#dc comics#dc#batman#bruce wayne#dc fanart#tim drake#dick grayson#batfam#batfamily
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EIGHTY-EIGHT
A formal letter Drew ire and scald When arriving at an Old Master’s halls; He read the missive, And dismissed it - It was a letter from an aunt (long batty). “I shan’t,” Said the Master, “Reply and grant her “The honour of treating her as sane.”
She was batty In buckets and spades; The master and her much estranged. Her letter was inviting To knight him; She thought herself Queen - of Avon! “Demean Myself thus? Oh, jest, you must! I will not be a party to her games.”
EIGHTY-SEVEN
As he steps onto the Laughing Coil, his breaths mist in the air and his skins pimple in the cold (breaths and skins, plural, indeed: stepping upon the Coil, he becomes many); the Coil twists and he rise, until all the universe is at his feet: lifting a manifold foot-of-feet, he blink, and choose, and tread upon a world, and he become one once again as he makes his home and his ministry upon a lonesome rocky sphere - while above, another he steps onto the Laughing Coil...
EIGHTY-SIX
"It's gone."
"Gone?"
"Gone! Not here! Vanished! Stolen, I think."
"You think?"
"I'm certain, then! Michael... my garage was locked."
"Oh bugger."
"Exactly. Someone used it."
"Oh my god. Who knew about it? Whoever used it could only do so if they knew what it was, surely."
"Drummond. Sybil Drummond - you know, the physicist."
"Hm... oh. Oh no. Clive, she's sleeping with Karl Zett!"
"The revisionist historian? So?"
"..."
"Oh no!"
"Lord, if he took it..."
"Then we've just given a revisionist historian a bloody time machine."
EIGHTY-FIVE
“…and frankly, Mitchell, I just don’t like your face.”
Lips tight, Mitchell turned and walked from my office, slamming the door.
“Asshole,” I muttered, and shifted my attention to the woman sat across the desk from me.
"Sorry,” I said.
She smiled, lips cherry-red over perfect teeth.
"No problem,” she said, handing me an envelope. “These are the details. Think you can help me out?”
*
That night I sat alone, flicking through her papers.
“Hot damn,” I whispered, “tough case.”
Boy-oh-boy was I not wrong.
EIGHTY-FOUR
Trey Obsidian, thrice-crowned Paradigm-Forging Champion since the Australian Blight, opened his eyes. Where there should be fluorescent legwarmers, he beheld his ankles and wrists bound to a stark chair. In place of an explosive haircut and face paint, there was but a snouted wire cage clamped around his head. And instead of party animals, there were rats. Lots of them. In here with him. "Smog-wielding Thunderscapes," he muttered, wriggling wildly as one of the rodents scurried over for a carnivorous kiss. "Wrong Nineteen Eighty-Four." (This is a guest post from the inimitable Steve Dunn, who, on top of writing (his work is available to buy on Amazon), also manages to co-lead a church, drive an ambulance, and raise a daughter all at once. CULTURAL NOTE: upon meeting Steve, it is customary to gift him with fig rolls. Follow him on Twitter @steviedunn) Want to have a go at contributing? Read the page on submissions here
EIGHTY-THREE
Needle impacts at 100 stabs a minute. Black ink breaks through the skin and stains it, permanently blemishing flesh with some guy's definition of art. Lines and whirls and blotches manifest slowly and gradually for as close a realisation of an intended effect as possible, "meaningful" marks inflicted as a life of experience culminates in an hour of pain and doubt-tinged discomfort. The buzz, filling her ears, stops with a click. Her arm burns. She looks down. "You like it?" She nods.
EIGHTY-TWO
I don't get stressed. When I start to, I just remember the punning words of my grandma - "If tings be gettin' too intense, get outta de wigwam." She wasn't Jamaican or anything, but always put on the accent whenever she said it. I miss the way she'd meet someone new and say, "I lived through the war, you know," seeming so proud of that, but I never twigged for sure which war that was. I don't get stressed. I miss my grandma, though.
EIGHTY-ONE
SEATED MAN: I'm not [STANDING MAN punches SEATED] saying a thing. STANDING: Hm. If you say so. [Picks up SCALPEL from TRAY. Holds it to SEATED's face] What do you imagine I want from you? SEATED: Intel. Secrets. Personnel... [SCREAMS as STANDING cuts his cheek with SCALPEL] STANDING: I was afraid of that - for your sake. You see, there's nothing you know that we don't. SEATED: [Eyes wide] So... STANDING: [Gently] So this, dear fellow, this is merely pain. Hold tight.
