askye, that's good. Nice Anya.

when times got stressful he found he liked the idea of . . . company.

More! More! More!

connie, that's turning into something really rather wonderful.

Yes, what Am said, with bells on.

I do hope i can get this finished before they do something dreadful on Buffy. I'm very nervous about various people's survivability.

I do hope i can get this finished before they do something dreadful on Buffy.

I'll settle for 'soon'.

But I'm well behind with Buffy, and I fear I know what you mean. Watching ASH keep his hands in his pockets for another episode may drive me crazy.

(driveby, with messages)

Plei: Roz says she went and read "Closing Time" and that it's "absolutely lovely."

Fay: Roz was/is hoping to go to Harvest, but she's a bit huffy with the organisers; she offered to do a crit panel for them, and they haven't got back to her yet. But if she does go, can I hook you up?

(driveby)

But if she does go, can I hook you up?

Hell yes! Although if she's going to be there in a formal capacity I shall feel decidedly shy/stalkerlike.

Although I suppose my interest in Roz is vaguely stalkerlike anyway, in a she-seems-like-a-nice-lass-and-I-like-her-writing*-but-she-doesn't-know-me-from-Adam kind of way. Darn. See, pretty much nobody in my corporeal life has the fannish love. I mean, there's my formerly-non-fic-reading-friend, who's now been sucked into reading LotR RPS...but the ironic thing about that is that, although I'm wholly to blame for sending her to Calico's stories, I kind of balk at reading RPS still, and so although I share the fannish glee (and the LotR love), I don't really read in her fandom of choice.

Um.

So, yeah - I'm awash with the Anorakish love of BtVS and AtS, and brimming with enthusiasm for fanfiction as a genre/aesthetic/whatever, but my opportunities to wax lyrical and pretentious about it all in person are few and far between. I figured that Roz could happily wax fannish over Cabernet Sauvignon, for she seems both smart and funny, as well as big with the Jossverse love. Which is cool.

* incidentally, did you read Webs ? It's been in the back of my mind a lot lately.

(Fay, do you know that she has a LiveJournal?)

Oh, splendid! I knew that she had had an LJ, but I didn't know she was using it again. (Although possibly the one I found before was an old one. Hmm.) Cool.

Fay, I quoted your original post and she laughed and said "I have absolutely no objection that." So if she does go, I'll intro you in email, or howsoever; I like hooking cool people up.

Yes, we spent two hours on the phone; we're getting into a sort of weekly check-in, which is lurvely. She's teasing me with tales of a show on the telly, not got over here, called "The Bill." Claims they have the best screen villain ever. Which led me to believe she'd never seen Luther Mahoney on H:LOTS, and I was right, so I need to find at least one of the juicier bits of Mahoneyhood and pop it on tape for her (she's got a bilingual VCR).

Off to watch Angel....

(Roz also has her website at dymphna.net - it's called glamourous rags. But I haven't been able to get into dymphna since the host played around and did the April Fools page yesterday, and broke the link. Now it won't acknowledge the host, and I can't get there. And I have two stories of hers I want to read....)

For Twi's drabble challenge.

---

Zoe counts on both hands the number of times it has happened. An untraceable message on the cortex, leading her to a shabby motel room on an outlying planet with a name not worth remembering. She leaves them all behind when she does it, especially Mal, because she's afraid one day he'll get this bu dui idea too and she have to use all her fingers.

She dumps the body in the incinerator and tosses the sheets and whatever else that's irreparably stained in afterwards. The gun is pocketed, to be resold on some backwater where they don't care about little things like serial numbers and licenses.

The note is pocketed, to be carefully read and then placed away with the others resting watchfully in a small brown tin.

The bodies she has seen and taken care of once had names; the signatures scribbled in despair at the bottom of the notes once had signifigance. They no longer do, and Zoe needs almost all of her fingers to mark the passing of each of her comrades--one every couple of months. Her heart grows harder and heavier with each senseless death, and the secret she is forced to bear, alone.