androgenic alopecia

Story Chronicle, King’s Crossing

15 March 2012

I can’t believe what I am hearing, the things that Brandon is saying to me.  It was as if he’d turned into a completely different person over night.  No one had ever replaced me in his thoughts…in his heart, until now. 

Until Marlene.  Marlene Denison.  For years she’d been my friend.  And she was just that,…Marlene.  But now I can’t even say her name without attaching the formality of her surname.  Because somehow, doing this protectively distances me from her.  It’s hard knowing that of all the people he had to fall in love with, it had to be a friend of mine.  It had to be her.

Grant it, she was no Layla DaVincio.  Layla and I are inseparably close to the point where I’ve virtually tagged her as my sister.  Nor am I as close to Marlene as I am with Jackie Lambros.  The second sister to me, thus completing the trident spear of our sisterhood.  But she was still a friend nonetheless, enough that this whole new development has deeply affected me in ways that I find hard to cope with.

What was so special about her, anyway?  Even as I say this, the alter ego of my consciousness swims to the ocean surface like a shark ready to feast on a wounded prey leaking blood.  But this one phrase of thought boggles my mind.  Well, it’s more like a declaration of denial.  Something that I refuse to acknowledge.  I know exactly what he sees in her, in fact, so many years ago when he’d first staked his love in me, I had briefly wondered why he never picked her.  That was before Brandon occupied a space in my heart.  After so many years of shoveling his way in there. 

Well, let’s go through the checklist.  Brains.  Check.  Top 10 percent at Leland High, early acceptance into Cornell.  Beauty.  Sigh on this one, but let’s have it. Check. She has a gold mane of blonde girls that dust her shoulders at just the right length.  When the sun attacks it at dawn, it shines the color spectrum of yellow, tinting highlights of amber into a sweet tangerine.  And she doesn’t even color her hair.  I used to think it was the work of Feria 110 Starlet, but alas, she admitted no.  She doesn’t dye it, right before she gave an affected sigh, examined a tress of her hair and admitted that maybe she should consider it sometime.  Her face, simply pretty.  Not a flaw to pick on.  No prominent nose.  No squinty eyes.  Not one fleck of acne blemishing her porcelain skin. 

But ironically, it wasn’t this that drew Brandon to her.  It was the quality of their conversations, and that is what I envy the most.  It was the like mindedness of deep intellect that he apparently couldn’t find in me. This had been a work in progress for several months now, and I would’ve seen it coming had I possessed even an ounce of suspicion.  After school, I’d see the two of them talking at the edge of the football field right before Brandon was off for baseball practice.  Or after class, he’d be hanging out by her locker, staring intently in her eyes as she gave exaggerated opinions on the war in Iraq, and what it meant in the larger scheme of things.

“Stop, stop…” I hear myself saying.  We are sitting on my front porch. I have an exam to study for.  Mr. Henkins is going to administer a quiz tomorrow on the principles of digital calculus and its application to physics.  I cannot process the dual complexity that this heartbreak and this convoluted concept will bring to me.  I won’t be able to study later, let alone sleep a wink after having this conversation with him.

He is looking at me, his face crumpling in abject pity.

“How strongly do you feel about her?” I ask.  It is a useless question.  And I know with a rising certainty the answer I’m about to be faced with.  Nevertheless I forge on.  “Can’t you just shake it off?”

He shakes his head.  Sighs. “No.”

“Don’t give me that affected sigh.”  I say.  I’m usually gentler with my words, but he’s not being kind with what he’s about to do to me.

“Do you love her?” I ask, hoping that he will say no.  That he isn’t feeling for her half of what he ever felt for me.  But instead he looks down, and when he does, I know his lack of eye contact means a bitter shame of admission.

“Yes.” He finally says. 

Whip!  The arrowhead strikes a target into my chest.  It doesn’t actually lodge in my heart, but whips past it so fast it scorches a pathway through my rib cage. 

Brandon looks at me now.  My heart sinks at the Eagleness of his eyes.  Those were the first I fell in love with.  A green made sinister with his sharp mindedness.  “I know it hurts your pride…”

“Pride?” I exclaim, feeling a surge of strength charging through me.  “This is not about pride, Brandon.  You hurt my heart more than my pride.  Screw the pride.  What I felt for you was pure love.  So clean, that pride had never had a place in it.”

Imagination of Thought. Using Your Own Life to Create the Next Story

15 February 2012

http://archann.deviantart.com/art/IMAGINATION-101986460

Photo Credit: Imagination by `archanN, http://archann.deviantart.com/art/IMAGINATION-101986460

It’s been a while since I’ve penned any real thought to paper.  I write now and then, here and there, only to find that sometimes I give in to daily exhaustion before I make any progress.  Let’s face it, we all have long days.  You have to find your fifteen minutes as least once in that 24 hour period. But regardless of our every ambition we have to do so, sometimes the whole ‘you know, there’s always tomorrow’ ends up winning out.  Because it’s not like we’re not not doing it.  We’re just not going to do it now, but a few hours from now.  Right? Make sense? 

So it’s not easy.  It’s like working out, it’s not supposed to be easy.  But the results are immensely rewarding when you’ve actually done it, and NOW you have the results to show for it.  As much as I love writing, I do find it an arduous task at times.  Well, let’s face it.  All the time.  Although curiously enough, when I’m sending emails to friends of mine and commenting on some of the reality shows that I’ve been watching, like ‘The Bachelor’ I can expound endlessly on the subject.  When I have to sit down and write a story, well, that’s another story. Nothing seems to come to mind.  The times in my life when I seem to have a lot to say is when I’m filled with anguish, like a steam engine looking to decompress.  Maybe the reality show I saw on television the night before got me really fired up.  In so many of these television programs, there appears to be more and more internal fighting taking place amongst its guests.  Talk about reality TV firing up its viewing audiences.  Chat rooms all over the Internet and Blogs alike are humming with opinions, and no one seems to be short of one.  

So what gives?  Why is it when it comes time to write, we blank out?  It would seem that as people, we’re extremely compassionate, verbally so, about issues that affect us profoundly.  Even if it doesn’t take aim at us directly and at someone else, we will find ourselves indignant on that other person’s behalf.  This is what empathy gives to us.  It allows us to experience vicariously what another person is feeling.  I can’t even begin to say how long my emails have been to friends anytime I watch an ABC episode of The Bachelor.  So naturally, it goes without saying that we need to feel the same connection, the same indignation for the characters who populate our stories.  And if any one of us can get into an endless, internal dialogue of whatever is bothering us, we are surely capable of writing a story that for another, is worth reading.  If I were to write a daily journal logging my aggravations, every time I complained about something (that’s when the material gets really good); someone is pissed, somebody’s done somebody wrong, I would have a book by year’s end.  In fact, I did have a diary once where I documented my experiences in the seventh grade.  Years later when I looked back, it was amazing some of the things that I documented.  It was young adult all the way, filled with angst and aggravation.  In fact, that’s what it should have been entitled “Angst and Aggravation”. 

Promotional picture for the CW TV series The Vampire Diaries

I remember years ago, I had a friend in college who was in love with one boy, but was loved instead by his brother.  It was a very thorny situation, as one would imagine.  Funny thing is, they were twins.  Identical twins.  They looked alike, minor differences here and there, but, you get the picture.  Although personality wise, they were worlds apart.  As the story goes…the girl fell for the one, but not the other brother, simply because she saw something in Brother A that she didn’t see in Brother B.  The one she loved admitted that he had feelings, but felt weird about ‘going there’ with her because he felt it would hurt his brother.  She wound up dating the brother, but he turned out to be deviant.  Well, ironically enough, years later… out came the Vampire Diaries, with the heroine, Elena Gilbert caught in a love triangle between Stefan and Damon Salvatore, two brothers turned Vampire over a century ago.  She fell for Stefan, and there’s Damon, loving her from the sidelines, injecting himself with every opportunity that surfaces.  You probably figured by now I’m a die-hard Vampire Diaries fan, but I just love using fan fiction for reality checks.  

In any case, I always think of that story every time I see that show.  The ingredients are there:  The two brothers.  One good.  The other bad.  The innocent girl unwittingly caught between the two.  In fact, Ian Somerhalder has a slight resemblance to the brother she wound up dating.  Damon has a spiteful streak to him, and as I recall, so did this guy.  Not surprisingly, that situation didn’t end too well.  It was mired with so much drama.  The girl was right to choose Brother A in the first place, and should’ve just walked away when it didn’t pan out.  Brother B proved to be nothing but a heartache. 

Yes, I realize that the two seem nothing alike at first glance.  The minor details differ in so many ways.  Stefan reciprocated.   He loves Elena dearly and the two are an item in the series.  He’s not guilted into letting his brother’s feelings interfere with his own chances.  The guy in our universe bowed out, reserving his chance for love.  He felt for her, but never took it to the next level.  In the series,  Damon, though scorned, continues to reassure his love for her regardless.  Brother B in our world felt so slighted by her initial pick of his brother that he ended things.  Those of us watching the series know that Damon would never do something like that.  His love for Elena endures. 

Still, it’s a play on reality, flexing and bending it into something that we would’ve liked to see play out. Incidentally, she was told at the time that she should write a story on it.  Daily life is drama.  Our lives are dramatic just the way it is.  We don’t always need to recreate a whole new world, when everything we need, plot, characters, sometimes is right in front of us.  The story we’re looking for happens to be what we’re living …in the here and now.  So the next time you find yourself wandering for a storyline, short on ideas, look no further than your life and see if there’s something in it you can turn into a chronicle with a strange, dark twist.  

Book Review, Revolution, by Jennifer Donnelly

14 January 2011

(U.S. Edition) of Revolution. Author Jennifer Donnelly, Published October 12, 2010, 496 pages. Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children's Books.

 

Thank you for following me to these pages.  I just completed Revolution and was astounded by everything I’d learned from it.  If you read my book review at the Corner Cafe, http://debrahutchens.wordpress.com/ I gave an earful on this wonderful novel released by Jennifer Donnelly in October 2010. It speaks of the French Revolution but in a ‘novel’ way never before done.  At least, not in a way I’m aware of.  From the point of view of Alexandrine Paradis (who lived during its uprising) and that of Andi Alpers, who lives in modern-day New York and develops a deeper understanding of it through Alex’s words.  One that takes her beyond the pages of a history book, yet through the storytelling of a simple, heart-wrenching diary that Andi discovers while on a trip to Paris.

Vignette…Underlying Intent, KC Novella Chronicle

3 January 2011

   

Poisened Tea - Photo credit and gratitude for permission of use is given to: Paper Doll. Visit her photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/hoshinohime/

I’d finally managed one good night after a long, strenuous week of unbroken aggravation.  All I asked for was some quiet time with a friend.  And that was what I got until Brandon showed up on the scene and breached in on my time with Cosette. 

What did he think I was going to do with her?  I totally understood his jealousy.  But that was when I spoke with men.  Other men.  And this was Cosette.  His cousin.    

Cosette and I had been sitting together, comfortably sprawled on her raspberry suede living room couch in a century old farm house on the northeast corner of Wickham Point, sipping a novel brew of  Moroccan tea.  The scene could not have been more perfect when Brandon, disrupting the tranquil rhythm, made an unexpected appearance at her doorstep.  He announced his arrival at her front door with three hard slams of his fist.  He was strong enough to penetrate the solid oak as if it were nothing more than just a rickety screen door.  It sounded like cannons going off in the not so far distance.  If this were 1864, Atlanta, I would have thought the Union forces were closing in on us.   

Cosette, knowing the signature of his knock, calmly and without any sign of worry but a knowing smirk that scratched across her face, opened the door without hesitating.  Brandon swept past her, omitting the standard greeting, his eyes combing the living room area adjacent to the foyer until he found me.   

“How nice for you to visit Brandon.”  She crooned in that velvety voice of hers she typically used to slide under his skin.   

“Get your coat.”  He demanded of me with an effort to ignore her taunting.  His jawline was stiff, unpliant as a rigid strip of metal.  I knew better than to argue with him.  Not here.  Not now.  Not when he was in a determined and ‘not to be messed with’ frame of mind.  He wasn’t my father, nor my brother, not even a boyfriend.  Just a friend, albeit a possessive one at that, who came to stake his guard over me.     

In that split moment of his mandate, I had already made up my mind that I would follow him; do as he told.  I knew he had his reasons.  Knew well enough not to argue with him.  And with a look that was written so visibly in every feature of his face, one that warned I not defy him in her presence, I also knew it would be to my detriment not to obey.  But I had a reputation to protect, an image to consider.  Cosette was watching, testing me with her discerning eyes.  I didn’t want her going back to the other Scotts’, telling the rest of the family that when Brandon ordered me to ‘jump’, I was lemming enough to ask ‘how high.’   

So I purposely took my time before I slowly got up, careful to give the impression that this was my decision as much as his.   

Cosette wasn’t fooled one bit.  Only one person called the shots tonight, and it was obvious who that person was.   

“Sie nicht selbst ihr.” She hissed, provoked by my submission.  Her eyes were on me, her words directed at Brandon’s back.   

“Ich besitze, was mir gehört zu schützen.”  Came his reply, a language that, if I’m not mistaken, always seems strangely marked by anger.   

The moment I crossed over that three foot radius that neared him, he grabbed me by the hand and lurched me out of her house.  I hobbled after him, trying to keep up as if I were a feeble toddler learning to walk. His cousin only laughed, using her best defense mechanism tone, cackling like a hen, her voice breaking in sound bytes before she slammed the oak hard.  Seconds after, the front porch light flicked off, courtesy of Cosette’s bad manners to leave her departing guests in total darkness.   

“Brandon, wait!”  I ripped my hand from his strong grip when we reached his Yukon.   My wrist was burning from when he forcibly seized me.   The car sounded off in low beeps as Brandon unlocked the doors.    

“Get in.”  He ordered.   

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”   

“I will.  In the car.  Now get in.”   

“I’m not yours to push around, Brandon.  Now tell me or I walk home.”    

He studied me from across the roof of the car, each of us staring defiantly at the other person from our respective sides.    

“Get in.”  He held, but entreated on the last added word said in mercy, “Please.”     

This time he was humble.  Without even a touch of it he knew he wasn’t getting any cooperation from me.   But it was what I needed to hear, especially since I really wasn’t looking forward to walking home in 46 degree temperatures with low winds riding in at 20 miles an hour.    

I stepped into the front passenger seat and buckled myself in for the Busch Garden rocket boost of a ride.  Brandon usually unleashed his temper on his vehicles.   

I waited until after we’d exited Cosette’s neighborhood.  As if she had bionic ears and could eavesdrop on our conversation.   

“Why are you angry with Cosette?  What did she do?”   

“It’s not what she did,”  he said, his eyes nailed to the winding road that spun towards us with a speed matching the Gran Turismo series video game, “it’s what she’s about to do.  What she’s trying to do.”   

I paused to consider this for a minute, to process this article of fact.  I knew what Brandon was getting at, and felt irritated by his artful way of letting the suspense build in dramatic fashion before he would deliver the blow of truth at me.  But I didn’t want to fill the gaps with any assumptions of my own.   

“What is she trying to do?” I asked in that typical high-pitched voice that people regularly used when they acted guileless.  Brandon furrowed his eyebrows, and with a look of knowing cast a look towards me that told he wasn’t fooled by this counterfeit attempt.   

“She’s a witch.  Like me.  She’s trying to get a read of your energy.”   

“How could she manage that?”   

He shrugged, struggling to reach for an example, “I don’t know.  Anything you might have drank.”  He darted his attention back to me and held my eyes to his. “Did you drink anything?”   

I shook my head, turning away from his probing eyes, ignoring the tremor that snaked its way up my spine.  “I just took a sip of some tea,” I said, leaving out the most significant part: that I actually engulfed two whole cups.  “You mean like use my spit for something?”   

“Something like that. But more or less to get your ‘prints’.  Only a print extracted in the form of energy.  Overlapping energy patterns of your aura, anything that will give her specific information on you.”   

“So you’re saying she can…”   

“Read your thoughts.  See your past.  Your present, your current status quo.  She was happy to let you go after you drank the whole tea.  She didn’t need you after that.”   

“I told you,” I blasted at him, leaning forward against the tightening seatbelt, insisting on my own lie, “it was only a sip.”   

“You drank the whole thing, Gillian, I saw the empty cup.”   

I nodded, embarrassed to be caught in my own lie. “So what now?”   

“She’ll dip her finger in whatever liquid you didn’t drink, run it across her forehead, and whatever she sees in her dreams tonight will tell her something different, depending on the ritual.”   

I sank back against the seat, feeling defeated and rattled that Cosette would betray me this way.  I thought we were friends, that she had a genuine interest in wanting to know me.   

I could feel Brandon’s eyes on me as he threw one last glance in my direction, one filled this time with pity.

The Girl With No Shadow

13 December 2010

The Girl With No Shadow by Joanne Harris. Originally published in the UK in 2007 under the name The Lollipop Shoes, Doubleday. 464 pages. HarperCollins.

After finishing Incarceron, I’ve moved onto reading The Girl With No Shadow by Joanne Harris, a continuation of the international bestseller Chocolat, four years after they departed from Lansquenet.  The thing I love about this novel is that in every new chapter, the point of view alternates between three main characters; Yanne Charbonneau (previously under the fictitious name of Vianne when she resided in the former village of Lansquenet), owner of a chocolaterie in their new migrated destination on Montmartre Street, Anouk, her daughter of quiet rebellion, and a novel stranger, Zozie de l’Alba, who bears a peculiar yet fashionable edge to her style and who blows into their lives like a warm, exhilarating wind, equipped with an outward charm of goodwill but a devious intent of her own that will, unbeknownst to them, turn their lives upside down.  Though Vianne, engaged to her landlord, one who bears a straight-laced sense of propriety, is determined to have a normal life, Zozie de l’Alba (who, underneath an ornament of warm charm gives an impression of compassion) threatens to undermine and unravel it all. 

Several passages in this novel caught my attention that I just had to share:

Saturday, 17 November (point of view of Zozie de l’Alba)

“I didn’t care about karmic retribution.  I wanted my retribution to be real: for my tormentors to be laid low, not later, not in some future lifetime, but paid back in full, in blood and in the present.”

First of all, who hasn’t felt this way, when karma doesn’t seem to give each person their fair share of the boomerang effect?  So on this note, and only this one note, I can relate to her, but I find it exciting that it gives another glimpse, a sneak peak of what’s to come in the coming chapters.

Vampire Diaries

17 October 2010

Promotional picture for the CW TV series The Vampire Diaries

Vampire Diaries, The Return

1 October 2010

Promotional picture for the CW TV series The Vampire Diaries

Oh, the wonderfully delectable world of vampires.  It gets more sanguinary by the episode.  Remember the blog I posted on August 12 regarding unrequited love?  The torture it inflicts upon us?  Particularly Brandon Scott in his love for Gillian.  Well apparently, the supernatural world is filled with its share of pain and gloom.  I’ll admit, I’m a huge fan of the Vampire Diaries.  So much, that when it airs on Thursday nights, if I’m not in the right mood, (like last Thursday when I had a migraine, not a pleasant thing to have when you waited all week for this show) I’ll record it and save it for later… for when I’m obviously in a better frame of mind.  I thought the closing scene of this particular episode rebounded nicely to the theme of unrequited love. Evidently, Damon seems to be getting more than his fair share of it.  Wouldn’t you agree?  I also love the promo shot on the left, the composition of both love and lust (hand to the hair and the other to the throat) tied to a woman who, in both past and present, another juxtaposition, has caused torment, deliberately then later unwillingly, upon two brothers.  Pretty savvy symbolism.

In the Season Premiere of the Vampire Diaries, “The Return”, air date September 9, 2010, written by Kevin Williamson & Julie Plec, Damon and Katherine, reunited after over 100 years, are in a heated mid-kiss when Damon interrupts the moment with a question that has been burning inside him to get out.  In Season 1, Damon, after releasing the vampires from the prison under the church, discovered to his dismay that Katherine wasn’t there.  She’d been free and roaming the earth all along.  Anna, a vampire, had revealed to him that she last saw Katherine in Chicago in 1983, but never bothered to go look for him.  Understandably, Damon was stung by the news, enough that, during his reunion with her, he forces himself to interrupt the ardent exchange he’s having with her in order to get the truth of why she stayed away.  This episode was a shocker, simply because of the blunt honesty that was delivered so ruthlessly to Damon (for once he was vulnerable), it just left me with my jaw dropping.  And both scenes came in on us, (yes, there is another one that follows, as many of you well know) loading fast like a pile-up in a car wreck.  It went something like this:

Damon tears himself away from Katherine.  “Wait.  I have a question.  Answer it, and it’s back to fireworks and rockets and red glare.  Answer it right, I’ll forget the last 145 years I spent missing you…  We could start over. This could be our defining moment.  We have time and…the beauty of eternity.  I just want the truth.  Just once.”  He’s so desperate to be relieved from this anguish.

Meanwhile, Katherine watches him with a hard look of annoyance.  Until finally, frustrated, she tells him “Stop.  I know the question, and it’s answer.  The truth is, I’ve never loved you.  It was always Stefan.”

The love was one-sided all along.  He waited over 100 years to hear her say that.  She tells him this with the same tender expression you would use when you tell someone you love them.  We’re now beginning to see the cruel side to Katherine, (okay, stabbing Stefan with casual brutality after he replied that he didn’t love her, was the awakening point of this awareness), a woman, or rather, a vampire, who is easily predisposed to inflicting pain, not excluding on those who love her, and whom she loves (if you piss her off…look out!).  She not only admitted she never loved him, but that she loved his brother instead.  But I guess we shouldn’t compare the basic code of conduct of the average human to a vampire whose diet consisted of feasting on human blood for nearly 150 years.  He was so stung that she literally had to pry his hands off her face when he froze at her answer.  And she tells him this with a cold, frank look into his pained eyes before casually stepping away.  

If only she’d told him in the beginning, instead of playing them against each other, she would have spared him a century’s worth of loving her, something which needlessly grew in vain in her absence.  But Katherine is selfish and carries her own motives.  We see Damon standing there for the first time ever, injured, hampered at this cruel offense, with the most suffering look in his eyes that we’ve seen so rarely practiced on him.  It’s enough to make you realize, piece that part of the puzzle together as to why Damon is so ruthless.  He’s lonely.

Is there anyone out there who can’t relate to this disappointment?  That was a heartbreak of colossal proportions.  And it doesn’t end there.  Damon surprises Elena by making a surprise visit to her bedroom that night -(you’ll see in the video below Nina Dobrev playing both roles, the wavy haired, pouty faced version portraying Katherine).  I wonder at this point if it’s in desperate compensation from the sting of Katherine’s rejection.

…”there’s something going on between the two of us and you know it.”  He tells her.  But despite this intense emotional display of grief, she delivers the same blow…”…I care about you…but, I love Stefan, it’s always going to be Stefan!”

I don’t know which was worst.  The first rejection, delivered with willful cruelty. Or the second, when Elena gives it with love and a desperate plea of unflinching honesty.  The kind of honesty that vows not to lead a friend on, not to be unfaithful to a loved one.   

Much credit is given to the creator of this video, Sierralim91, for producing and reassembling such an awesome piece of fan fiction.  Many thanks to the writers of this series for giving audiences something to sink their teeth into, especially as we approach Halloween.  Copyright of video is owned by Outerbanks Entertainment, Alloy Entertainment, CBS Television Studios and Warner Bros. Television.   Enjoy the show!

                                                                                              YouTube Preview Image

 

 

King’s Crossing Release

12 August 2010

King's Crossing by Debra Hutchens. Published on August 11, 2010, Paperback, CSBR Press.

I’m excited for the release of my new book, King’s Crossing.  I love the art work cover shot, Gillian’s eyes, made more aglow with green against the deeply shading of eyelids.  It tells the tale of unrequited love of a young boy who, throughout the course of his life, falls hopelessly, shamefully and endearingly in love with this one girl who won’t give him the satisfaction of loving him back. 

Before you blame the girl, remember, we’ve all been there.  Ever have that happen to you?  Ever experience the agony of love gone unrealized?  Or even been that person that someone else is madly in love with?  I do realize that what I just described seems an extreme case, but believe me, I’ve seen it many times over in real life.  Some people might qualify these types of personalities as being obsessive, maybe a little ‘touched’, but even if it’s true, it’s a painful, needless suffering, one of the fewest that people will cope through.  On behalf of these hopeless devotees, they would like nothing better than to cut their losses and move on, sever the ties of this pointless enslavement, but their minds are chained by some unknown force into having to have this one person who’s since been objectified beyond reason.  And sometimes, as we’ve seen, obsessive, addictive love can become perilous. 

When you care deeply and affectionately for someone who just…well, they just don’t feel the same way as you do.   They care about you.  Emphasize it over and over again how much they wouldn’t want to see you get hit by a truck or anything, but they just. Don’t. Love you.  This is Brandon Scott’s dilemma.  He loves Gillian to a fault and believes to the depths of his soul, or rather in his case -his psyche- that destiny calls her to take her place at his side. Naturally, she refuses, rejects him repeatedly with an open honesty that sounds gentle from her end, but cruel as it reaches him.  Yet Brandon won’t quit. She is his Psyche and he, her Eros.

This is King’s Crossing, and things that happen here, happen for a reason.  Brandon Scott loves Gillian so much- is so forcefully and turbulently connected to her, he can’t help but to ‘see’ things that affect her.  Or to receive flashes of insights that touch her, torment or come to harm her.  You see, Brandon is not just in love, he has a psychic talent that he can’t control.  So in his mind, and almost convincing to hers, he is her guardian and her protector.  But the Crossing delivers more than just their story.  They are surrounded by friends (all offspring of the Crossing), and each with problems of their own.  Each of them who are trying to find their way through life.  Each one of them misguided in their own quest for love.

When Life is More tempting than writing

10 August 2010

Photo Credit: Tree Image (vladstudio, http://www.vladstudio.com/home/)

This weekend was a whirlwind of fun.  Long overdue, but never too late in its arrival.  I finally caught up with some really good friends, gathering to meet up with them in New York and having such an amazing time.  Where does the time go?  And I don’t mean the days, I’m talking the years that seem to fly by, unnoticed and inconspicuously. 

Lately, I’ve taken a huge break from writing.  But not entirely so.  There are periodic breaks and often times, I find myself writing down on a scrap piece of paper random thoughts and sentences that float through my mind, usually the dominant mood dictating the sentence I write.  That’s it.  Just a sentence that means nothing to anyone.  It’s a thread that’s part of a larger theme of thought.  Anyone reading it can make of it what they will.  But they will have to find it first, because I usually tear these notes to shreds before there’s any chance of them being discovered.  It’s a diary of thought. One slip of note betraying my feelings in that instant.  I need to write it because it’s a spiritual and mental purging.  Writing has always been this for me.  So even though I haven’t been officially engaged in any writing that is soon to turn Manuscript, I’ve been keeping those words juggling in my head.  Flexing and muscling them into coherent ideas.  And that party I went to this weekend?  Well, it will serve its purpose in the long run.  Someday, something in there will make it into one of my story lines. 

Similar to when I completed the video book trailer.  I had taken hundreds of pictures through the years, many were nominated, but only few made it to the stage to be given the Oscar at the Podium.  All these memories I make with my friends will go into the Chamber of memories, few will be nominated for storylines, fewer will get hired to make it into the final cut. 

Meanwhile, for those of you living in the Northeast, this summer has been incredibly humid, and yet so tortuously dry:  we went through a prolonged period of no rain that resulted in everything turning yellow.  Just nature’s way of reminding us why rain is so important.  But I haven’t been pushed to the brink of complaint.  We earn our summers here in CT, as the winters can be a little too unforgiving at times.  And it’s taken its toll on my ability to sit still in the heat, focus and commit myself to a lateral, surreal world that runs parallel yet in-congruent to this one.  I’m still reading though.  Right now I’m revisiting two classics; The Catcher In The Rye by J.D. Salinger on my morning commute and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, in the evening at home.  The Catcher in the Rye makes an immediate impression, whereas Jane Eyre has a delayed effect, but no less powering in its reach to my subconsciousness.  Jane Eyre evokes outrage from me in so many ways.  I’m revisiting this storyline as an adult to see what I get out of it now that I’m no longer twelve years old, and if the lessons or stories portrayed in the novel make a different impact.

Vignette…Testament to Love, KC Novella Chronicle

12 July 2010

(Artwork: Artist Unknown. Valentine-cupid-cherub-with-swallow)

You know that I love you, right?  But you know what really makes me mad? The fact that it’s always been so damn one-sided with you.  I used to believe that maybe someday you’d come to see the error of your ways. Realize that we were right for each other.  Cut from the same cloth.  As true and binding as a covenant burned onto a stone tablet.  But I need you to see it, too.  I’ve recently had a feeling that something soon will come between us.  Remember what I once warned; ‘I’ll be devastated, but you’ll be the one with regret.’  I know it sounded cursed, but it was a warning of what I saw coming.  I’d like to say I want you to be happy, but I’m not going to lie.  I do want to see you content, but feel the misery without me.  I’m too selfish to want for your happiness without me there to have it with you. There. I said it.  Sorry if this rubs you the wrong way.    Brandon 

Any girl would be ecstatic to receive a letter as emotionally charged as this (outwardly enraged, but inwardly flattered, secretly delighting in the fury steaming from an infatuated admirer).  But this is Brandon we’re talking about.  And I’m not just any girl.  So naturally while reading through it, I react with that all too familiar feeling of worry and annoyance that has plagued me since the beginning.

      Brandon, please.  Don’t do this to yourself.

      We’ve been through this so many times already.  And don’t talk about fate.  For one thing, I’ll decide my own fate.  It’s bad luck to assume something is destined before you’ve seen the outcome. It’s like mocking Providence. Only in hindsight do things appear to be preordained.  It’s another thing to assume you’ve won the grand prize.  It only dooms you the opposite.  Almost analogous to proclaiming the next engineered cruise ship to be unsinkable, then deigning to name it Titanic.  In life where the gods keep vigil on our egotism, rarely can we afford to esteem ourselves in such high regard.  

      Starting from our teens, my friend Brandon and I developed a tradition of writing letters that has lasted to the present day.  Whenever one of us had something raw to share, you can be sure we’d end up losing sleep over it scripting an epistle.  We held fast to this method, un-swayed by the convenience of modern Email, each of us refusing to let the Internet age intrude on the habit.  A letter, scripted by your own hand felt permanent.  It committed you to your actions.  The very effort sent the message that you cared.  That you meant business.

      Brandon had been my next door neighbor and best friend since our early teens.  For that reason, it was easy to pop letters in each other’s mailbox whenever one of us had the ‘urge’ to ‘purge’ and get something off our chest.

      You can tell them off.  You can say all the things you wouldn’t have had the guts to say if you’d had them standing in front of you. 

     I knew he’d seen me kissing Devin from the front porch, a man I wouldn’t torture him into meeting at this point.  The swift drop of the curtain from behind the arched window told it all.  The spectacle instantly starving any hopes he’d nurtured on me for so many years.  I’m guessing it prompted him to write this letter where he poured his guts out for the umpteenth time. 

      And my heart ached for him now as it did from the very beginning. 

 

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