My first YJ fic, so please enjoy. Got this idea a couple days ago when my english class was reading "The Writer" by Richard Wilbur, and it had a long metaphor/symbolism section comparing life to a starling, and I just thought of Robin. Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
POV: Dick (9-ish yrs old)
I flew over the crowd, my hands ready to catch the next bar that would land in my hands in just a few seconds. I tilted my head back, letting the air fly through my black hair. Foolishly, I closed my eyes, but just for a split-second. I trusted the equipment, trusted it to always be there when I arrived from my flying. The Flying Graysons were my life. Every morning I would don my red, gold and blue uniform and climb the high ladders to fly over the crowds of people that came to see us.
My mother used to call me her little "Starling". She said I was dark and needy, just like the little black-birds in our front-yard, always squawking and driving her crazy. Then she would ruffle my hair and jump off of the platform to start another routine.
As I soared, I could almost hear her whispering "That's our little Starling" to my father. They were proud to have an able son to carry on in their footsteps.
I never liked the name Starling. I liked Robin better. My Uncle Rick said that robins were too common, and starlings were more majestic and special and rare. So I only kept up my protests to be called Robin silent and under my breath. I could have no distractions during a possibly fatal routine, and I flew.
Fly, little Starling, fly.
Please review!