You're a sick little puppy, Am. Just for the record.

Teppy, the fic I was asking after wasn't Graveyard Shift it was the Spiderman/Spike. Which I still want to see.

You're a sick little puppy, Am.

Why, thank you, Elena!

Yeah, I'm liking that too. Sorry to take so long to respond. I've been all over the board this morning. I never post in more than two threads these days. Huh. Weird me.

Timelies Deb, hope all is well with you.

agreeing with Elena on Am's sick puppyage.

Hey Deena - I'm good, and a lot better than pretty much anyone near the Middle East right now.

Today is MS meds day. Yay me!

Just sent the corrected, spell-checked final of the Am-Rebecca story to Rebecca for her approval. Title is "In Re The Events of Autumn, 1888".

I don't have it yet! (Penn's been tying up my mail for hours recently. I think their servers are overloaded or something.)

t dances with anticipation

Buggers, RL. I copuld post it here....

I WANT!

um, in case anyone cared to hear my opinion re posting or not.

I ain't posting nothin' without the two stars' approval.

Edit: GAH. Just looked at my "sent" box and the damned thing didn't attach. Rebecca, resending.

Post it here! (There should be more slasher slash here. And it's got fanfic. And... I'm a sick puppy here already. Why not?)

Rebecca? Am says OK.

I'll post the beginning and if Rebecca has no objections, I'll do the rest.

---

IN RE THE EVENTS OF AUTUMN, 1888

Darkness comes early in London, when the November fogs roll in.

It was already black, a sooty ominous sky with an overtint the colour of dried blood, when Am-Chau and I turned the corner of Hanbury Street, London, E.C. Most people would have thought we were mad: Whitechapel, in November of 1888, was neither the safest nor sanest place for two young women. Someone had been killing the drabs of the East End, eviscerating them, leaving them out in the open for all to see. Fear had seeped into the doss houses with their plague hospital castoff beds, into the uproar and violence of the public houses, into the very shadows cast by the spire of Nicholas Hawksmoor's Christ Church, in Spitalfields. And if the police knew anything at all, they were saying nothing.

We had come, Am-Chau and I, in search of a story. It was Mr. Stoker who'd suggested this course of action to us, although, looking back, I imagine he would likely have been horrified to know that we had taken him so literally. Mister Stoker - somehow, we were never easy with calling him Abraham, or Bram, although he was clear that we might do so - had been most kind to us, inviting us to partake of an afternoon tea with him, and discussing his work with us. There were few gentlemen so busy, or respected, who showed willingness to take two aspiring young women writers under a wing.

Far from writing novels or stories of the type him himself so greatly excelled in, however, we both wished above all else to report the truth of the world around us. The world of reporting was, we felt, where we both belonged. Mr. Stoker was a busy man, indeed. It might have been thought that, between his own work as a writer and his management of the affairs of the great Henry Irving, he would have not a moment to spare for us. But such was not the case. When Am disclosed our joint aspirations towards the world of journalism him, he at once invited us to his office at the Lyceum. He himself had once worked as journalist, a critic of drama, in fact. He brought the discussion around to the trials of women wanting to make their marks in a world so outside the accepted norm, something in fact quite dear to his wife Florence's heart.

As was natural, the conversation came around to the Whitechapel killings. Mr. Stoker brought out a stack of papers: they were back issues of the Times, each containing a printed letter from the Mr. George Bernard Shaw, revealing the dramatist's views on the subject of the madman who had already cut down at least four prostitutes in Whitechapel, and perhaps more.