Dr. Abby Lockhart
22 December 2008 @ 05:53 pm
Abby was working all of Christmas week and loathing most of it. It was depressing to be in the ER during a major holiday for so many reasons. It sucked to be the doctor telling someone that Grandpa wasn’t going to make it to Mass with the family, that Junior was getting a bone marrow transplant for Christmas (if he were lucky) and not a new bike and it really, really blew chunks when someone asked her if she planned to see her family during the holidays.

No. Of course she wasn’t. Maggie and Eric might get a phone call if she could find the time (and the courage) but she wouldn’t be spending time with them. She was frozen in New York, they would moderately chilled in Florida. She was working herself ragged and they were decorating a tree with popcorn chains and drinking the spiced rum eggnog she couldn’t have. They were a family unit she didn’t feel like she was a part of any longer. Some of it was her own inability to adapt to the knowledge that her baby brother was all grown up and the refusal to accept that he didn’t need her to take care of him any more. A larger part of the problem was fear. Fear of the bipolar disorder both Maggie and Eric suffered from and it was a shared terror. Maggie and Eric were afraid that Abby didn’t understand them, didn’t know what it was like to be inside the disease and Abby, for all she tried not to, she could never let go of her need to control and doctor the situation. Not being able to save them scared her.

What about Ruairí and his children, weren’t they her family? Abby was still undecided on that front most days. She knew it took more than blood and DNA to make a family, though she had at least a thread of that in common with Caitlin and her brothers, too. She lived with them. She…cared about them all and usually she realized that they cared for her in return. But did that make them family? Did she want it to? Did they? Not that it mattered much at the moment. She wouldn’t be seeing much of them either with the few short hours she wasn’t working being largely devoting to sleeping or commuting back and forth from hospital to home.

That was the other thing that she hated. The commute: the subway, the walking, and the smelly cabs. They left her with all of this time to think about things like family and that her fingertips were so cold she could no longer feel them(this made not spilling coffee down the front of you difficult). And presents. She had no time to shop and even less of a budget to work with. She had begged off the Secret Santa at work but that still left her with at least Cait and Ruairí to worry about…well, Cait. She had a gift for Ruairí even if it was corny and lame.

And still not wrapped. Dammit!

All right, Lockhart. Improvise. You’re an ER doc. A trauma physician. The specialty evolved out of wartime medicine practiced on the battlefield. Thinking fast under pressure is something you are trained to do. This rolled around in her head as she approached the building she called home, let herself in and finally found herself riding the elevator to the upper floor. She had the gift on her. In her pocket, actually. And she was supposed to give it to him tonight.

They were celebrating on Christmas Even since Abby had somehow managed to have the night shift off though it meant she was on home call and also had to drag herself back to the hospital first thing in the morning. She had roughly two minutes to figure out what she would do and as she gave it a final consideration, the brunette tipped her nearly empty coffee cup back and drained it. She looked at the Styrofoam cup thoughtfully.

Well…it would fit.

Out in the hallway, before fumbling for her keys, Abby popped the lid off the cup and used one wool glove to soak up the coffee remnants then dug through her pockets until she found what she was after. She doubted anyone other than Ruairí would understand the significance of the silver-plated metal buckle. Actually, even if he recognized the girth buckle from a horse’s saddle, she was still going to have to explain why she was giving it to him in a coffee cup (the lid was back on) for Christmas.

His keen hearing must have alerted the púca to her presence because the door opened before she got her key into the lock. Smiling up at the silver-haired man, Abby thrust the cup into his hand. “Merry Christmas. Sorry about the ‘gift wrap’.”

Abby Lockhart//ER//818
Current Mood: anxious
Current Location: home
Dr. Abby Lockhart
22 July 2008 @ 12:52 am
[locked, private, Abby-eyes only]

Discuss an individual who has scared you.

Scared? Try god damned

Every time he walks into a room. Whenever we make eye contact. Each time he touches me. Hearing the sound of his voice. Catching a whiff of his scent.

Every time, I am that close to having my heart stop out of sheer panic.

Do you know why he scares me so much? Some people, the ones that barely know me—that would be most people actually, would say it’s because of what he is. Well, the ones that know what he is, they’d say that. They’re wrong. Okay, fine…it freaked me out when we first met but it didn’t so much as stop me from calling him, making the first move. Getting him to take me to dinner. Obviously, not that scared of him not being exactly human. Not being human at all.

He scares the fuck out of me because he loves me. Me. Abby Lockhart, life-long disappointment and all-around pessimistic asshole. And he loves me. That’s scary on so many levels. He knows who I am. He sees all of my faults, my flaws, defects, deficiencies, imperfections—the man knows I’m a messed up piece of work.

He accepts me. Bad habits, unpleasant quirks, moody attitudes…he doesn’t try to change me. He likes me. He wants to spend time with me. Introduced me to his children. I live with his daughter and she’s fast becoming a real friend. A best friend. That scares me too, but not like he does.

Even more than his loving me, wanting me…the fact that he says I make him happy (Jesus, maybe he’s the fucked up one, I don’t know)…what really gets me?

Is that I love him too. I love him so much that it’s physically painful to think about it too much. He got under my skin, into my blood…just encompasses so much of my life. I always said I would never let that happen.

Ruairí MacEibhir is the most frightening person I will ever know.

Abby Lockhart//ER//332
Current Mood: restless
Dr. Abby Lockhart
18 July 2008 @ 07:09 pm
Name 3 songs that make you feel happy:

1. Short Skirt, Long Jacket-Cake
2. Monster Hospital-Metric
3. Debaser-The Pixies

Name 3 sad songs that make you feel happy anyway:

1. Should I Stay or Should I Go-The Clash (again, not exactly cheery)
2. Train in Vain-The Clash (read the lyrics, not happy)
3. Wave of Mutilation-The Pixies

Name 3 songs you find therapeutic:

1. Into the White-The Pixies
2. Homage-...And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead...
3. Whatever that shit is Ruairi was listening to the other night

What is the silliest song you enjoy? Afternoon Delight-Starland Vocal Band

What song are you almost embarrassed to admit you like? Venus-Bananarama

What song gets your blood racing? Starfuckers, Inc-NIN

Favorite band? The Pixies

Name one song from the year you were born that you like:

Name one song all of your friends enjoy: Take On Me-A-Ha (totally guessing here, but who doesn't like this one?)

Name one song that reminds you of a good friend: Fame-David Bowie (You know who you are)

Name 3 of your favorite break-up songs:

1. I'll Set You Free-The Bangles
2. Long Walk Home-Bruce Springsteen
3. It's Too Late-Carol King

Name 3 of your favorite love songs:

1. Will You Love Me Tomorrow-Carol King
2. Let's Get Drunk and Screw-Jimmy Buffet (It's a love song from a different point of view, he says so)
3. You Are The One-Elliot Yamin (sappy enough? yes)

Name one song that reminds you of your significant other: Can't Get Enough-Bad Company
Current Mood: bored
Dr. Abby Lockhart
07 July 2008 @ 07:50 pm
Abby had signed for the box, rolled her eyes when she saw it was from Maggie. God only knew what the woman sent her. It wasn’t until she had the box opened and was reading the note enclosed with the contents that she realized it wasn’t meant for her at all. The note was addressed to Ruairí.

No, Abby groaned. It was actually addressed to
…of all the absurd mix-ups in this crazy—

She stopped herself mid-mental rant and stared at the contents of the package. Bundles of letters neatly tied with ribbon. Three stacks of obviously aged paper, handwritten words scrawled in ink…gingerly flipping through them she could see the distinctive penmanship of more than one author. The neat block print being particularly familiar. Ruairi’s.

These were letters to his daughter. Niece. Aine. Her great-grandmother. Abby was torn between curiosity and feeling like an intruder as she looked at the surreal and very concrete proof of what Maggie had been excitedly telling her on the phone several weeks ago. When she had finally screwed up the courage to tell her mother about the man she was dating. Living with. Deeply loved.

Maggie’s reaction had surprised her. All it took was hearing the name Ruairí MacEibhir to get the older woman to start prattling on about fairytales and childhood stories her grandmother used to tell her. An Irishman with a great, kind heart and a brilliant smile. Magic eyes. The horse man. And his three sons. Maggie knew their names: Anrai, Ruairi and Tadhg. Of course, most of her stories had been about Anraí and Aine, a perfectly ordinary human girl.

Abby had sat there, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder, looking absolutely stunned. Telling Ruairi and Caitlin about the conversation only added to the number of stunned expressions in the New York condo. It wasn’t every day that you realized your roommate was your cousin, several generations removed. Or that your great grandmother had been raised by the man you now called lover.

But these letters Abby was now holding, Maggie had managed to keep them all these years and through many different moves. Letters from Ruairí and Anraí, letters from Máire…all to the human girl they had called daughter, sister, once she moved to the States. Some of them were less interesting for the content and more because of who wrote them. Máire’s letters were long and detailed, full of news from Connemara and the family. Ruairi’s were sometimes very short and concise, but still always signed with affection. Anraí’s…somehow Abby couldn’t find it in herself to read those. Brother and sister corresponding, she wouldn’t want people to know the things she and Eric shared with each other.

That stack of letters she set aside. She’d have Ruairí or Cait take them when they went to visit Anraí in Montana soon. He’d probably like to have them back. The rest? Well, she’d give them to Ruairi when he came home even if her first thought was to keep the ones penned by his late wife. What sort of nostalgia would those stir up for him? Did she even want to know?

Right now she needed to call Maggie and set her straight on a very important detail. She was dating Ruairí the senior, not his son. Handsome as the singer-songwriter was, he was not the MacEibhir that caught her eye or captured her heart.
Current Mood: crazy
Dr. Abby Lockhart
05 May 2008 @ 10:43 pm

I guess you and AJ might get a kick out of this. Welcome to my mornings for the last few days.
Current Mood: amused
Dr. Abby Lockhart
04 May 2008 @ 02:48 am
1. Make a list of things you love about your significant other.

He puts up with me.

He never lectures me about smoking.

He lets me steal his shirts.

He smells so good.

He sings to me.

He likes take-out.

Great hair.

He’ll hold me while I sleep.

The way his eyes get all wide when he’s really amused/shocked/surprised by something.

He doesn’t push.

He appreciates a good cream puff.

He likes my music.

Fun on road trips.

We argue but we don’t fight.

He makes me laugh.

He lets me play with his hair.

He understands that Maggie and Eric will always be a priority in my life.

He has nothing against poptarts.

He knows coffee is its own food group.

He never lies to me.

2. Make a list of things that drive you crazy about your significant other.

He’s so damned cheerful in the morning. Every morning.

That this list isn’t any longer.
Current Mood: dorky
Dr. Abby Lockhart
02 May 2008 @ 12:26 pm
Working overnights is always a bit of a crap shoot at County. Feast or famine: either you are slammed or you have nothing to do but contemplate the soles of your sneakers. Tonight it was a feast of the latter. It was quiet. The board was clear and the only thing Abby had to do was baby sit a ‘rule out appy’ until someone from surgery could come down and take a look.

Sure, she could complete half-filled in, partially summarized charts but at this hour she’s starting to get a bit punchy without the demand of an actual patient present to force her to focus. There is also always the option of crashing for a bit and attempting to get some sleep in the call room. But the gurney is uncomfortable, she hates sleeping with her shoes on and if she actually happens to hit that fabled REM state, she’ll just jinx it and the ER will be slammed with multiple incoming traumas. It’s a corollary to Murphy’s Law. Never fails to disappoint.

Instead, she checks her voice mail one more time and smiles as she listens to his softly accented voice wish her a good night. Even though he’s long been asleep by now, the brunette resident murmurs her own wishes for sweet dreams to his recorded voice. And now she makes her way back to the staff lounge for another cup of stale coffee. It’s lukewarm in the carafe but it will have to do. The dark liquid has already been reheated one time too many and it has that bitter, near-burnt taste to it that makes her wince as she takes one sip and then another.

A flip of her wrist and a glance at the time, she sighs. Only three in the morning; her night is far from over.

Abby Lockhart//ER//302
Current Mood: awake
Dr. Abby Lockhart
28 April 2008 @ 01:45 am
Abby's been up for a while now, sneaking out of the Murphy's guest cottage had taken some doing. Untangling herself from a sleep-heavy púca was never easy, especially when the goal was to not wake him up in the process. Once out of the bed and actually dressed, she wasted no time leaving the quaint little house and making her way across the property to where her car had been parked alongside the Murphy's vehicles.

She's on a mission and rather amused with herself as she returns from the nearby town. She stopped at the first bakery she could find, placed an order and decided to make a few other stops before returning 'home' with her prize. She's given up trying to figure out what to get Ruairí for his birthday, after all he's only had more of them than anyone she can possibly fathom. What do you get someone who is more than
sixteen hundred
years old, anyway?

No, the cupcakes and fresh flowers will have to do. And herself of course. She laughs at herself as she lets herself back into the dwelling she and her silver-haired lover have been calling theirs for the last week. He's still in bed. Good.

She leaves the bakery box on a small table and rummages through the shopping bag she also has with her. It doesn't take her long to pull the paper backing off of a large gift bow and affix it to the collar of her t-shirt, let her hair down from the ponytail she's had it pulled back in or to place a single candle in one of the cupcakes. Carrying it and her lighter with her, Abby makes her way into the bedroom, grinning.

She waits until she's sitting on the edge of the bed, as close to Ruairí as she can be without actually touching him, before lighting the candle. Leaning over she brushes her lips across his jawline. "Wake up, sleepyhead..."

Another kiss, this time to his bare shoulder. "Ruairí..."

"Birthday boy..." She smiles as she kisses his ear, murmurs softly, "Don't make me sing..."
Tags: ,
Current Mood: amused
Current Location: New York
Dr. Abby Lockhart
23 April 2008 @ 10:36 pm
She barely got through the tediously worded forward to the book while stifling a laugh or two. By the time she’d hit the section concerning The Solitary Faeries, the púca in particular, Abby was chuckling under her breath.
Irish Fairy & Folk Tales
by W.B. Yeats, the doctor flipped the book closed, thumb keeping her place amidst the bound pages. She studied the cover for a long while: castle ruins, green fields and rocky hillsides, grazing cattle.

It was all absurdly funny to her now, trying to filter these fantastic tales through her intimate knowledge of the subject matter. As she paged through the book, she’d flip from section to section looking for the occasional illustration, pen and ink representations of foolish humans daring to flirt with the Otherfolk. Some of the stories were lighthearted and charming. Help choosing which fork in the road to take, asking Fate to bend the rules a bit. And still others were full of foreboding, warnings and macabre depictions of what would happen if you put your trust in magical beings. Attempt to trick them and they’d drown you as you tried to ford a river. Abuse their finite graciousness and find yourself being fed into Hell’s fire.

Or leave you in a deep pit in the middle of an English wood for thirty years.
She snorted and wondered what sort of felony that would be classed as, surely it wasn’t exactly legal. Deciding she wasn’t really a fan of Yeats’ representation of the Fae anymore than a certain Puck was enamored with a well-known bard’s take on Tír na nÓg and its inhabitants, Abby tossed the book aside.

Not that she had an idealized view of them, not at all. To be frank, she saw them for who and what they were. But then, to be fair, she doubted that the Irish author had had the chance to sit down and chat with the King of Faerie, let alone carried any sort of favor with him. He certainly hadn’t dated or cohabited with a púca. Nor had he engaged in a freak game of strip foosball with the Merry Wanderer.

Abby doubted that Yeats, or much of anyone really, ever considered that Faeries might not be fearless. Some of them had a distinct abhorrence to flying in airplanes. The ones she knew thought Disney’s Fantasia was a great farce and the height of hilarity. One of them even had a fondness for fudge. That super-sweet kind that made her teeth hurt. He’d eat it by the boxful though. Of course, he also left his socks littering her bedroom floor at night too.

Take away their magical prowess (some naturally more skilled than others) remove their unbelievably long lifespan and what you had were a race of people. Just people. Full of faults and quirks like anyone else milling around a big city—maybe that guy on the ferry every day, the one with the terminal case of flatulence, or that woman across the street with the tacky pink flamingos in her yard. Definitely the girl in the park determinedly kissing every frog she can find as she muttered apologies and obscenities for hexing her beau during their last argument. Oh, yeah. They’re everywhere.

Abby knew that now and it no longer bothered her. Except for the socks.

Abby Lockhart//ER//554

ooc: No fae, puck or púca were harmed in writing this prompt. If any are insulted by it however, the mun takes no responsibility and they may extract their pound of flesh directly from the muse. Auberon, Puck and the púca referred to above were mentioned only with the greatest of fondness and many thanks for all of their interactions with Abby in various places.
Current Mood: amused
Dr. Abby Lockhart
16 April 2008 @ 01:38 am

Perfect pet for me!
Current Location: home
Current Mood: amused
Current Music: me laughing
Dr. Abby Lockhart
04 April 2008 @ 12:41 pm

This is what I'm spending ten hours with in my car when we head up to Albany. You can all hate me now.
Current Mood: chipper
Current Location: Chicago
Dr. Abby Lockhart
31 March 2008 @ 10:50 pm
Ruairi, I'm so glad Albany's soon.
Current Mood: loved
Dr. Abby Lockhart
13 March 2008 @ 12:38 am
You'll die from a Heart Attack during Sex.

Your a lover not a fighter but sadly, in the act of making love your heart will stop. But what a way to go.

'How will you die?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Ruairí, take it easy on me, huh? I'm really not ready to go just yet.
Current Mood: amused
Dr. Abby Lockhart
10 March 2008 @ 04:18 am
mun note: Abby is moving to New York in July, to start with the new rush of interns, as is the typical start of the 'year' in the medical world. However, waiting four months Real Time to advance the character's storyline isn't something I intend to do. She'll be slowly jumping forward in time until she catches up to where I want her to be.

End of May

Abby waits until Ruairí leaves the mostly packed up apartment, she doesn’t want or need her gentle Irish man to hear her side of this phone conversation. She never knows what sort of state Maggie’s going to be in when she calls her mother. Will she be on her meds? Manic? Depressed? And even if she is medicated, well, she’s still Maggie. And in full blown ‘mother mode’ she can be just as maddening as the manic wild woman Abby grew up with.

Still, she’s put this off long enough. It’s been months since she’s last spoken to her mother for a lot of reasons, most of them being Abby wanting to avoid imparting some bit of information or another. The petite doctor rolls her eyes as she counts back the weeks—no months, since she last phoned Florida. Christmas. She hasn’t spoken to her mother or Eric since Christmas.

A sigh. So many things to steer clear of mentioning. Part of her hates that she has to construct a carefully scripted dialog to share with Maggie before she can even dial the phone. Don’t mention the mugging. Leave out the fact that she quit trying to quit smoking. Avoid talking about AA and that she’s not gone to a meeting in months. Skip over the part where she is now working in the clinic and not the hospital proper.
Absolutely do not mention anything to do with goblins, faeries, witches or magic.
And if she wants to be spared a lecture, say nothing about the fact that her current lover is practically living with her.

That leaves what to talk about? The biggies, of course. That she’s moving to New York in a few short weeks. She’s met someone new. Oh good God, don’t mention that she’ll be living with the new lover’s daughter as her roommate. That’s just asking for too many questions from mom. Maybe she can get away with not mentioning Ruairí at all.

No, wait, then Maggie would lecture her about putting her life on hold and depriving herself of much deserved love and romance. And if she mentions him, it’ll be the same. Only add in the ‘when can I meet him’ and ‘so when’s the wedding’ barrage of questions. She’ll want to know how old he is, what he looks like, what he does for a living, where his family is from…

A groan. What is she going to tell her mother about him? What in the hell is she ever going to do if they meet? When they meet. It’s not like she can avoid her mother for the rest of, well for however long Ruairí wants to be involved with her. Or can she? Oh, Abby, don’t be stupid. She shakes her head at herself as she studies the phone.

Puts it back in the cradle.

Takes it out again.

Puts it back.

She doesn’t need to call Maggie today.

She picks up the phone and dials. Going to get this over with. She grins as she gets the answering machine. Her voice cheerful, “Hi, Mom. It’s me. Guess who’s moving to New York where she can get mugged in a bigger, more dangerous city while paying an outrageous amount in rent for a bedroom—not even a whole apartment? As an added bonus, my nomadic boyfriend will be shacking up with me on occasion when not mooching off his children and friends!”

She hangs up the phone and laughs. It sounds so insane that there is no way Maggie will believe any of it’s true.
Current Mood: amused
Current Location: Chicago
Dr. Abby Lockhart
29 February 2008 @ 02:42 am
“Half-babies no good. Phooka babies no good.”

Abby could hear its creepy, grating voice even now. It unnerved her at the time, it terrified her in her dreams and even in the light of day it made her pull her sweater around her body more securely. Half-babies. Half…part one thing and part another. Human, púca, faery…horse. Who the hell knew? She certainly didn’t.

Ruairí had tried to reassure her that the little creature was harmless, if distasteful and to ignore it, but how do you ignore something like that? How do you ignore the implications of its simple, almost child-like logic. No good. Half-babies.

Abby closed her eyes and groaned as she leaned against the closed bathroom door. She spent most of the morning telling herself she was being stupid. Paranoid. Neurotic. Crazy. There was absolutely no reason to be in such a panic about things. About utter nonsense. None of her self-badgering managed to convince her, she still went down to the corner drug store and picked up a test.

She’d thought about grabbing test strips from the hospital but the last thing she wanted were nosy coworkers asking questions if she got caught. The rumor mill at County could be vicious. No one there really even knew she was seeing anyone. Another groan at the imagined rumors people would spread. No, the do it yourself, over the counter variety worked just the same.

Not that she even had a reason, or a rational one at any rate, to take the thing. She needed to reassure herself. Confirm what logic dictated. She wasn’t pregnant. She hadn’t been late last month, she has always been careful with her birth control and her body seemed to run like clockwork. Predictable.

Oh but the nagging doubt. Alcohol had no effect on him. Most drugs she’d suggested for various things were met with a dubious ‘who knows if or how’d they’d work’ sort of attitude. Sure, the pill had worked for her ever since she began relying on it years ago, but who was to say if it was effective against his púca genetics?

She sighed.

These were not the sort of relationship questions a woman should have to ponder.

So she’d take the test. Prove to herself that things were fine and that there were no babies, half- púca or otherwise, in the picture. Then she’d make sure there never would be. If the thought of having a child scared her, and it did, the thought of adding so many more unknowns to the equation terrified her.

She wasn’t meant to be a mother, probably wasn’t even fit to be one. She didn’t want children. He didn’t want any more children. If he were human, Ruairí would be the perfect man for her in that way. But he’s not and maybe he isn’t.
And oh, God, please let me not be pregnant.

She took the test, watched the stick as she chewed on her bottom lip and thought about all of these things some more. Abby couldn’t get the bizarre images from her dream, nightmare really, out of her head. That grating voice and it’s decree of no good.

Ruairí trying to reassure her.

Ruairí saying she was more than good enough to have his children, if that was what they wanted.

Ruairí confirming it wasn’t what they wanted.

Ruairí, Ruairí, Ruairí.

The test was negative. She tossed it in the trash and looked at the box. There was a second wand in there. No harm in making sure, right? Abby ignored the little voice in her head telling her she was being neurotic in the extreme. Tests like these could give false readings, after all.

Double confirmation would be better.

Anything to reassure her that the nightmare which brought her out of sleep covered in sweat and screaming this morning wasn’t possible. Wouldn’t, couldn’t happen.

She drank a glass of water and puttered around the bathroom for a while. Unwisely ran herself a hot bath and undressed. Not a smart move because she couldn’t resist the urge to look at herself in the bathroom mirror, run a hand over her flat abdomen and remember the scenes from her midnight terror:

Impossibly pregnant. Belly large and rounded. Waddling as she walked, hand braced on the underside of her swollen abdomen as if to offer support. Balance even.

Then she was in a hospital room. Scratchy paper gown. Talking to a technician who was waving a sonosite wand. But it was his eyes she kept staring at. They were dark. Impossibly dark and the irises so large they obscured the whites of his eyes.

He, it, spoke with that same scratchy, irritating voice of the creature she’d encountered. And what he said made the blood in her veins turn to ice.

“Congratulations, you’re having a Clydesdale. You sure you don’t want that epidural now?”

She screamed now, in the bathroom, just like she had this morning.

Then she took that second test.

She had to be sure she wasn’t even a little bit pregnant.
Current Mood: scared
Dr. Abby Lockhart
24 February 2008 @ 11:28 pm

Ruairí gets to be the picture of the day. I think I was starting to annoy him with my camera phone, he wouldn't look at me. Or unbutton more of that shirt. Anyone else see a bit of blushing there? I'm not going to tell you what I was saying to get that expression on his face.
Current Mood: amused
Dr. Abby Lockhart
18 February 2008 @ 05:44 pm
woman in

Well, now don't I feel like the complete asshole?
Current Mood: indescribable