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oh good grief!

I write like
H. P. Lovecraft

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Dear Mun,

Could you possibly find me someone to socialise with? You might also look for a prompt community where my last post does not remain the most recent entry for weeks on end. (I suspect that when even the Mod ignores the prompts the community is dead.)

I was gifted with this paid Journal and have had so little chance to use it that I am wondering if you consider me redundant.

Please, consider this a formal request to find me something. Has anyone any ideas?


R. Giles.
I suppose it depends on the co-worker. I must have got on well enough with some of them, when I was younger.

Actually, that recollection may not be entirely accurate. I certainly rejected them during my attempt at teenage rebellion; I ran with the wildest group that would have me – and even those relationships may have been unduly complex. (Certainly I would have difficulty in analysing my feelings about Ethan Rayne, then or now. I used to know a counsellor who often said, “Don’t tell me how you feel, show me how you feel.” In Ethan Rayne’s case that might well involve using a weapon - possibly several.)

When it comes to the other Watchers, I think I got on fairly well with Elizabeth, when we were training. I heard later that an Orb of Riujib went out of control during an exorcism in Surry. She was regarded as MIA rather than expended; it seems probable that the whole party was sucked into an alternate dimension. It must have been appalling for her parents. Hope might not be a benign emotion, under those circumstances, but how could one ever stop hoping?

By hindsight, the rot really set in after I became the Slayer’s Watcher. I don’t think it was entirely subjective. Surely anyone would have regarded Gwendolyn Post as both easily corrupted and a complete idiot? Wesley Wyndam-Price could best have been described as a pillock when he arrived in Sunnydale and, while I once had a great respect for Quentin Travers that was modified over time, although he could show considerable insight under some circumstances.

Most of my fellow Watchers would have regarded it as completely inappropriate to feel that my Slayer was or is a co-worker. They would have been even less enthusiastic about any attempt to assess her friends as though they were colleagues. In any case, it does not seem appropriate to discuss them here.

Muse; Rupert Giles.
Fandom BTVS.
Words, 330
Apparently there are major problems with my BT phone-line. I am told that it is the continual interferance that is disconnecting my computer every time I try to log on, and that this would also prevent my having Broadband!

I am desperately trying to find a way around this.

I hope that friends and Mods will be patient with me. I am doing my utmost to solve this problem.
Apparently there are major problems with the BT phone-line in my new home. I am told that it is the continual interferance is disconnecting my computer every time I try to log on, and that this would also prevent my having Broadband!

I am desperately trying to find a way around this.

Mods and friends, please be patient with me. I am doing my best. (Suggestions would be welcomed.)


The much-delayed relocation is finally taking place! (During Christmas with 5 inches of snow forecast for tomorrow! *Sobs*)

I have just discovered that the central heating in the smallest bedroom doesn't work properly.

Anyway, I will lose phone and internet access tomorrow. I do not know when they will be restored. (I am therefore in the sh*t...)

Please would the Mods be patient with me? I need hiatius until the service is restored. There is no hope of internet access until it is.

Happy Christmas everyone.
I never really remember my dreams; they rarely seem to make sense, on waking. However, I do remember parts of my last nightmare – of course, that was only a few hours ago.

It was a cold, clear night, much quieter then it was when the events took place. I think that it was raining, in the dream. The cold wind cut through my clothes as though they weren’t there, but I could see the sleeve of my jacket.

In the dream I kneel on the wet earth and feel the mud squelch, and the cold, dirty water soaking into the knees of my trousers. I can smell the blood. The mud shifts as I lean forward, peering at the battered body. My glasses are smeared and I take the handkerchief from my top pocket as though about to wipe them clean. I don’t, though. I lean forward, with the cloth making a pad in my hand, and I press it over his mouth and nose.

Then I put my weight on it.

I can hear my own voice, calm and clear, explaining why I have to kill him. Why this is a job that I must do. In the dream I cannot feel myself speak. I am listening to my own speech, almost admiring the cool and measured tones, pinning down the body of the Hell-god’s twin. It tries to struggle. The body bucks and twists, almost throwing me off, but my weight pins it. The body fights to breathe and I crush away the air. It vibrates, juddering; it arches and then relaxes under me, utterly still. I keep up the pressure on the dead face, waiting to be sure. Then the head moves once more, and Ben’s body looks at me with Jenny’s dark, living eyes…

I look up and away and see the tower, so close, so high – this time a scream trails through the air before the … crunch … of the landing.

And Jenny’s eyes are weeping.

Sometimes I sleep badly. I tend to sit awake at night and read.

Muse; Rupert Giles
Fandom, BTVS
Words, 340

Creative_Muses, July prompt 5, Worst Job.

I had to give this question some thought but, by hindsight, the worst actual paid employment I ever had was probably at the coffee bars. I had intended to break into show business - Ripper's Rowdies, as I recall. (Actually, the way I envisioned the group was so derivative that I should probably have called it Ripper's Rip-offs.)

It makes me feel old even to think of it. The periods when we were the “live music” weren’t so bad, especially during performances. The problems came when another group was booked or when there simply wasn’t the money to pay us properly that week. When I recall it now whatever success we had is completely over-shadowed by the remembered smell of cigarette smoke mingled with the taste of somewhat some stale hamburger - and the abysmal coffee.

We thought of tea as being a drink for parents, coffee seemed to fit the scene. I remember one coffee bar that served a cappuccino that tasted much as burning rubber smells. I suppose teenagers can stomach almost anything, but I have never really liked coffee since. It would be nice to have fond memories of groupies, at least, but my contribution to the pop scene was never big enough for that.

I suppose Watcher is really my default setting, inherited like a blood group or a minor deformity. Even when I rebelled I helped friends to call a demon rather than taking LSD or marrying someone exotic.

Once I returned to the fold things were different, of course. A Watcher has to do a number of unpleasant jobs. Drugging Buffy prior to the Cruicimentum? I remember an odd feeling of triumph once, in the early stages, before I realised how deadly serious things had become. I think I only truly felt the impact of what I was doing when I realised there was a risk that she might fail. I hadn’t even considered that until Kraychec was loose. Buffy was undoubtedly the best slayer for decades. Afterwards, it was easier to blame the Council than to consider … there is really no way to come to terms with some aspects of a Watcher’s job.

I made up for it, in the end, during the Glory days. What I did was not, strictly speaking, my job – but there are some things that one should not, and must not ask one’s Slayer to do. We used everything that we could mobilise against Glory, but I perceived it as my job, and my duty, to deal with Ben.

I am not sure if I ever been quite the same man since.

Muse, Rupert Giles.
Fandom, BTVS
Words, 431

004, Curiosity killed the cat

I haven't got a cat; it would be difficult to keep pets, as things are and I have rarely had much contact with cats. I was not reared with the concept of house-pets at all, although I walked the hound pups. There were barn-cats at nearby farms and I have the impression that their personalities varied considerably, perhaps because they were often almost feral, subsisting largely on rodents.

(Some of the farm-cats actually caught young rabbits and there were allegations that they took pheasant-chicks; I am sure that they would have done, given the opportunity. However, as the farmer acidly pointed out, the cat colony did an excellent job of keeping down vermin and if the chicks were kept so insecurely that a cat could predate on them then certainly foxes, stoats and weasels would be taking far more. From the viewpoint of small game there were some dangerous predators in the area.

That may have explained the farm cats' behaviour. I have been told that jungle cats often appear almost cowardly. Predators need to avoid injury, of course, and lions in buffalo country [or cats in a rat-infested barn] do need to be very aware of adversaries’ potential to do damage. Some of the prey would appear to be more dangerous than the predator.)

The farm-cats were cautious; they were curious, and investigated anything new that they came into contact with, but that exploration was allied with extreme wariness in the adult cats. Some of them might actually have made good Watchers!

Joking apart, the combination of curiosity and caution – in the correct balance – is essential for my own role and possibly that has influenced my perception of those cats. (One becomes very aware of such things when involved in training young people.)

I suspect that the combination of curiosity and hyper-alert wariness is also a survival factor for the felines and the adage should really read, “Curiosity kills some inexperienced kittens – but only the percentage who lack compensatory characteristics.” However, that does rather lack the succinct conciseness of the original.

Muse, Rupert Giles.
Fandom, BTVS
Words, 257