Hmm, I know they gave us at least one man's name, but I understand they had a shockingly low life expectancy for a long time, too.But I just couldn't resist the Box thing.

We need someone totally familiar with the timelines for this part of the series. My brain, she is shredded mozzarella today.

And maybe Tara didn't live in Sunnydale yet, either. But that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Hell, that works for me, too. My only real concern about the proprietor was that, failing a face I could attach, I stuck Giles' face.

So his pimping the cheapo stuff made me blink. Ditto the "you sure don't." Not Gilesy.

Hmm. Maybe just some guy name Moe.....?

This is the whole debate about whether or not the proprietor died. Remember? Dru and Sunshine went to the Magic Box and that's how they found out that Jenny bought the Orb of Thessala. We didn't see him die, but he probably did. So we don't know who the proprietor is when you've set it, which probably means you can do whatever you want.

eta clarity

eagainta and I'm really enjoying this, too. I've been lurking but I couldn't resist chiming in on the shopkeeper thing.

We assume he died because the following year the proprieter was a woman.

Yeah, I figure he died too but isn't there some contingent who likes to believe he's alive and living it up somewhere? He's the BBS, right?

(Boogedy Boogedy Shopkeeper)

Anyway, that debate is why I remembered the whole thing. That and the Dru deathmatch.

"Um, don't get me wrong? He's a nice guy and stuff? He just likes to pull stuff on the tourists." She sorted through his shopping basket."Oh, no, these will never work. Look, I can bend it and I'm not as strong as you. Or whatever you're fighting."

"Do I know you? I thought maybe Mrs. Pembleton..."
" No," she said. "I don't think so. It's okay, though. Nobody does."
"Well, thank you for your help."
"Oh, yeah, that's Tara. Always helpful. You know, I did have some redwood stakes that...fell off a truck that I could let you have."
"At cost, right?" Tara said. She was surprisingly canny.
"Ok, at cost."

May I submit a late drabble? you fic infectors, you.

Pictures from home for company in England. She made copies. She's not so far gone she'd cut up originals.

Sharp shears from the sewing drawer. She's surprised they let her near them.

Delicate cuts like betrayal between a red head and a blonde/brunette. Precise cuts like vivisection between a sable head and one that must have owned L'Oreal stock. Careful alignment so that the red and the sable lean against each other and smile happily at the camera, nothing between them, like nothing ever should be.

Giles, too silent, behind her. "Willow, what--"

"Just remembering. When it was just us."

I love the drabble format. My husband, who is geniusdude, made the breathtakingly simple suggestion that in novel troublespots, I ought to use the form to impose a self-discipline of shape and length on the issue I was having. It works.

Love love love drabbles. They honestly do force me to a kind of precision, not only in how I execute a story, but in how I perceive it. Beginning, middle, end and brutally finite.

What's not to love?