chicating

allow me to share a "Merry Month of Masturbation" snippet that has enjoyed a strange(Because it's not May, when MMOM revives) new life this summer.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562114

I read too late that it was supposed to be 1000 words, every day, but it's better to get something out than nothing, so...
Sam White wouldn’t have wanted to admit it, even on that spring-day quad and with the film that meandered for the first time in what she would call her artistic life, but part of her was hoping that her dad had figured out how to contact her super-long-distance. He did always say he’d always be with her, even if it seems a little early to put that to the toughest test of all.

It makes the fact that she is just somebody’s wrong number harder, that stupid, little-girl burst of hope. She finds that she isn’t sure what she thinks about the afterlife, even knowing what people like Zora Neale Hurston wrote on the subject.

She told that stranger everything, too. Hopes and fears and outpourings of love like the ones she would leave for her father if growing up hadn’t meant pulling back a little. Now that they could both be spirits and feelings, it was finally easier and she didn’t know where he was. Did making films even matter that much anymore? She wanted to think so, naturally, just as she’d always hoped that somebody, somewhere learned from her broadcasts and online battles, but even aside from not wanting to be some kind of professional biracial troll-wrangler, it seems hard to imagine. I
n a movie, not one of hers, but in the feel-good kind her mother favored, maybe she and Wrong Number Guy would have a special bond now, remembering each other’s birthdays and all that. But she supposes in this climate, she’s lucky the guy just said “ Sorry,” however half-heartedly

Unlike most girls, well, young women, now, her age, Buffy has had many chances to think about the things she might want to think of for the last time. After all, she’s been there, if only briefly. She knows that both Willow and Giles feel majorly ripped off that she has no eyewitness accounts of any Other Side to bring them, but that, for once, came with no dreams or visions. Just wetness and some kind of algae
.(She was able to get the dress cleaned, but had her mom donate it somewhere for girls that couldn’t afford their prom dresses. She’d lost all enthusiasm for wearing it. But she didn’t think it was cursed or anything. She hoped not.)
Out of habit, even climbing the tower, she thought “I meant to ask Giles.” And realized she would soon be out of times to ask him anything, and that hurt a little.

As did the memory of herself being all Quippy Girl telling both Will and her Watcher that the next time she died, she’d take a pad and pen and record impressions along the way,
and laughing at how their expressions and even voices kind of matched when they said “Would you?
” Till they realized she wasn’t serious, that is.
Will even said “My mother would be kind of upset with me for asking, cause we’re Jewish, and an afterlife isn’t really on our menu, but I think I’d feel better if…”And she got all pink, in the way that announced a Major Willow Difficult Topic. “And you know, pissing off Dr. Sheila? Always kind of a bonus.”

“If I see Anne Frank,” Buffy said. “I’ll tell her hello from you. Without saying anything about that.”
“Thanks,” Will said. “But she might understand. She struggled with her mother, too. Also, keep an eye out for Jenny. I have dreams about her sometimes, but they aren’t like yours.”

“I do,” she’d replied. “A lot.” But she’d never thought much about it till she told Willow that.

Kind of random, as last impressions go, but at least on-topic. If anyone were reading her mind right now(never completely off the table in Sunny D, by the way) she’d hate for them to see that climbing all those steep stairs reminded her of the diving board at the public pool in LA, and how she was the first kid to jump in the deep end every summer. Even though they started going when she was six or something, and sometimes parents gave Joyce dirty looks to see her in there in her little pink suit. Which, to her credit, Joyce totally weathered in public, but she did get upset at home sometimes.
Her dad, ex-football jock before he was, like, ex-dad, almost wanted to take credit. Hard to imagine, now. She climbed things a lot, actually, tall neighborhood trees, mountain paths on girl scout hikes, and, just like during her ice-skating lessons, it was like her body told her not to be scared, that it could take most of what she dished out. Maybe the slayer thing shouldn’t have been such a surprise. But it totally was.

The climb seems both endless and not long enough. She is still surprised, that, say “Time of Your Life” or, even, and she hopes Oz, wherever he is, misses this part of her mental transcript, some version of Hallelujah isn’t playing while she flips through a slideshow of thoughts about Dawn, who is, after all, the object of this sacrifice, even more than this messed-up world that she is saving. Again. She tries to picture all the girl-talk they’ll be missing and closes her eyes, waiting for tears. Under her closed eyelids, she can see a green ball of energy.
She takes a deep breath, and plunges.

but I got kudos on an old piece of Seinfeld fanfiction and one of those new improved "let 'em down gently," submit again rejections for my own work all at once today.

Don't really think I believe in signs, but if I did, que?

Like, should I trust my inner voice? Forget my inner voice and work on my Larry David Impression instead? (Which maybe sounds too much like my inner voice anyway, which is why I'm gonna die alone sooner rather than later, but I'm not bitter... well, for someone *without* a great job, a great love life or a beautiful home...yeah, I'm 0/3 on Maupin's Tolliver Scale, too.) Somebody once told me he thought work would help me more than love, but not so I've noticed so far. Of course, his own struggles have taken a turn for the death-defying so I'm not sure he even remembers that, now, anyway.
Should I pitch the rom-com? Don't exactly think it's my best, but it's something that's finished *right now*, etc. And if I were ever right about what my best *anything* is, my life would be better, right this instant.

to write a Pelecanos-style backstory with, say, Mr, Trick and Derek Strange. Because, for a hot minute, it kind of crossed my mind last night. But that's nuts, right? Last thing I need is more hundreds of words that appeal to me and three other readers.

Buffy's death creates some strange camaraderie.
“That is, and I never thought I’d say this, perversely comforting, Spike. Might I have a cigarette, please?”

“ It’s what I do, isn’t it? And you asked for that like you were gonna start pouring tea service in a minute…lighten up. Being bad, even cheating death, is supposed to be *fun*.or don’t you remember?”

Caught between nostalgia and diplomacy even in grief and the surreal situation, Giles said “Um…” and found himself hunting for words, as indeed, he’d been all day in one form or another. He dragged deeply on the proffered cigarette and almost enjoyed that the pain in his lungs was worse than he remembered.He coughed, but the smoke somehow dirtying the bright California spring sky matched his mood and satisfied nearly as much as the nicotine hitting his bloodstream.

“Good job they don’t call your lot ‘Speakers’ then. Don’t suppose you could have saved the Slayer with sage wisdom like “Um.”

And Rupert Giles, experienced Watcher and lifelong student of the occult, saw something he’d never expect on a vampire’s face: discomfiture, maybe a little embarrassment.

“Look, Giles, mate…what happened with Buffy? Well, when I said it was your fault…I didn’t mean it. I mean, I’d kind of like it to be your fault, cause I could risk the biggest brain-freeze ever and also get some blood, well, on the hoof, right? Weak and tea-soaked as it would be likely to be.”
“And I was so touched that you were using my name,” Giles replied. “What’s a brainfreeze?”
“Oh, The Nibblet had one of her ice cream things at my crypt and ate so fast, it gave her the biggest headache I’ve seen without a chip. Afterward, she called it that.”

“Ah. Poetic. Clearly, it’s Hank’s fault.”
“Really? So, you’d let me…”
“No, although I swear to Christ, I don’t know why….Dawn perked up a bit when she saw him.”

Giles hadn’t realised he was counting the hours until Summers returned to the continent until Tara, of all people, took pity on Buffy’s father and invited him back to Revello Drive after the brief but still unendurable service. Tara was a lovely girl and mostly he admired both her maturity and her tendency to feel that every stranger was a friend she just hadn’t met, but sometimes she was just too bleeding nice.
“It’s your own fault, old man” he mumbled under his breath.—whatever else there was to fear about cemeteries, they were an excellent place to mumble piteously. But hadn’t she asked him, as if they were a family, and he were its head, and wasn’t she worried enough about his feelings that that little stammer came out again? It was a mixture that made him feel terrible.

“I think it’ll be good,” and though her voice was hesitant as usual, the tilt of her head was confident. “ For Dawn. He looked so lost, and I think he really has a chance to make it right.”

"Sure. Fine. “ Tara’s eyes looked surprised because he couldn’t quite keep the roughness out of his voice. Maybe she thought it was unshed tears. Maybe it was.

“Whatever you want.” Thinking about it now made him want to rip his tongue out, but at the moment, it was both Tara’s reply of “I just didn’t want to overstep—you know, it’s not my house,” and, even darker thoughts, how easy he might have found it to…dispatch Dawn, if his slayer had seen her as the accident of mystical history that she was--that led him to relent.

The end itself might have been easy, like gutting a trout. Or like pulling the guts out of the turkey for that infernal Thanksgiving she’d insisted on. Just one of the million little jobs Buffy had wanted an adult around for. He'd felt guilty, then, and caught Dawn’s eye, trying to look reassuring and not sorry she was alive at all. He never thought he would pick up this particular American linguistic habit, but, God, it did suck. For a moment, Rupert Giles wanted an adult to call on, too.

“It’s not my house, either,” he’d pointed out, more to get his mind of its sinister track than to encourage Tara, but Watcher habits died hard. Two birds, one stone, and so forth. “You have as much right as anyone.”

Tara beamed, in her understated way. “Yes, but, Giles, you’re so…adult. And I always felt that you and Joyce…kind of had an understanding. She’d trust you to decide what went on in her house. She loved you, Giles. Both of them had. “ She flushed, and was almost beautiful. Which made him even more susceptible, of course, even at his age. “Not the same way, of course.”

my attempt to answer this no-longer burning question begins here.

Buffy’s father arrived for the funeral, young blonde in tow. Giles, usually not one for gossip, thought “He has a type,” but the woman was more tentative than the Joyce Giles knew, although, polite at least.
One thing about death rituals, Giles mused, gutting as they were(Although he had to admit to thinking ahead on that front, his own emotions hadn’t really kicked in yet, much like when he’d been on codeine for a bout of bronchitis. He hadn’t been properly high, but, rather, it was like everything he felt were in a balloon somewhere above his head.) Where had he been going with that? Yes, well, one could usually get through a funeral on sheer will, overladen with courtesy.

That had been Giles’ intention at least. He couldn’t even remember what it was that Hank did, what small gesture rather cemented his opinion, because after all, he was primed not to think much of the man, both from seeing the occasional struggle—both financial and emotional- in the Summers’ house, as well as the fact that, when Giles himself neglected his duties all over England and then swanned off for just one(comparatively brief and cut-rate) winter break in Ibiza, Giles paid the prize, didn’t he? Of course, there might not have been demons involved in what Hank did…something in property development.

Well, okay, Giles thought. Minimal demons, not exactly zero demons. Demons love cash, after all. Fewer demons than my lot. But I never left any kids. The living beings who counted on me in those days chose me as their leader, more fools them. The Watcher heaved, what even to his own ears, sounded like a gusty sigh, but was prepared to stiffen his upper lip again. But then, Hank ran his hand through his farm-boy hair, or looked at his expensive watch, and Giles could feel Ripper’s energy moving through what felt like his empty heart. Are we keeping you, you arrogant tosser? The Watcher flushed as if he’d spoken aloud. Maybe he had, but Summers still faced him with an outstretched hand, so probably not.

All the more reason to make an effort, Giles thought. Civility in times of crisis, and all that. “Mr. Summers,” he said, smoothly, subconsciously digging up his poshest tones. “I’m Rupert Giles. Friend of the family, erstwhile librarian…sorry we had to meet at such a tragic moment.”
“Call me Hank. Yes, Mr. Giles, Joyce wrote me about you and your shared interests,” Hank smiled, but it didn’t show in his eyes. The young woman, Tammy Something, was practically yanking on Hank’s hands to get him to join another knot of mourners…fancy going all the way to Spain to end up with a quiet little Tammy. Not that Pilar might have changed the story in any way at all, except for giving Joyce’s pride the sense the other woman had something she didn’t. “Christmas cards and whatnot.”
Don’t think I’ll be calling you Hank, Summers.