A Nest of Coal and Crystal

meme

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 08:52:07 GMT

Leave me a comment saying "Resistance is Futile."

• I'll respond by asking you three questions so I can satisfy my curiosity
• Update your journal with the answers to the questions
• Include this explanation in the post and offer to ask other people questions

(Any asking of questions is totally optional!)

1) What's your oldest fandom?
Harry Potter. I wondered what Hogwarts was like when James and Lily and Remus attended it, then I discovered that people had written dozens of stories answering exactly that question. I was hooked.

2) Babs as Oracle or Batgirl?
Oracle. In Oracle, Babs found a way past her paralysis to meet the world on her terms and make it a better place. She shaped her weakness into a strength using creativity and sheer stubborn will. Instead of retiring or becoming bitter, Babs found a way to keep fighting and to come back stronger than ever. I find that tremendously admirable.
The ironic thing, to my mind, is that Oracle is a more effective crime fighter than Batgirl ever was. Every other hero works more efficiently with her help, and she can work on a scale Batgirl never dreamed of. I think Babs must be aware of that, but isn't sure how to feel about it. That fact shows her complete triumph, but she would find it bitter-sweet at best.

3) What's the most poignant moment in anything you've read that you can think of?
The last section of Ender's Game, Ender is utterly exhausted, entirely isolated, and completely disillusioned, but he keeps going. Even when he has nothing left to live for and nothing left to dream, he doesn't give up. That section makes me cry every time.

4) What's your favourite of the Big Genres (sci-fi, fantasy, horror, romance, crime, etc)?
Fantasy. I love the freedom of it. In a fantasy, you can explore emotions without getting bogged down in technical details of existence. Fantasy is great at answering the question "What if --?"

5) What mythical creature would you most want to be?
This is definitely the hardest question of the lot. Most mythological creatures don't seem to be enjoying themselves very much. I think I'd want to be . . . a dragon! I could hoard books and shiny treasure and dine on barbequed knight. What could be finer than that?

Joker Gas

Sat, 18 Jul 2009 20:33:56 GMT

According to an article by Charles Q. Choi in the August 2009 issue of Scientific American magazine, the plant Water Celery(Oenanthe crocata) contains a toxin that forces a human's facial muscles to contract into a rictus. A potion using this plan was used in ancient Sardinia by Phoenician colonists to put a smile on the face of people condemned to death.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Swiped from smgriffin because muses have fled

Mon, 27 Apr 2009 04:49:33 GMT

Comment, and I'll do an insta-drabble ficlet thing, prompted from whatever icon you use.

Lists: Gotham

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 00:44:48 GMT

Tends to brood:

Bruce
Dick
Tim
Barbara

Tends to rage:

Jason
Stephanie
Dinah
Helena

Is it something in the water?

Random facts that are part of my canon: (I'm not dealing with recent happenings for a while. Humor me)
1. Tim kind of likes to watch Bruce turn into Batman turn into Brucie turn into Matches Malone. It reminds him of a kalidoscope, and it fascinates him every time.
2. Jason always wanted to punch Brucie, just on principle.
3. Some part of Dick will always be Bruce's Robin, but he's learning to live with it. Partly because some, smaller part of him will always be his mother's Robin, too. But mostly because he's got siblings now. That will never stop being awesome.
4. Among Bats, privacy is a state of mind based on trust and faith. It is never a physical reality.
5. Dick has prehensile toes.

Chag Sameah

Thu, 09 Apr 2009 03:50:48 GMT

Once we were slaves in Egypt but now we are free. May we, who once cried out to G-d for freedom, listen to those who cry out still. May we remember the enslaved, the down-trodden, and the desperate at this time of rejoicing.

Sestina

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 06:19:38 GMT

A sestina is a 12th century poetic form involving an extremely structured pattern of repetition. Sometimes they are written in iambic pentameter, but I am not that awesome. Here is my first attempt.

The Selkie's Husband

Every day he walks along the sands
heedless of the mud that clots his skin.
He stares, unblinking, past hunch-backed waves.
With hardened hands, he plucks at empty air,
and desperately chases sun-shadows
with eyes red-rimmed from briny sorrow.

Village matrons shake their heads in sorrow
to watch him as he walks along the sand.
Children dare each other to touch his shadow
though none venture too near his wrinkled skin
except the flies that swarm the sun-soaked air
unnoticed by the man watching the waves.

He fits his life to the lapping of the waves;
caught in their rhythm of surge and sorrow.
He can breathe when salt hangs heavy in the air;
he can sleep when he sprawls upon the sand.
The shore pebbles into his wrinkled skin
and roughens his voice, his lips, his shadow.

The ocean's play of sun and shadow
shows him figures rising from memory or waves.
Lithe gray-eyed maidens shed their skins
to laugh and to lighten his sorrow.
He sees they leave no footprints on the sand.
He reaches, but finds only empty air.

They tease and taunt like otters in the air.
Laughing eyes just wink from moving shadows.
A light step presses patterns in the sand
then slips and shreds to sea-foam on the waves.
Every time, the loss chokes him with sorrow.
He mourns the gentle fingers on his skin.

His fingers curl with memory of seal skin.
His ears pluck laughter from empty air.
He breathes it in and glories in his sorrow,
tasting the past in scraps of wind and shadow.
He cannot abandon the crashing of the waves
Or the memory he chases through the sands.

He carries the shadow of a seal's skin
through the waves, through the spray, through the air
Over the sands spread thick with his sorrow

Collected Drabbles

Tue, 10 Mar 2009 03:52:36 GMT

For stalinglim. Rating: G. Character: Jason Todd. Prompt: Full
Bowls were never completely full. Even at the soup kitchen on West and Hamilton, the one that had milk four days a week, bowls were half empty. You got two scoops of stew, that was the rule. Two scoops, and there was never enough for seconds.

But Mr. Pennyworth didn't seem to know that. Jason pushed his empty bowl away with a satisfied sigh and resolved never to tell him.

For dungeonwriter. Rating: G. Character: Barbara Gordon. Prompt: Waiting

Barbara remembers being Batgirl. She knows the terror of swinging into complete unknown and she has fought her share of things that go bump in the night. She has looked up the barrel of more super weapons than she cares to count and she knows the exact sound that a spine makes when it shatters. She still hears it in dreams.

But Batgirl never sent her friends into battle. She never sat cozy and safe with action figures and a chipped coffee mug while people she loved were fighting for their lives. She never lost visuals when the camera got blown up and she never had to wait, white-knuckled, for next sound from the com.

It's Oracle who knows the horror of the waiting.

For blackphoenix. Rating: G. Characters: Dick and Tim. Prompt: Strawberries and chocolate.

Tim arranged his strawberries across his plate in a neat four by four grid. He selected the berry in the top left corner, dipped precisely half of the fruit (by mass) into the melted chocolate, and set it in the upper left corner of a sheet of waxed paper.

Dick watched from the doorway with dawning horror. He shook off his shocked paralysis in time to snatch that berry from Tim's hand and cradle it protectively. "What are you doing to these poor strawberries?"

Tim looked at him with a terribly patient expression. "I'm dipping them. In chocolate," he said very clearly, as though he were speaking to slow child.

Dick waved his arms. "No, no, no! You're killing their souls."

Tim just looked at him. Pointedly. And dipped the next berry.

Dick rescued that one too and popped it in his mouth. "Strawberries," he pontificated with his mouth full, "are messy. Melted chocolate is messy. They burst in your mouth and send juice running down your chin."

Tim raised an eyebrow and handed him a paper napkin. Dick shook it at him as he spoke. "Strawberries do not sit in neat rows."

When Tim opened his mouth to reply, Dick shoved a strawberry between his lips and laughed as he sputtered and fumbled for a napkin. "Now you're getting it."

For darthbatgirl. Rating: PG-13. Characters: Dick/Roy/Tim. Prompt: music

"You're moving in with us, so you'll need to know a few rules."

Tim blinked at Roy rather hazily. He was still feeling warm and limp and slow, and he kept getting distracted by the flecks of gold in Roy's eyes. "I'm moving in?"

Dick made a contented noise into the crook of Tim's neck and reached around him to pull Roy closer. Tim suspected he was asleep. Roy used the tug as an excuse to squash Tim more firmly between him and Dick. " 'Course you're moving in, little bird. Now rules. First of all, you don't eat the grape popsicles. Those belong to Lian, and it'd be more than my life's worth to touch them."

Tim just watched Roy and let him speak. His bones were feeling kind of liquid, and shutting Roy up seemed like way too much effort.

"Second, Short Pants over there never gets to shower alone. Not if we can help it. Seriously."

Tim roused himself enough to raise an eyebrow.

Roy explained in a pained voice. "He sings. Bon Jovi. Off-key. At volume."

Dick's hand snaked passed Tim's chest to smack Roy. "Sheesh, you two. Ever heard of afterglow? I'm trying to bask, here."

For aravistarkheena. Rating: PG. Characters: Dick, Tim (or Dick/Tim, if you prefer). Prompt: Comfort
This isn't what Tim expected. He'd planned to sluice off the sweat as quickly as possible, maybe stretch some of the soreness out of his pecs, then to collapse onto something horizontal. He wasn't completely sure that he would recognize a bed, at this point. Or care if he did.

He's followed the plan, too. Or tried to. He'd stripped efficiently. He'd even gotten himself into the shower with the water on. There was another occupant, but he was familiar and not a threat, so Tim barely noticed him.

But then warm hands settled onto his shoulders and the plan went up in smoke. Dramatically. Tim isn't completely sure what he's supposed to be doing right now, but there's a warm chest pressed against his back, and warm lips brushingthe skin of his ear. Familiar voice. Dick. Tim's pretty sure that he's speaking. You know, shaping words with his voice and trying to convey meaning. But his hands are massaging the life out of Tim's muscles along with the pain, Tim's eyes are slipping closed, he's sagging against the chest, and sifting meaning from sounds feels like too much effort.

Dick's plans are better, anyway..

Tue, 10 Mar 2009 02:43:13 GMT

This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

~T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

Friday night. It's that time again.

Sat, 07 Mar 2009 04:38:16 GMT

Would anyone like a drabble? I'll take the first five prompts.

Five Things Meme

Sat, 28 Feb 2009 07:20:18 GMT

You know the drill, people. I commented on quiet_tiger</lj> 's five things, so she or he gave me this list of five. If you comment on this list and request it, I will give you a list of five things that I associate with you, which you can then elaborate on in your journal.

1.Tim Drake -- Tim either narrates or stars in all of my stories. He fascinates me. Tim turned himself into a hero using only raw obsession and a dream. He didn't have childhood tragedy spurring him on, the way Bruce and Dick and Jason do. He doesn't have super-powers, the way the Supers and the Wonders and the Flashes do. He just fell in love with heroism and calmly, methodically, ruthlessly, built himself into a hero. Tim's mind is exceptional, not his body, but he used his mind to make himself into something powerful. I find that enchanting.
        Tim is Robin, but he doesn't belong to Batman as completely as Dick or Jason did. He holds a piece of himself in reserve. Where Dick believed in Bruce absolutely and Jason (recently) loathed Bruce irrationally, Tim learns what he can from his partner but realizes that Batman is not a terribly stable individual.
       Tim is also the easiest character for me to write. Some friends of mine say that I'm like him, but they were probably just flattering me.

2. Jason Todd -- Jason is Tim's opposite. He's brash and rash and rough around the edges. Where Tim is careful to a fault, Jason tends to say exactly what he's thinking, often with charming vulgarity. He's fiercely protective of the things he cares about and he's competent, except when impulse or his personal code of honor makes him act like an idiot. What's not to love? Especially when he isn't beating up on Tim.
        Jason's is much harder for me to write than Tim,  but I've been experimenting with his voice lately. It's fun.

3. Drabbles -- Yep. My longest story is shorter 1500 words, and usually I work with fewer than 500. This length works well for me because I'm more interested in complex emotional reactions than in plot. In 15,000 words, something needs to happen, but in 500? Not so much. Some of my favorite stories use fewer than 100 words.

4. Quizzes -- Not very often! I try to remember that pretty much no one cares how I scored on whatever personality- revealing quiz interested me for five minutes. But sometimes the temptation is too much, especially if I haven't written in a while. This is mostly a fan fiction journal, but you guys can deal with the occasional quiz. They're fun. If the quiz tells me something that I already knew about myself, I assume the quiz is useless. If the quiz tells me something that I didn't already know about myself, I assume that the quiz is wrong. In this way, I can take as many personality quizzes as I like without the danger of learning anything about my personality.

5. Sporadic Posting -- Er, yeah. Sorry. I write lots of things, then decide that I don't like them enough to post them. Also, writing is work. It's much easier to read other people's stories, to take quizzes, or to do memes like this one.

Ficlet

Sun, 22 Feb 2009 07:17:08 GMT

Title: Nightmares
Pairing: Dick/Jason/Tim
Word Count: 534
Summary: They love each other enough to brave the mine fields in each other's heads.
Rating: PG
Warnings: vague references to violence and even more vague references to sex

They all have nightmares. It’s the reason they don’t sleep together, not unless Dick’s had a really bad night of it. Then it’s worth the patchy sleep to see Dick’s body relax as he curls into them and wraps himself up in arms and legs. It’s even worth waking up to screams and the resigned helplessness that comes with them. They can’t fight one another’s demons. Those nights always leave Jason a little shaky.

They still wake each other up, even as it is, with their separate beds in their separate rooms. (And, goddamnit, if Timmy’s room doesn’t develop some kind of mess real soon, Jason is going to have to spatter the walls with fucking paint. Or just tickle the kid until he begs for mercy. And then practice other ways to make their little brother beg.) They’re trained to wake up when one tree rustles out of time with the wind. Of course they wake up when someone screams.

But this way, they have a system worked out. It’s always Dick who goes to Tim, when the ghost of his scream worms its way through his pillow. (Babybird still tries to muffle them. It’s annoying and it’s also wrong, trying to hide from them, but some habits die hard.) It’s better that way; his face is never, ever the one grimacing dire threats from behind Tim’s eyes. Dick understands about kneeling in a pool of your father’s blood and wondering if you’re even real anymore.

But Tim isn’t the one who holds Dick through the shakes and the gasping sobs. Jason claimed that duty (privilege) a long, long time ago. Jason knows what it is to want and to hate yourself for wanting, and he never shrinks from a hug. Not even from the desperate clinging, like he’s the last solid thing in a quick-sand world. Hugging Dickiebird is always a full-body experience.

But, on nights when waking up feels like clawing his way out of a coffin and the air tastes thick as mud with high, insane laughter ringing in his ears, Jason can’t really bear to see Dick’s face. Not at first. Not before time catches up with him and his gut realizes that Bruce’s Golden Boy never really existed. Tim gets it. Tim knows that sometimes a hug just feels like another sort of trap. He knows how to be there without filling the room up with his presence until Jason might as well be choking again.

None of them talks about it. Outsiders don’t need to know that they sleep together only in the euphemistic sense. They couldn’t explain it, anyway. It’s just part of their rhythm, like the way Dick always gets up in time to start the coffee or how Jason always gets the last parameter check. Comfortable as the photographs Tim matted for their walls.

Even if Tim’s face gets that lost-puppy look as they gather themselves up to say goodnight. Even if Dick tosses and turns every night, spreading across his bed in search of them. Even if Jason finds himself wondering, alone in his cell, whether they ever really wanted him at all.

But they all have nightmares, and it's easier this way.

Anyone want a drabble?

Sat, 07 Feb 2009 04:24:32 GMT

I will take the next five drabble requests. If you would like a drabble from me, please comment on this post with characters or a pairing and a prompt. quiet_tiger and museofspeed each missed the last prompt drive, so they get extra space in this one even if they are not among the first five. Because I get to be arbitrarily generous like that.
So I will be taking between five and seven prompts, should you fine people be kind enough to leave me that many.

Thanks for playing with me!

Collected, edited drabbles from my last prompt drive

Tue, 03 Feb 2009 03:52:44 GMT

Roy and Dick come to terms with Bruce. Or not.
   Roy shuddered. "That man is insane."
   Dick shook his head. "He's just a bit possessive."
   Roy laughed. "Robbie, he built tracers into your bike. And wove them into your uniforms. And soldered them into your comm. I'm surprised he hasn't sown them into your underwear!"
   Dick smiled. "Well, there was that one --"
   Roy interrupted him. "Jeeeze, Shortpants, I don't want the details. Just tell me that he hasn't implanted one in your skin? Please?"
   Dick shrugged and said nothing.
   Roy dropped his head dramatically into his hands. "Jesus."
   Dick patted him comfortingly on the head. "If it helps, Arrowbreath, none of the cameras in my bedroom are his."

Bart, on birthdays and why Kon needs one. (Dead? Of course not!)
    Clones don't have birthdays. Not real, actual day-he-emerged-from-a-womb-and-started-screaming days. Which is kind of a shame, Bart thinks, even though he doesn't really have one either. But Cassie's birthday was really fun, with the cakes and the ice cream and the cookies and the way no one yelled at him even when he went a little too fast and melted some of the plastic forks. You would think they'd get sturdier cutlery (yes, it's cutlery because it isn't silver like silverware, and he does too know what cutlery means!)
    But, anyway. Birthdays. Kon needs a birthday. Sometime when they can all sit down and eat pie and chocolate and pizza and the best candy in the world and not think about Luthors or test tubes or any of the other stuff that has been making Kon snap and brood like Robin. Which he really isn't supposed to do. Only Robin is supposed to snap and brood like Robin, and he's been doing too much of it lately, anyway.
    So Bart is going to make him a birthday. He's going to set up tables and hang those twisty streamers and find the best candy in the world and pizza and everyone will come and eat and laugh and melt the forks and maybe things will be all right again.

Dick and Roy take Tim on a picnic and live to tell the tale. We hope.
   You're taking me on a picnic."
    "C'mon, Timmy, it'll be fun. Good for you. Stock up on vitamin D and grass stains."
    "You're taking me on a picnic." A hand ruffled Tim's hair. Definitely Dick. Which would make Roy the driver on this little jaunt.
    "Got it in one, little bro. Obligatory recreation, coming right up."
    "I had things to do, today. Files to sort through and I still haven't refined the report from last night and I was improving the batarang release on my alternate belt and mmphhh!"
    Dick kept the hand firmly over Tim's mouth until he subsided, then traced Tim's mouth slowly before withdrawing the touch. Tim suppressed the urge to lean forward and prolong the contact. Roy was laughing in the front seat.
    Tim sighed. "Picnic. Right. I still don't see why you had to blindfold me to get me there."

Jaime/Tim with sweater
The sweater had been there yesterday, he was sure of it. He would have been sure of it even if the Scarab hadn't shoved a time-stamped image of his dresser right in front of his face.
      He pawed through the disorganized drawers, muttering in annoyance. Clothing accumulated in a motley mound behind him. He had started emptying drawers onto the bed when the Scarab chirruped him. He stopped muttering about vanishing sweaters and started muttering about obtuse alien artifacts, but he stalked to the window.
     A soft smile stole across his face and the muttters stopped abruptly as he peered through the cold glass. He'd found his sweater. He just hoped Tim would appreciate it.
    His smile widened as he watched. The sweater ... it was sort of like giving his Robin a long distance hug. It was nice. And, on reflection, that was probably the sort of thought he should keep to himself. Otherwise, he might never see that sweater again.

Three very short yet disturbing drabbles

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 04:38:22 GMT

Rating: R
Warnings: mentions of sex and alcohol
Summary: Sometimes, Tim only wears the mask to hide his ancient, tired eyes
Word count: 41, 127, 68
One
Sex, it doesn't change anything. It doesn't help, doesn't melt the shatter-glass pieces of himself into a solid whole. Tim swallows a painful laugh and wonders if it would have made any difference if he'd let himself realize that four hours ago.

Two
The liquid sloshes around in the plastic cup. Its color is the artificial red of cough medicine and it smells alcoholic and too sweet. Tim could drink it. No one would stop him, even if they noticed. They already looked pointedly away when Kevin McPherson stepped up to the punch bowl with a small flask and a furtive grin. Tim could drink it and get sloppy and say things that are a little too true.
He pours the liquid around the cup again, watching the colored lights refract through it. Then he dabs just enough onto his jacket to smell young and impossibly innocent, and pours rest into the base of the decorative plant that Mrs. Hempel rented for the occasion.
He can’t afford to get sloppy.

Three
Don’t scream aloud. Don’t let that damning, desperate sound claw its way out of your throat to show your innards to the world. You don’t want them to look at you too hard. They might see the bruises and the scars and the night terrors that leave you shaking. Never scream aloud.

But sometimes, in the dark corners at the back of your mind, it’s okay to scream

Remember me?

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 05:45:53 GMT

Could I please have drabble prompts? I'll take the first five, if you people are so kind as to supply them. DCU, please.

New Year's Drabble

Thu, 01 Jan 2009 04:29:42 GMT

Title: Time
Characters: Tim
Rating: G
Word Count: 200, exactly

Tim knows that time moves at a constant speed. That statement is a tautology: speed is defined as distance divided by time. Time progresses forward slowly, steadily, and constantly, marked by the precise oscillations of a crystal. As long as he avoids relativistic speeds and unscrupulous magicians, Tim can depend on that orderly, relentless march. It’s comforting to have a constant in his world.

The progression of time is regal and uncaring. A hundred years from now, who will know about any of his problems? Who will care that he spent the night running the Riddler’s maze like a trained mouse, only to be caught in the final puzzle trap? Who will know his name or care about his fate? Hell, no one will know tomorrow, either, much less care. Well, not unless he makes some horrible mistake and reveals his secret. Even then, people would only want to gawk for a few days, possibly imprison him or kill him, and get on with their lives. A hundred years from now, his identities will have faded along with his flesh, leaving only the dried husks of his bones. Time will make him utterly insignificant.

There is comfort in that, too.

Belated Tim Ficlet [aka Seeking, Finding (2/?) ]

Tue, 30 Dec 2008 06:58:55 GMT

Does anyone remember the game we started? A bat-verse livejournal role play? Well aiyokusama did her part. She posted the first entry here and then it was my turn, and I flubbed it terribly. RL hit me over the head with a (only slightly padded, but completely metaphorical) brick, and this thing sat in my word processor for weeks and weeks. It's short and it's late and I'm sorry.

Tim shifts his stance slightly, concealing most of his body behind his cape. The movement is reflexive by now, an unconscious reaction to the unease buzzing along his nerves. Something feels off about Gotham tonight, like there are eyes boring into the back of his head.

He shakes the feeling off with an effort. He's just jumpy. He's been on a hair-trigger these last few weeks, ever since ... He pushes the thought away. Can't afford distraction, can't afford to slip. Not again. He has to be Robin on the streets.

He settles himself more comfortably on the roof across from Thorne's latest headquarters, opens his wrist top computer, and pulls up the feeds from the cameras he planted inside the building yesterday. Rumor says something big is happening tonight, but he sees no sign of it. He wishes that he had gotten the cameras in sooner, so he would have a better idea of the organization's baseline behavior. Nothing looks unusual, but he ought to have a better idea of what usual is.

He watches for a minute, then looks up quickly, searching the shadows. He thought he saw a flash of red ...

Huh.

Thu, 18 Dec 2008 01:03:45 GMT

Your result for The Bem Sex Role Inventory Test...

Androgynous

You scored 53% masculinity and 57% femininity!

You scored high on both masculinity and femininity. You have a strong personality exhibiting characteristics of both traditional sex roles.

Take The Bem Sex Role Inventory Test at HelloQuizzy

Well, I'm not surprised

Fri, 28 Nov 2008 08:28:39 GMT

Your rainbow is strongly shaded gray.

What is says about you: You are an elegant person. You appreciate tradition and wisdom that comes with age. You depend on modern technology and may feel uncomfortable without it.

Find the colors of your rainbow at spacefem.com.

Slacking

Sat, 15 Nov 2008 01:21:27 GMT

I AM 82% OPTIMUS PRIME

Take the Transformers Quiz

Story Idea

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 10:11:07 GMT

There are a bunch of things I ought to be working on, but this popped into my head and demanded to be written. Here's a fragment. Does anyone think it's worth continuing?

Tite: A Cross to Bear
Characters: Tim Drake, mentions of Jack Drake
Summary: In the new world order, everyone has a god-given duty.
Warnings: Disturbing themes?
Rating: PG
Words: 549

Tim checks himself carefully in the mirror, then nods. His reflection looks small and sulky, an awkward teenager forced into a suit and told to look presentable. Even his flat hair has the air rebellion about it, like it’s just waiting to spring up into spikes. Which is – huh – more accurate than he wants anyone to guess. He shifts his shoulders to make the jacket look rumpled and slightly ill-fitting.

Satisfied with his appearance, he turns back to the giant bed where the important part of his costume awaits. First he reaches for the loop, a wire of transparent plastic so thin that it slides through flesh with only a little pressue. Handling it by the round knob at each end, he slides it into the specially lined pocket in the seam of his jacket. He presses gently along either side of the seam to make sure that the loop won’t slip through the lead lining and cut him. Blood would be suspicious if it appeared suddenly on the arm of Jack Drake’s balky adolescent. He could probably explain it away as self-mutilation, but that would be tiresome. Drake might start asking awkward questions about his son’s... extracurricular activities.

He purses his lips at the thought and reaches for the delicate cross on the long chain. He bends one of the arms sharply toward the center and carefully slides twelve tiny glass darts into the hole that appears. He replaces the blowgun’s arm and checks to make sure that the pipe is in the top arm of the cross. The darts reflect the light, making it look like the cross is filled with diamonds. An outrageous show of piety, but one allowable for his character. Ostentatious displays are currently fashionable among the young and rebellious. Some sentimental nonsense about a outer soul to reflect the inner. Despite the insipid explanation, Tim is glad of the trend. He likes wearing the symbol of the oppressor; The irony appeals to him.

"Timmy, darling! Your father is waiting for you," Jack Drake’s mistress yells up at him.

Tim lets the ridiculous pet name push a scowl onto his face. He fills his voice with sarcastic pique. "I’m coming already. Jeesh."

He rumples his jacket again and slouches down the long staircase to meet her. She slings a familiar arm around his shoulder, and begins cooing in his ear. Something about his future and the power of the Drake name. He tunes her out completely; she doesn’t matter. Just one of the pretty women that break against Jack Drake, doomed and indistinguishable as waves on a cliff. He has stopped learning their names by now.

Besides, he has real business tonight. The sort of business that he can’t think about too hard, for fear His Holiness’s telepaths will hear. Another irony, that the self-proclaimed servant of an omniscient god needs a such a good network of spies and thought-watchers to maintain his rule.

He grumbles back at the mistress, concentrating on his sulk. The careful appearance won’t do any good unless he has the surface thoughts to go with it. He fills his mind with the uncomfortable fit of the suit, the pinch of his dress shoes, and the utter embarrassing injustice of going to a party with his father. And, lurking beneath the surface of his mind, he waits.

Yom Kippur drabble

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 00:38:41 GMT

Title: Atonement
Characters: Tim Drake
Summary: On connection and atonement.
Word Count: 247
Rating: G
Author's Note: This is my answer to all the Christmas stories we'll be seeing in a few months.

Tim Drake eats on Yom Kippur. The food doesn’t stick in his throat or choke him as it goes down. It doesn’t even turn to sawdust in his mouth. He chews and swallows, mechanically fueling his body as he perches against a gargoyle.

He wonders what it would be like if the act meant something. If he felt some surge of guilt, some uneasy awareness of transgression. Maybe the face of a frowning parent would flash before his eyes, or he would feel the weight five thousand years of ancestors. Maybe he’d be connected to something, if only in the sense that he was betraying it. He could shiver at the sound of a shofar, or taste homemade kreplach. Some grandmother with a round face and laugh lines who would smile at him. He wouldn’t call her grandmother, though. He’d call her ‘Bubbe’ or ‘Nana’ or some other affectionate diminutive. Something cute and a little embarrassing. Maybe, if he just kept the fast...

He purses his lips at the fantasy. It’s a lie. Fasting wouldn’t do anything but weaken his body and make his job harder. It could slow his reflexes and his mind. It could kill him or, worse, someone else. Not an acceptable trade-off.

There is no contact to be had, anyway, in ancient superstition and imaginary grandmothers. To look for it would only hamper Robin’s effectiveness.

So Tim perches on the gargoyle, chewing his energy bar and thinking about what it means to atone.

Sat, 11 Oct 2008 06:16:52 GMT

Post 10 things that are going right in your life right now. I don't care how small. You're happy with your cup of coffee. You saw a flock of geese flying over. ANYTHING. Things that make you happy. Things that make you smile. No pressure.

It's small and it's simplistic, but maybe for the time you are compiling your list, you'll forget about the bad going on and focus on something good

1. Most of my family is healthy, and my dog has forgiven me for the bath I gave him today.
2. The drama in my social and romantic life has finally died down.
3. I have some loyal, witty, resourceful, kind friends.
4. I successfully threw a bowl in Ceramics class today. It's small and the walls are a little thick, but I kept it on center the whole time.
5. The trees in town are starting to turn crimson and marigold. Leaves crinkle underfoot, and smell like musk and autumn.
6. I have my own room, with a door I can close to shut out the world.
7. Breaking the Yom Kippur fast: bagel and cream cheese never tasted so good.
8. I have never awoken from uneasy dreams to find myself transformed into a monstrous, verminous insect. (We're reading Kafka in English).
9. As I drove home tonight, the wind drove leaves against my windshield. They looked delicate as snowflakes.
10. I keep the first afghan I ever made on my bed. It's a clumsy effort, but looking at it makes me smile.

Meme from jen_in_japan

Thu, 02 Oct 2008 20:27:17 GMT

As evidenced by Katie Couric, Sarah Palin is unable to name any Supreme Court case other than Roe v. Wade.

The Rules: Post info about ONE Supreme Court decision, modern or historic to your lj. (Any decision, as long as it's not Roe v. Wade.) For those who see this on your f-list, please feel free to take the meme to your OWN lj to spread the fun!

Go forth, and edumacate!

Marbury vs. Madison (1803)

This is the case that established the concept of judicial review, the right of the courts to determine whether a law is constitutional.

In his final days as President, John Adams appointed William Marbury as a justice of the peace, but he failed to deliver the commission before Thomas Jefferson took office. Thomas Jefferson, Adam's political enemy, instructed Secretary of State James Madison not to deliver the commission. Marbury sued for writ of mandamus (a court order forcing a public official to do his job), which would force Madison to deliver his commission.

But the Supreme Court dodged the question entirely. Instead of deciding whether Marbury was entitled to his job or not, they decided that it wasn't their decision. In fact, they ruled that the Judiciary Act of 1789, which gave the Court the right to issue writs of mandamus, was unconstitutional.

This decision vastly increased the power of the Supreme Court because, although it removed their right to issue the writs, it established the precedent for judicial review. Now the Courts had the right to pass judgement on any law passed by Congress. Although Jefferson got to appoint a judge of his choice in Marbury's place, he was the long-term loser, because the judiciary had claimed some power that used to belong to the executive and legeslative branches.

Thu, 25 Sep 2008 04:00:11 GMT

Title: Thoughts on a Cold Walk Home
Characters: Tim Drake, mentions of Dana Winters and Jack Drake
Word Count: 410
Continuity: During War Games, while Stephanie Brown is Robin
Summary: Tim mostly fails to cope.
Rating: G

My life is circumscribed. I go from home to school to home again, riding the same trains and walking the same streets. It feels like someone has traced out Tim Drake's life with a glowing cord, like a garrote but white-hot. Now I live within the area of that cord, moving carefully lest I burn myself on a boundary. Circumscribed is a good word for it.

It's safer, now, to look down as I walk. My feet are small and harmless in their worn tennis shoes, legacy of a life that could demand mobility at any moment. I could wear canvas shoes, now, or the heavy skate-boarding shoes targeted at my demographic. I never will, though. Heavy shoes feel wrong without steel in the toe.

I count the cracks in the sidewalk. There are forty-three between the subway stop and the Drakes' house. This knowledge is completely useless; none of the cracks even hint of structural instability. Looking up would be more useful. I would count the rooftops instead, and plot a path across them.

I can't. Looking up would invite temptation.

The thirtieth crack passes under my tennis shoes. My backpack feels deceptively heavy on my shoulders, pressing me into the sidewalk. I know it only weighs twelve pounds. I weighed myself while I was wearing it to prove to Dad that it wasn't too heavy. It seemed so silly then, when I spent my nights learning to climb walls with a hundred pound dummy on my back. Dad was worried about my spine.

Maybe I should take up a sport. I'm supposed to be worried about something like that, aren't I? Find some sport to be passionate about or some girl to obsess over. No, I don't think I'm supposed to obsess. Not too much anyway. Maybe I could obsess just enough to give Dad and Dana something normal to discuss in hushed, worried voices. It might make them feel better.

I look up again, stealing a glance at the rooftops. The wind is twining around them like a hungry cat, making the flag on top of the Jacksons' house snap. I calculate how many degrees it would influence the path of a grappling hook, then catch myself and tear my eyes away.

I step over crack number forty-three and start up the steps to the door. Dad swings it open as soon as I get there and glances at his watch, but I am on time.

I wish I could feel the wind.