Yay, really? And I suppose Kay wearing that Dopplegangland outfit had nothing to do with that...it was all my powerful metaphors. So nobody but me thinks my ending might be weak?

I think it's a little abrupt, but... hey. I didn't want it to end, so I'm not sure how clear my thinking is.

Karl, you are a darling, and I'd probably steal you from Erika were there any chance of getting you past her spicy brains.

Abruptness is a problem for me...I may have to rethink.Because I kind of hop from image to image, rather than plan out first(I told somebody once that rather than have a process as such, my creativity is more like Cordy's visions except that I don't usually want to throw up after having it) I'm hoping to learn to control it more, one day. Oh, yeah, I have wonderful fans...But Deena, I think Karl just likes that I talk dirty and throw writers' names around a lot. He loves me for my Munchkin, plain and simple. :) ETA: But I needed to hear it cause I've been feeling more like Gordon Pratt today. A relatively repellent little loser that crawls out from his corner to tell the world he is smarter than they are, even though accomplishment-wise he way doesn't deliver. OK, so I'm not as dangerous or as ugly. And I haven't paid anyone to touch me yet. And I'm not a racist. But Gordon Pratt is my worst nightmare.

You know, I had the feeling you were going to end it that way.

It's damned satisfying, and damned good, too.

Thanks...at about midpoint, I shied away from the carnage storyline. And I found myself curious about what a Baltimore vamp's nest would look like, so at some point, I might get back to that. And a conspiracy involving lawyers will take some time to untangle so I thought it wouldn't be believable to put it down too easily.

In a weird bit of synchronicity, this weeks Open on Sunday theme is Hands.

Lay Your Hands on Me

“Touch me.”

“Buffy...”

“I know. It’s all bad, evil, soul. I know. I really do.” She pauses, quiet, desperate. “Touch me.”

He cups her chin, his hands slipping between her and the moonlight. The flesh of his fingers, marble-cold and just as pale, slide up, the tips coming to rest against her cheekbones. They’re wet. Something about the night, no one and nothing but them, has got to her. She’s weeping, not even bothering to push it back.

“Touch me.”

“Oh, God,” Angel whispers, “you know we can’t do this.”

He lays his hands on her. She brings them peace.

But I needed to hear it cause I've been feeling more like Gordon Pratt today. A relatively repellent little loser that crawls out from his corner to tell the world he is smarter than they are, even though accomplishment-wise he way doesn't deliver.

Erika, this is so far from being you that I shudder to contemplate. In just my own experience, from the selfish to the not so: you gave me an insightful, helpful, painful beta that provided me with the tools to make a pretty decent idea actually work as a story. You've always got supportive, kind things to say, no matter how crap your own life is being at the time. You lobby for the benefit of yourself and others, though you'd be entirely justified in saying it was just too much trouble. You engage this community. You write beautifully. You offer what you have to offer all the time. I've heard of H:Lots discs and other kindnesses. You're a giver, and a good friend. You're not, and never will be, a Pratt.

and, being a different subject:

I like those hands, Deb. I like the drabble itself, but the marble-cold fingers, those give a visceral sort of uncomfortable shiver. No forgetting what he really is, there.

Thanks, Deena.

And erika, BTW? I didn't internet-marry Gordon Pratt, dudesse.

It's a good thing for you you didn't...he was into some kinky shit.:) I guess I just feel like "a big fake" sometimes. And I flunked math.(not all my fault, but what would Pratt say? Same thing.)But then the Munchkin blew his head off. All better.(Maybe the AniMunch will take care of my Inner Pratt, or at least my inner prat.)

I've shocked people with my vocal support of that theory, btw.Mostly SVU people...they've softened Munch over time, I suppose. They always ask whether I *really* believe that. No. I post it cause I don't. I didn't believe it at first either, but Mrs. Bernstein being the neighbor and the case landing with crime fiction's hottest codependent...well, we don't need to go into that again.But Timmy could go out, see personally that the sky was blue, and if somebody said "No, it's not." strongly enough, he'd get sick to his stomach and say "Ok,"