Sunday, January 07, 2007

Witch Doctor's Daughter

Van Brenhauer. Daughter of famed plastic surgeon, Dr. Alfred Brenhauer. She is sixteen years old and has grown up around the fame and fortune of Beverly Hills plastic surgery. She has also experience the hauntingly unrealistic beauty of these men and women. Her mother (now divorced from Van's father) lives in the California hills, in her own little town away from the glitz and glamour. Natalie Brenhauer does not want her daughter to end up a slave to the machine like all the other little girls. Nor does Van herself. She knows the dangerous road of plastic surgery. She's seen the terrible things, the surreality it's caused and doesn't want that. After suffering from anorexia, becoming suicidal, bi-polar, nearly having a psychotic break, injecting silicone and collagen into herself, almost performing liposuction on herself, both her parents decided it would be best if Van went to live with her mother. But there's a problem. Juat as she's slipping out of the grip of Beverly Hills and having a happy life with her mother, her father calls and asks if she'd like to spend summer breakwith him in Beverly Hills. Van is terrified she'll slip into her old habits. Also, she has a happy life in the suburbs of San Fransisco, goes to a nice school (although school's out, duh), has a girlfriend that she loves, and has friends that love her for who she is. But she decides to go, to overcome her past once and for all.

Arriving at her father's posh house in the Bel Air neighborhood, she meets her father's new fiance Isabelle, a snake of a woman with a horse's face. Van can smell the gold-digger from miles away and takes an immediate disliking of her. The feeling is mutual. Trying to get her feet on the ground, Van meets up with her old friends, who suddenly have nothing in common with her. For the first couple weeks, she just kind of wanders around her old hometown, readjusting herself to life. She visits and art gallery for a contemporary art exhibit, and starts up a conversation with a charming british woman, who she finds out is the actual artist. they find they have much in common and enjoy each other's company. Van promises to come back the next day, only to find out she has to spend the day with her father in the office. Lollygagging in the waiting room, Van spots a beautiful girl reading a newspaper and strikes up a conversation with her. She finds out her name's Ally, she's eighteen and she's there for breast augmentation consultation. Van personally sees nothing wrong with them, but feels that it would be rude to say so.

After her visit with her father, Van rushes back to the gallery just in time to catch the artist leaving. afraid she might've offended her, Van starts apologizing profusely before the artist insists it's okay. they finally introduce themselves. Van finds out the artist's name is Nann, with two n's. As time progresses, they become friends. Also, Van keeps running into Ally and begins to fall in love with her. Ally is the daughter of another plastic surgeon, but Van's father specializes in breat augmentation. Still, there is something fishy about it. That's about as much as i've figured out right now. I realize that's a small bit of the book, but I just now came up with the idea. i know that she falls in love with Ally, only to realize that Ally's dragging into the abyss that she only just escaped from. She breaks away, realizing she is really in love with Nann, but is afraid that Nann doesn't want her anymore.

Anywho, here are some of the characters:


"I'm naturally tall and really thin, but somehow I wished I could be thinner. Before I figured out I needed help, I used to stand in front of my mirror, hair all loose and in my face, watching as the light changed it from that deep, dark brown to a lighter color. Then I'd cry and count my ribs. I think I've changed a little since then. Oh I still work out and everything, but I don't lie about eating now..."

Dr. Brenhauer-

"My father's not a tall man, but he is a big man. An almost hulking figure in a white lab coat, he looks like a lumberjack lost in a doctor's office. Especially since he decided to grow that little baby-beard. But he's trustworthy, and his patients enjoy his good humor and kind voice. I think the ladies enjoy him a little more than the boys father is a rather good looking man, with his curly brown hair and baby blues, as mother has often said..."


"She was pretty, really pretty. Cute smile and perky little nose. Curves in all the right places. I liked her t-shirt, it looked authentic, and who doesn't love the Rolling Stones? Grinning and tugging at a strand of honey blonde hair, she cocked her head and gave me the once-over. It seemed I was all right in her book. She stepped closer and turned to look at the piece I'd been ogling over. I wanted to keep looking at the art, it really was good. But something about her, kept my eyes drifting to her. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck were the same soft shade of blue as the lights above, giving her an unearthly look."


"She grinned at me, and I felt my knees pooling at my feet. She was hot. Incredibly hot. Blonde hair. Brown eyes. What more could you ask for?"

that's all for right now...but i'll be back...
Isabelle smiled, her face bearing an uncanny resemblance to a horse. Obsidian eyes glittering in the soft light of the party, she seemed to be feeding off the uneasy vibe I was experiencing. She soaked it in like emotional UV rays, giving her ego that orange-y tan. "Now Vanessa," Her voice had that faux-british accent so many of the socialites around here like to fake. "You must go and change, that outfit is absolutely hideous. Imagine what your father would think if he saw you dressed like this."

"My name's not Vanessa." I replied coldly. It's really not. It's just Van. Or Vannie if I like you or I'm dating you.

The smile flickered for a moment, before returning full force. "I beg your pardon?"

I smiled sweetly, "My name's not Vanessa, Isabelle, it's Van. Plain old Van. No extension. My mother named me after Van Morrison." He's my mother's favorite musician, and when I was born one of his songs was playing on the radio beside her bed. Thus, my name is and will forever be: Van Elise Brenhauer.

Isabelle's perfectly sculpted brows furrowed, betraying the lines on her forehead she and so many other women worked to kill. "Van....Morrison?" The confusion on her face was completely convincing, almost leading me to believe her.

"He's just a musician, Izzy. No one you would know." Women like her listened to Whatever is Hip For these Five Minutes.

so tired...

i'm tired....but i don't wanna sleep just yet. i'll probably be posting a story on here tomorrow, but right now i need to sleep.

i just have to. i can't go a day without posting her picture at least once or twice.

dammit....why does she have to be so hot?

and why'd she have to leave Dr. Who? *Cries*

Thursday, August 24, 2006

a room for you

this room's too small without you
the light's too bright without you
the bed's too big without you
this life's too long without you.

eyes too deep
too tired to sleep
undone by trying to count sheep
playing around with no soul to keep.

so big
so small
you took it all
with your funny grin
and whispers in bed.

drip drip drip drip
my tears into this drink
bang bang bang bang
goes my heart over the brink.


I Want a Famous Face

something about a girl who wants famous face. she wants desperately to be beautiful, only to be stopped by the very actress she wants to look like. taken through the paces, shown that what she wants in a lie. a deceit, an air-brushed fantasy. now that she knews the truth is really a lie, where can she go? what can she do now?a famous face is all she ever knew, all she ever wanted. "a famous looking face and i'll be a star, a dream, the biggest thing since sliced bread." it's gone now, and she has to live a real life with real friends.

Saturday, August 19, 2006


i ask for a lot i know. but this is something i really want. i really want it. just please, let me qualify and let me get into pearson college. i think i could really do a lot of good there.


Monday, August 14, 2006

A Deal's a Deal, even with a Dirty Dealer. Pt. 1

When I was 19, I sold my soul to the Devil for the life of my then true love.

I was young, brash, and desperate. She was beautiful, kind, and terminally ill. A match made in heaven.

They say the Devil's in the details. Who would think that behind the cliched phrase so many people would find the truth? I'll tell you dear reader, if more people took that sentence to heart, there'd be a lot less pain in the world today.

Everything feels so much colder these days...there are less colors, less happiness. It's been that way for six years. Ever since she/he/it came into my life. I wander the streets now; not because I don't have a home or a life, just because I can't find anything else to do. The hours just seem to drag on now. I don't sleep anymore, couldn't really find any point in it. All those restless hours waiting for sleep to come, lying there, making patterns in the ceiling. So now I walk through these streets, drifting listlessly from place to place. I'm the one your mother warns you about, the young kid with ancient eyes and a blank expression. I've seen parents yank their kids out of my path with a fearful glance towards me.

Not that I really care. I just wander the streets, looking for somewhere to rest.

I pause for a moment; I could've sworn I saw her on the street. But I'm mistaken and I keep walking. The sky's blue today, a clear, riveting, electric blue. Like her eyes. Those huge blue eyes that seemed stare straight through me. I shiver and look down again; I still remember the endless nights those first couple years. The only thing on my mind, in my soul, was her. Then, as the years passed, the memories and the pain faded, but never the emptiness. The terrible ache is always there. It's like six years ago, someone slipped in during the night and stole my heart. Oh wait, they did, only thing is, they did it with my permission.

Something catches my eye and I glance up; my stomach drops out from under me. I'm standing in front of my old building. I haven't been near this building in six years. In a split second second, the memories flood back into my consciousness. My knees almost drop out from the force of the onslaught. I didn't think I had it in me.

Six years ago to this day, I signed away my soul for the life of one Kathryn Marie Sanders, age 20 at the time and diagnosed with a cluster of gioblastoma tumors in her brain. At that point, she had about a month to live. By that time, the doctors and everyone else, including Katie had given up all hope. She'd been taken out of the hospital and sent home to die in the peace and comfort of familiar surroundings. Most people had already been by to express their condolences, assuming she was already gone. After a while, I just got tired of contradicting them and just nodded and smiled.

We were all exhausted in those days, myself, Katie, her mother and father. At that point, we all just wanted it to end in one way or another.

It was Febuary 10, four days to Valentine's Day and we were all on edge. I came straight over from the little university she and I'd been attending before she was diagnosed. An icy, yet sunny day with the threat of a storm, the wind sliced through the thin coat I'd just barely been able to afford. The doctor's predictions had been becoming decidedly darker, her lifespan shrinking from a month to maybe a few weeks. No one could really blame them, Katie had stopped all forms of coventional medicine nearly five months ago. She said she just wanted to slip into the other world free of all tubes and needles and drugs. It was an argument she and I had been having ever since she first decided.

But I trusted her opinion.

Shedding my coat, I slipped through the little apartment we'd been sharing, careful not to make any noise in case Katie was sleeping. Jeanette, her mother glanced at me from the sink, as I checked the fridge for a smidgen of something to eat. I grimaced at the prospects. An ancient carton of yogurt or an rotted banana. Foregoing the food, I gave Jeanette a kiss on the cheek and a hug. I know that by this point, I would've been out on the street screaming at light poles without her. Jeanette smiled, it was a tired smile though. She'd been taking care of Katie while I was at school; I'd wanted to quit and be with Katie full time, but both the Sanders women had adamantly refused on that one.

I gave Jeanette's shoulder a final squeeze and headed down the hall to the bedroom Katie and I shared as well. My shoes were left by the door and I tiptoed in, poking my head in; my breath was stolen away once more at the sight of her. She was sleeping, curled up tightly under the comforter, head tucked neatly in. Her golden blonde hair shone in the light from the small window near the sofa-bed. The shadows played over her face in an interesting pattern. Quiet as I could, I crept over to the bed and slipped under the covers. Gathering her into my arms, I gently kissed the crown of her head. Katie stirred for a moment, looking up at me and giving me the smile I'd fallen in love with before nestling her head in the crook of my neck. Clenching my jaw, I held my love tight and willed the tears not to fall. I could not lose her.

With who I assumed was God as my witness, I vowed to find some way to keep her alive and well. No matter what it took.


Friday, August 11, 2006

I just realized it.

I'm still in love with her.

Not as much as before. But, I'm still in love with her.

shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. shit. fuck. shit. shit.

i haven't thought seriously about her for three months. and now, with school looming back on the horizon, there she is again.


Wednesday, August 09, 2006

i am me. but who is me?

i am me. but who am i? what is my purpose? why do i exist on this earth? what is my main goal in life? i don't even have one. i don't know what i want to do with my life. i see so many of my friends, they've got it all planned out. what colleges they're going to, what they're going to do there, what jobs they're going to have. i. have. no. fucking. clue. what do i do with my life? if i don't even know who i am, how am i supposed to know what i want to do?

i am me.

but who is me? who am i? who am i? my heart, it beats. my soul, it speaks. but, it's in a language i've forgotten, a dialect i no longer know. it is the ancient language we have all lost. i am lost. i am without direction. i'm being pulled in so many ways, and i don't know what to choose.

i just don't fucking know who i am.

i think i once knew. once in a blue moon i'll remember it.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

character study inspired from a Stephen King story.

The threat of the storm seemed to have sucked the color from everything; trees that were once filled with leaves that were a collage of fiery reds and yellows had been reduced to grey skeletons, like the ghostly specters of a child's nightmare. A vast pumpkin field sat in the mist, the gourds themselves reduced to rotting corpses, smelling of death. A willow tree's branches whipped in the wind, delicate branches swept up to the sky. Underneath the tree, something resembling a piece of paper fluttered apathetically against the root it had entangled itself in. The wind shot through the old town, slicing through the thick coats of the few brave souls couragous enough to walk down Main Street before a storm. Barely visible against the dark sky, a thin wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney of Old Buck's Store. Inside the Old Store, the older occupants watched with self-righteous indignance as what they referred to as "the young people" scurried through town in an attempt to get out of the icy mid-November wind. In their opinion, anyone with sense would've already been inside by this time.

The inside of the store was a good forty degrees warmer than the outside. Last time the thermostat was checked, it read 79 degrees. Every once in a while, the old stove would crackle and pop, sending up a fresh wave of heat. All the smells permeated through the floorboards and walls, old coffee and tea, spices and baked bread, mixed with the stench of old tobacco and wet wool. A few lanterns and lamps were strategically placed around the store, providing just enough light for everyone to see without killing themselves. Some newfangled music was playing over the sound system Annie had hooked up back in the summer when she was bored. The three men and one woman sat in their respective seats, glancing out the front window, the lettering now faded and posters half-torn, to watch the sky with grim interest.

Claire Grace presided over the long, gleaming, mahogany counter, relaxing in the old swivel chair she'd swiped from the back room. She still looked pretty good for being 56, with a country woman's frame and a city woman's face, her blonde hair barely streaked with white. She'd inherited the Store from her Daddy, Buck Grace, after he died, and the apartment above the Store and not much else. There'd already been rumors flying when she arrived in Blue Hill, thirty years past, a fresh-faced, blue-eyed twenty-six year old straight out of Atlanta. Somehow she'd survived the hostile glances and vicious whispers of being the illegitamate child of Buck Grace and Wendy Fields, the mayor's daughter, who'd fled to Georgia to escape the wrath of her father. The past three decades had softened her thick southern drawl and the hearts of most of the town, but it'd had hardened her southern hospitality into a cool wariness of strangers.

Settling back into her chair, Claire gave the store a quick cursory glance before giving the sky a covert look. The whole thing was a muddy gray, twisting with the threat of a storm. It'd yet to rain, but the wind was already worrying her enough. She'd made sure to close all the windows and lock all the doors that had a bad way of banging in the breeze. The roof was what was bothering her. Already, more than a few shingles had been blown off, and she knew that if anymore blew off, she'd be facing a wet bed. With a sigh, Claire resigned the issue to fate; she wasn't going to do much good sitting there and worrying about it.

Arnie Hatfield sat with his feet propped up on the edge of the stove, letting the heat warm his tired feet. At 68, he was the second youngest of the bunch, and the most easy-going. A hulking man of six-foot-four-inches, he resembled a walking mountain. With a thatch of salt-white hair and a beard to match, Arnie had been Santa Claus to the local kids for a good long while. He'd been coming to the store since he was a wee kid with his father back when Buck's daddy used to own the place. Through the years, he'd come to the store for many things, first for Cokes as a kid for he and his friends, then to con cigs out of Buck as a teenager, finally to buy diapers and such when his own kids came around. He'd been one of the first people to make an acquataince with Claire when she first came down. But now, after the kids had left and Janet was up in heaven with the Lord after that bad soat with cancer, Arnie had found himself drifting down the store, mumbling excuses for this and that, just looking for some company. It was only until Claire had Annie put a chair out for him that he stopped with the excuses and just came down, every day, to sit in the back near the stove and prop his feet up on the warm edge.

Closing his eyes, Arnie coughed and prepared to spit before thinking better of it. He excused himself to the tiny bathroom near the stove and quickly spat the phlegm into the sink. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the dirty mirror. His hair was starting thin quite a bit near his forehead and his eyes seemed a little more bloodshot than normal. Christ, was he really getting old? Wasn't it just last week he was escorting Janet through the door after Jackie was born? That was nearly thirty years ago. Arnie bent his head, thinking on it. No, it was thirty, nearly to the day. It was the day Buck died in the accident. Two weeks before Claire moved in. He remembered it clear as a bell. Arnie chuckled wryly to himself as he went back to his seat. He may be old, but his mind was still like a steel trap.