whispers of unconditional devotion, an on-going story trilogy made of unbreakable ancient curses, fiery star-crossed lovers and breathtaking archaeological adventures, two of my favorite handsome, true-hearted, rascally but protective over-fed middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (although one is a canine), and a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree!

I’ll take nine of these, please.

On the tenth day of Christmas, this author of mysterious thrillers, noirs and romantic epics of historical fantasy is doing her personal best to give you ten lines of prose that strike a knife into your heart, force a gasp from your lips, and breathe life into your soul, nine lingering kisses bestowed by a lover so pure of heart, though not pure of thought, that your own heart grows three sizes larger than The Grinch’s at its best, eight hauntingly entrancing phases of the moon shining upon the wintry alleys of an old Gothic city center, seven dames so bad and tempting with smoky, velveteen voices that make you say “to hell with their shady pasts, I’m bringing them home to my mother anyway,” six handmade marionettes twerking and gyrating in a way that would make Meghan Thee Stallion blush – all at the command of a bawdy mistress, five unapologetically uber-sentimental and soulful, holy Christmas carols sung by an amateur choir of rum-drunk revelers!

Four sweet, heart-felt whispers of unadulterated devotion, an on-going story trilogy made of only the best ancient curses, star-crossed lovers and archaeological adventures, two handsome, true-hearted, romantically inclined yet darkly humorous middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (although one is a canine), and a cardinal, the color of Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree!

As promised, ten lines of prose:

Semyonov inhaled Zoya’s scent. Woodsy, like his father’s mistress’s cabin.

We all become our fathers, he thought to himself. His father had been poisoned by his mistress after he tried to break things off with her, and Semyonov wondered how many times Zoya had thought of killing him. How close he might come to his father’s fate now that she had come back into his life.

His Zoya took a deep breath, running two fingers through her hair, coiling it around them in an almost girlish gesture. “What about me? What besides sex did you love about me?”

Their sexual relationship had been the least fulfilling part of their coupling, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. She would have been greatly offended. Zoya was a tempting woman and a skilled lover, but she was meant for causes, not other people.

On the eleventh day of Christmas (almost there!), this exhausted author, besotted by love stories, inexplicable mysteries and fantastical histories wishes for you to receive eleven prayers answered unironically by our maker, ten lines of prose that strike a gilded sword into your heart, force the air from your lungs and a gasp from your lips, and breathe life into your soul, nine soft, lingering kisses bestowed by a lover pure of heart though not pure of thought, eight ethereal phases of the moon shining resplendent upon the wintry alleys of an old Gothic city center, seven oh, so very, very bad and beautiful dames with smoky, velveteen voices and the kinds of shady pasts that let you know you don’t have a prayer as long as you’re with them, but you don’t care what your mother or anyone else has to say about it, six handmade marionettes just slumped on the floor and no-longer gyrating because the bawdy mistress who was commanding them is busy drinking a mug of mulled wine, five unapologetically feel-good and brazenly spiritual Christmas carols sung by an amateur choir of rum-drunk revelers!

Four sweet, heart-felt and sensual whispers of devotion, an enthralling, on-going story trilogy made of ancient curses, star-crossed lovers and archaeological adventures that would make Indiana Jones jealous, two dashing and true-hearted middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (although one is a canine), and a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree!

This handsome, middle-aged man never had a prayer.

And on the twelfth day of Christmas, may twelve cold winds blow, each of them bringing you clarity of mind and heart: one wind for your past, another for the present, yet another for the future; one for those you’ve loved, and one for those you’ve lost to death or disagreement; one for the dreams you’ve delayed, and one for those you’ve pursued; one for the child within you, and another for wise elder you have built through experience; one for your caring mentors and another for your harshest teachers, and lastly, the coldest one for actions you take in this coming year. The ones that will help others and define your experience.

No, I haven’t forgotten eleven prayers answered, unironically by our maker, ten lines of prose that strike a blade into your heart, force a gasp from your lips, and breathe life into your soul, nine lingering kisses bestowed by a lover pure of heart though not pure of thought, eight haunting phases of the moon shining upon the wintry alleys of an old Gothic city center, Seven bad and beautiful dames with smoky, velveteen voices and shady pasts that make you want to cry, six handmade marionettes gyrating once again at the command of a bawdy mistress who has downed two or three cups of mulled wine, five unapologetically sentimental and highly spiritual Christmas carols sung by an amateur choir of rum-drunk revelers!

Four sweet, heart-felt whispers of devotion, an on-going trilogy of ancient curses, star-crossed lovers and archaeological adventures, two strikingly handsome, true-hearted, witty and overfed middle-aged males snoring on a living room sofa (although one is a canine), and a cardinal, the color of a Hitchcock blonde’s scarlet lipstick, perched on the bare branch of a weed tree!

I wish you the merriest and the brightest this year.

There is simply nothing like a Prague Christmas.

And while we’re at it, you should know that the BREATH series is on sale all this weekend (December 15 thru 18). It’s not too late to give yourself or a loved one the gift of an epic tale that will keep them up all night turning pages!