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Cross At Needles by James Christie

Cross At Needles

If, five years ago, someone had asked me where I’d be today, no foresight could have told me I’d be in a coffee house in Needles, last leg of the road to L.A.

My guide along the way is gone. If Drusilla the vampire did find her chosen one, then she is satisfied, for what she wanted I have done.

Four tales of Dru:

Drusilla’s Roses.

Drusilla’s Redemption.

Drusilla Revenant.

Spike & Dru : the Graveyard of Empires.

All written to the same standard as Dear Miss Landau, the latter two containing the unfinished Whedon-era story arc which would turn the Buffyverse upsides on its head.

Joss Whedon has copies, delivered to him by me in Glasgow this February. Like many an unexploded stick of literary dynamite, they’re probably sitting somewhere in a stack, the words on the page waiting for the light they lack.

Now they’ll know, those who come after me, who I was and how I went. A book is forever, a fact undreamed and unrealized by the many; made true only for the very, very few.

There may be a musical, a stage play, too. I’ve wondered who’d portray me. James Marsters might well do.

Truth and reality can be cliché, for when a man is young tomorrow is another day. I will take the midnight train from Needles for Union Station in L.A.

My cup is full (bottomless courtesy of Juicy’s), the last trek’s done, or nearly so.

I should feel damned satisfied, even smug.

But I don’t.

Four years.

Whither my dear Miss Landau?

Fate is brutalist, I would say. If two people are meant to come together, God help anything in the way.

I could be complacent, even cocky. But I remember what it was like that day. Before Revenant, Chaplin, Dear Miss Landau…

On Sunset Boulevard, it’s not so far away.

I remember her hair, raven black in the light.

I remember the hours and miles and years it took to see that sight.

I worry about her every day.

I do not know if, even now, she’s found her way.

But for here, for now, there is nothing left for me to say.

Except these words:

Welcome, welcome to L.A…

James A. F. Christie

1^st December 2013

(Written in Juicy’s Famous River Café, Needles)

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