Do you care which fandoms? Just an assortment right?

Exactly.

Dana, that would be great! It would probably be good for me to have examples from two writers.

Pick three to five of your favorites, and send them my way.

You guys are the best.

vw, count me in, or do you not need any more samples? Are you being strict about your definition of "drabble?"

Anne, I think I'm good, but if I need more, I'll drop you an e-mail.

Thanks so much, guys!

Drabblers! Go take my poll! Thanks!

Would someone be willing to beta a brief (and somewhat cracky) FNL/Buffy crossover for me?

Would someone be willing to beta a brief (and somewhat cracky) FNL/Buffy crossover for me?

FNL is Friday Night Lights? If so, I could probably do it.

Profile addy works if you're still in the market.

Thanks, Epic! Insent.

Received. But today's been slightly crazed with the busy. The magic box that lets my home computer talk to the internets is currently not. Letting it, that is. So I printed it out for better perusal tonight. Comments inside 48 hours. Promise.

Heya, I need a Brit to look over a comic script to make sure my Brit speak is up to snuff. The folks who do the Wallace and Gromit comic have an open audition period, so I have a short for them, but want to make sure that I have the right tone to it.

This is a crossover fic I'm working on for a fic exchange. Comments, criticism, derisive laughter all welcome. Angel/HP, set after the Angel series finale and before Half-Blood Prince:

Remus did not want to be the sort of person who went to bars alone and wound up sitting alone, hunched over enough drinks for five people as he worked on silently killing all those empty hours and all those too-active brain cells. But he wasn't sure what other sort of person he could be.

He'd stop, eventually. In the meantime, however, he ordered another scotch and tried not to think about Sirius, or Harry, or James, or Lily, or the full moon. It was easier, here, in a Muggle bar. No one was likely to start drunken ramblings about the return of You-Know-Who, or whether or not The Boy Who Lived was a liar or a hero. There were no firewhiskey-lubricated rants over how werewolves should be rounded up and pumped full of silver bullets. There were no convoluted argument about how the Ministry of Magic was holding back important information because they didn't want to look bad.

Strangely enough, the talk of subway bombings and Iraq and rigged elections was almost comforting. It reminded him that the world didn't need magic to make an utter mess of things.

He was less surprised than he should have been when a young woman walked right up to him and sat down. She stared at him for a moment, head cocked to one side, and then she said:

"You do not belong here." It was a statement. It was a challenge. One moment, he could have sworn that her eyes were dark brown. But even as he looked at her, they shifted to a cold, lavender blue.

Remus didn't even bother to sigh wearily. It was more efficient simply to toss back another mouthful of cheap scotch. "Tonks, if that's your idea of trying to jolly me out of a mood, I wish you'd--"

Then she tilted her head to one side again, and there was something about the motion that was very much not human. Remus found himself sobering up very quickly.

"Why is it simpler to come a place like this?" she said. "I do not understand it? You have lost people, haven't you? I can see that you have fought a fight that those around us would not understand and that you, too, were the only one left standing. Tell me--why do we come here? Why am I drawn here?"

Remus had no idea how the hell to answer this woman, with her blunt, nearly--what was the muggle word?--robotic questions. The more time he spent with her, the more he could practically smell the reek of magic pouring off of her. Old magic. If she went anywhere in Wizarding territory, the Aurors would probably piss themselves wondering what to do about her.

If he were a little more sober, he might have run, but he was not and so he raised what was left of his drink and swirled it around in the dim light, watching amber slosh up the sides of his glass. "Liquid forgetfulness," he said, half-smiling. "And in a place like this, people generally don't bother you. So you can just sit around and try to remember while at the same time you're trying to forget."

She nodded sharply. He thought he could see blue fading down out of her hairline and into her face. Her eyes shifted between warm brown and inhuman blue a few times before settling at blue once more. "I understand," she said, but Remus suspected she didn't, not really.

"A scotch for the lady," he told the bartender. "And another for me, if you would."

Of course, he didn't understand, either. "Remus Lupin," he said, holding out a hand. She took it in hers, and he could sense the tremendous strength behind that tentative, awkward grip. It took her a moment to answer in kind, as if she had to choose from among several different possibilities.

"Illyria," she said.

"Pleased to meet you, Illyria."

The bartender brought their drinks. He raised his, and after a moment, she raised hers and they touched glasses. And as the evening drew on into morning, they both realized that it was in places like these where one could find others (continued...)