many faded things

a surprise to no one but me: standardized test results are no good.

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 09:04:47 GMT

Dear LSAT people,

I really don't appreciate you sending me my LSAT score early. It isn't that I didn't want to know it, you understand, but that I didn't want to know it at 11:45 on a Friday night when I was most of the way to drunk off wine at late dinner with a friend, and was happy and full of too much pasta and veal and really just wanted to go to bed and sleep off that Little Italy dinner. Instead I felt compelled to check my personal Gmail right before I went to bed -- which I know isn't your fault, LSAT people, but really, did my results have to go out on Friday evening at 5:00, on a day when I was too crazed to check my Gmail until I was about to collapse into bed?

So now, instead of having had a night of glorious, half-drunken sleep, I have been miserably restless all night (and we are not even all the way through the night!) and am now awake at a little before five in the morning because I was definitely not sleeping, and I kept thinking that maybe after all that wine I'd hallucinated the LSAT results email, and my LSAT score isn't actually as bad as all that, and really I should just get my laptop and check.

Sadly, I was not hallucinating, and my score really is that bad.

I mean. Not THAT bad . . . but bad enough that, if I decide I actually do want to go to law school, I should really retake the LSAT, and fuck me, that was the whole point of taking the LSAT now: having this part of the equation out of the way.

It's honestly most upsetting because I came out of the test feeling really good about how I'd done on it, and what I got was right around the level of my very worst practice test score. Ugh FOREVER.

And really, this isn't the biggest deal in the world. Even if I do decide to go to law school, I don't actually have to apply to the top ten schools; or if I did, I'd still stand a chance of getting in -- the rest of my application is (or will be) really strong. It's entirely possible that I won't end up going to law school at all! It's not as though law school is my only option.

Regardless, this is not what I was hoping for here, and I greatly dislike the feeling of getting shitty results on something I felt confident about. Like -- awesome, I LOVE finding out that my confidence in my abilities is wildly misplaced.

And LSAT people, you can say whatever you want about it being my fault I did poorly and not yours, but you still owe me this night's sleep.

No love,
me

you drive to europe in the rain

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 16:39:37 GMT

Public service announcement: you should be watching How I Met Your Mother. I love that show. I'm still a little ways into season two but I have been absolutely adoring it. It is so funny and gut-wrenching and just all-around great. It is probably surprising to no one that Barney Stinson is my favorite. <3 Neil Patrick Harris <3

I also, at my friend's urging, finally watched Dr. Horrible the other day, which was good times all around. Something about NPH's face (as Billy) really reminds me of Nathan Fillion as Mal Reynolds, and which made Nathan Fillion's Captain Hammer brutishness even more of a delightful contrast.

But back to HIMYM -- if you are current on the show's canon, or if you don't mind spoiling yourself a little (I am in the latter camp), then you should absolutely read this story: metal heart by the_spin, which I found via theoret's rec. It's 24K of the kind of het I want to write when I grow up -- totally believable and excellent and did I mention funny as hell? Just read it.

stranded in this spooky town

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 03:51:40 GMT

I usually hate taking my computer to the Apple store to get repaired, because inevitably they will be running behind and everyone will be all kinds of cranky and I'll sit there for about nine gazillion years until finally it's my turn and they tell me my computer is dead dead miserably dead.

Today, though, I was just going because of a really superficial thing -- there's a design flaw in the MacBook that causes the casing where your wrists rest to get indented and often eventually crack, which had happened to me. And then an actual piece of my casing fell off a couple weeks ago. Granted, a very small piece, but it's still kind of disturbing to watch your computer literally fall apart.

Anyway, I took it in to the Apple store today and came out, an hour and a half later, with brand new casing and, awesomely, a whole new keyboard! I've spent a lot of time whining to anyone who will listen (Merrin, my roommates, my mother) about how much I hated my keyboard, and for whatever reason? The new one is waaaay better. Maybe this will make me write more!

Haha. Don't hold me to that.

There's a lot of stuff going on right now! In addition to my very busy schedule of computer repairs, I am taking the LSAT on Saturday! I will be so glad to be done with that, because I also now have an actual date for my transfer to Frankfurt! Like, ish. Early November! There's some debate as to when I will actually be physically flying to Germany, but somewhere between the 2nd and the 4th of November pretty much for sure. (My current boss, my future boss and I are in the middle of a stalemate on that one. Will update about the actual date once my flight is booked.)

Regardless, we're talking like . . . just over a month away. Ah! So I've made myself a Life List, which is the list of all the things I need to do before I move along with the things I've been meaning to do for the past thirteen months and haven't quite gotten around to, including but not limited to:

- find someone to sublet my apartment
- go to the doctor ("the doctor" here being taken to mean . . . eeeevery doctor)
- pack and ship my crap
- actually get clothing dry cleaned (. . . for the first time)

Et cetera! We do have one lead on the subletting front -- one of my coworkers who's currently living with her parents way the fuck out in Queens -- so I just spent a couple of hours cleaning up my room and the kitchen and vacuuming a little in preparation for her stopping by after work tomorrow to see the apartment and meet my roommates. Because that's the thing that's a little bit tricky about finding a subletter: I'm friends with my roommates, who are also all friends with each other. I can't just like . . . find a random person to do it and head for the hills.

The good thing is that my roommates are pretty excellent people (usually) and our apartment is awesome (always). Our building has a pool and a gym and a roof with a fucking amazing view of Manhattan and beyond. I am just hoping my coworker and my roommates like each other, because I'm sure we'll find someone to sublet regardless but this would just be sooo easy, and it would be excellent to be able to check that off the Life List.

It's kind of terrifying to think of how soon I am going to be living in Germany again! And having to figure out all of those delightful things that my study abroad program didn't make me have to deal with, because we were coddled (bank account, cell phone, finding my own apartment . . . joy!). But I'm getting a little ahead of myself, I think. Figuring out the New York end of things first would be the logical way to go. Regardless, if anyone has any awesome tips re: German cell phones or apartment finding and wants to share them, I would very much appreciate it!

your dad was a truck driver?

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 14:41:44 GMT

Holy shit, I am a little in love with Generation Kill. That show is right up my alley in, oh, EVERY POSSIBLE WAY, and Colbert is hot and Fick is hot and Ray is hot and also hilarious and Trombley is a ridiculous freak who makes me laugh in PAIN and everything about it is just so, soooo good. I think it has a better grasp of irony than any show I've seen in . . . pretty much ever, and I LOVE that about it. It doesn't let you forget that war is hell, particularly this war (for the soldiers and Iraqis both), but at the same time it makes you care about these men in a way that I don't think Band of Brothers did even a third as well, which was my one major complaint about BoB -- much as I love that show like burning, I never felt (with a few exceptions) that I knew those characters very well. GK does not have a bit of that problem.

I think I would love the show just as much if I hadn't already read a good bit of Brad/Nate fic, but let me also throw out there that GK fandom is REALLY FABULOUSLY TALENTED and it surely didn't hurt to be watching with that in mind.

I've started reading Generation Kill the book as well, which I'm enjoying a heck of a lot. I'd read the Rolling Stone articles before, and thus far (about thirty pages in) the book seems to be just like them only longer and better. Which, hey. No bad there!

Let it be noted that this is about the . . . fifth? seventh? fandom that dark_reaction has nudged me toward. Lauren has good taste in fandoms. GK fandom: KEEP BEING AWESOME.

On a totally unrelated note, last night I watched the pilot and second ep of Glee, which I also enjoyed a great deal. I'm not entirely convinced yet that I think it can sustain itself for an entire season or more as a TV show and that it wouldn't have been better suited as a movie, but I will keep watching for now for sure. Although did anyone else find themselves wanting to scream at Schuster's wife? Oh my God, he is so cute and Justin Timberlake-ish. WHAT DOES HE SEE IN HER. That is all.

four fast years

Wed, 26 Aug 2009 01:37:34 GMT

One week from today, my youngest brother is going to be in his freshman dorm, in a suite with five other freshman boys. (Bet you can imagine how awesome that place is going to smell.) He's going to a college much like mine, in terms of size and politics and academic standards, and wow, do I ever hope it's a good experience for him. He's had a pretty shitty past year and a half or so, and much as he acts like an entitled snot a good bit of the time, I hope that college is a good experience for him, that it's easy for him to make friends and keep them, that they'll be the kind of people who can push him to learn and grow and understand himself better without pushing him away. I hope that college, both academically and socially, stretches him and doesn't break him.

I hope, too, that he comes out of college feeling the way all of my roommates feel about their college -- that it was a wonderful and difficult and entirely rewarding time, that it's a place to miss and be happy to return to for reunions. I'm particularly bitter about my own college experience right now after having spent a weekend listening to one of my roommates wax rhapsodic about how much she looooved her college, but it's a jealous kind of bitterness -- I wish my college experience had the same kind of happy nostalgic sheen to it that hers does, and I hope for that for my brother: that it's good for him while he's there; that he misses it when he's done.

he was her long, bright future in the middle of a wrong, dark road

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 22:43:18 GMT

Ugh! My roommates and I were going to go to the Jersey Shore this weekend, had rented a car and everything, and now we are not going, not because of drama (drama happened and was resolved!) but because my mom and my youngest brother are miserably sick. UGHHHH. Such a badly timed sickness! Who the heck knows if our schedules are all going to coincide well again before the end of the summer. :\

In happier news, this morning I got up early and worked on original fic. Maybe someday I will even FINISH SOME OF IT.

Also, I spent a while at work listening to Jay Brannan sing on YouTube, after winterweathered recommended his music, and then Googled him a little, and his bio amuses me greatly.

FIC: Mildred: A College AU (J2, NC-17)

Thu, 06 Aug 2009 04:01:41 GMT

FINALLY. THANK GOD.

Title: Mildred: A College AU
Authors: causeways and walkawayslowly
Artist: sillyshy, her art post is here. Tell her she is awesome!
Word Count: 62,131
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Official Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Jared in possession of his heterosexuality will immediately switch teams upon enrollment in college and first contact with Jensen Ackles.
Original Summary: Jared goes to college and is gay for Jensen Ackles. It's a real shocker, sports fans.
Real Summary: No really, that’s all that happens. For 60,000 words.
Disclaimer: Jared, Jensen, and all of the other real live people we mention belong to themselves. Sadly. The OCs are ours, all ours.
Authors' Notes:

Kelly thanks: walkawayslowly, for suggesting that we cowrite in the first place, and for waiting patiently for me to move past the laughing-in-her-face stage and into the "omg fine" stage; for not murdering me during the many, many periods of story-related emo; and for still being my very favorite person on the entire internet (and beyond!) at the end of it all. I can't think of anyone with whom I would rather have a child that is also a piece of fanfiction. You say that's slightly creepy? I say that's how we roll.
girlmostlikely, for a very fantastic beta, and for being one of my very first fandom friends, back when I was new and writing about Wincestuous adventures in prison. Those were good times.
nemoinis, for being so excellent as to offer to beta even when she did not know half of the authors, and for doing a fantastic job while she was at it.

Merrin thanks: causeways. I understand the key smash when I first asked her to cowrite now, and all the laughter. See, she'd done this before, and I really hadn't. If you are not familiar with the process, it is one arduous task. Similar to giving birth, I would imagine, or climbing a mountain, even though I have only done the latter and not the former. I have a new measure for a friend now, and it’s someone who will cowrite 60k of coming-of-age (and out-of-the-closet) rps with you and still be your friend at the end of it.
girlmostlikely, for agreeing to beta even though she knew how long it was going to be, and how much time we weren’t going to be able to give her. thanks also for pointing out our ACTUAL posting date as opposed to the posting date we THOUGHT we had. Love you, babe, you are the BEST.
nemoinis, for ALWAYS betaing everything, even my crappy popslash. and for being one of MY first fandom friends, back when I thought "slash" fic meant "stabbing people with pointy knives."

Kelly and Merrin both thank: sillyshy, for picking our lame summary out of a whole list of summaries, and being an INCREDIBLY awesome artist; and the spn_j2_bigbang mods, for running this wild rumpus again.

MILDRED: A COLLEGE AU

Sun, 02 Aug 2009 04:53:41 GMT

I do not know quite how this happened, or how neither walkawayslowly nor I had thought to check the actual posting schedule before right now, but we have had our Big Bang posting date wrong for THE ENTIRE SUMMER.

HAHAHA SERIOUSLY. We thought it was the 4th! But nope. It's the 6th. Fuck usssss.

FIC: The Cape May Haunted Trolley Tour (SPN, PG, 4,300 words)

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 01:12:52 GMT

In honor of having sent our really hilariously long Big Bang off to the betas (SORRY BETAS) last night, I bring you fic that's been chillin' on my hard drive for a very long time. It's SPN, even! WILD.

Title: The Cape May Haunted Trolley Tour
Author: causeways
Fandom: SPN
Rating: PG
Pairings: gen (you have no idea how much it pains me to say that!)
Word Count: 4,300
Disclaimer: SPN belongs to Eric Kripke, not me. I would have done some reeeeally different things with it if it were mine!
Summary: After a family disappears on the southern Jersey Shore, Sam and Dean investigate.
Author's Notes: This was originally going to be the beginning of something much, much longer, but that wasn't happening. This is set in some vague nebulous period of canon between the end of S2 and the start of anything particularly plotty in S3.

The Cape May Haunted Trolley Tour

The house is on the corner of Carpenter and Jackson. It's a three-story Victorian just like every other house on the block, pastel paint with wrap-around porches and fancy latticework, but unlike the rest, the house on the corner hasn't been converted into a bed and breakfast. Dave and Cheryl Brown bought it at auction last September after its previous owner died with no living relatives, intending to use it as a summer home.

The Browns and their seven-year-old daughter arrived on June 12, planning on staying through Labor Day. The neighbors saw them unpack their SUV and the attached U-Haul trailer, after which they left for dinner. According to police records, they ate at the Lobster House, where the waitress who served them said they were behaving normally. Mr. Brown's tip was generous but not unduly large, as she remembered.

After dinner, the Browns returned to Jackson Street. They said hello to Mrs. Candice Flemming, who owned the purple B&B two doors down, at approximately 7:15 p.m. After that, the Browns went through the front door of their house, and were never seen again.

*

"You sure this is our kind of thing?" Dean says. "Because I gotta tell you, I'm still not convinced it's a case. What if the family snuck out the back, huh? The police report didn't say anything about that."

"You really think they just paid two and a half million dollars for a beach house and then skipped out the back?" Sam says. "I don't know, man, it just doesn't make sense to me."

It's four-thirty on a Friday afternoon at the end of June, and they're sitting in stop-and-go traffic on the Garden State Parkway, headed south. Even though they've got the A.C. on full-blast the sun is so hot that Dean's entire body is plastered to the seat. The radio's on with the volume so low that Dean's hearing nothing but the bass line; he taps along idly on the steering wheel.

"And the police don't think it's a kidnapping?" Dean says finally.

Sam's sprawled in the passenger seat with a baseball cap pulled over his eyes in place of the sunglasses he broke last week in Tulsa. "No ransom note," he says. "Plus, the Browns come up clean. No enemies at work, no family feuds. Cheryl Brown's got a couple of parking tickets, but she paid them off on time. There doesn't seem to be any reason why anyone should be coming after them."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, somehow I don't buy it. There's always a reason for someone to be coming after them."

"Someone or something?" Sam asks, sitting up.

"I just don't think it's got to be supernatural all the time," Dean says. Traffic's been stopped for so long that he just goes ahead and puts the Impala in park. Possibly trying to drive down from New York on a Friday afternoon wasn't the best idea he's ever had.

"Really?" Sam says. "This coming from the guy who dragged me all the way from Massachusetts to Michigan last week because he had a hunch about the Abominable Snowman showing up in Ann Arbor?"

"There were sightings," Dean says defensively. "So it turned out that the frat guys were doing shrooms. How was I supposed to know?"

"And I'm just saying that I think there's something worth checking out with the Brown case, and since you're the one who wants to spend the last month of his life hunting, I really don't get why you're stalling here, Dean!"

There's a middle-of-the-highway rest area up ahead, complete with gas station and fast food. "Hey, you hungry?" Dean says. "Because I don't know about you, but I could really go for a Whopper right now."

"Dean," Sam says, his voice just shy of cracking.

Dean takes the exit for the rest area and parks outside the Burger King. "I wouldn't be in friggin' Jersey if I was really stalling, Sam," he says. "I've got to take a piss. You want anything?"

"No," Sam says. "I'll wait here."

"You better not steal my fries, is all I'm sayin'," Dean tells him.

"I won't."

"And if you have to pee before we get to Cape May you can do it in a soda can," Dean adds.

"Just go get your food, Dean," Sam says. Even though Sam's sprawled back against the seat, eyes closed, he's still managing to look small and miserable. Sam always seems to look like that these days, and it makes Dean not really want food anymore. He gets the Whopper and fries anyway, on principle, and picks at them as they lurch farther south. Sam makes no effort to steal the fries, and Dean turns the radio up to try to drown out the sound of Sam brooding.

It's a little after six when they finally get to the end of the Garden State Parkway. The road continues straight into Cape May, narrowing to one lane each way once they're over the bridge. At the sight of the welcome sign, Sam finally sits up in his seat and takes notice.

"Just keep going straight on Lafayette for a while," Sam says, reading off a piece of paper. "You should be able to turn left on Jackson a couple miles down."

"'Kay," Dean says. Lafayette runs through a neighborhood of single-family homes, lots of them run-down Victorians painted purple or pink, and most of the lawns are the dried-out tan that means drought. For most of the way into town oak trees line the sidewalks, their branches hanging low over the road, and even though Dean hasn't had the windows down since nine that morning, the humidity seems to be seeping into the car anyway. It's been bright and sunny all day but something about the narrowness of the road or the closeness of the trees seems to be dimming the light—not much but a little, just enough to throw Dean off.

They pass a grocery store and the road curves to the right. "Hang a left at the stop sign," Sam says, "and then another left, and you should be on Jackson."

Dean does. They're heading toward the ocean now; Dean can't see it from here, but down the street there's a solid concrete barrier and the odd emptiness beyond it that can only mean water.

"The house should be on the corner up here," Sam says. "On the right."

Dean slows as they approach it. "That one?" he says, whistling. "Damn, that shit's fugly. Somebody should have told these guys that teal and peach should never mix."

Sam shakes with quiet laughter. "Since when are you all up on home decor?"

"Aww, come on, tell me that house ain't blinding you right now," Dean says, idling the car. "What do you want to do, park down the block and take a look at it?"

"If you can find a parking spot," Sam says.

Finding parking on a Friday night in Cape May turns out to be the biggest pain in the ass of Dean's life. There's not a damned spot to be seen anywhere within a six-block radius of the house, and he'd double-park, except the place is freaking crawling with cops, both in regular uniforms and in these lame bright yellow polos with POLICE in bold letters on the back. Dean counts four tickets on windshields in the fifteen minutes he spends circling.

"Fuck this," he says finally. "We'll catch the neighbors later. What was the name of the restaurant the Browns went to that night?"

"The Lobster House," Sam says. "We passed it on the way into town."

"Yeah, I remember," Dean says. "Hey Sammy, you want some lobster?"

"Didn't you just eat like an hour ago?" Sam says.

"Yeah, but that wasn't lobster," Dean reasons. "Plus, we've got a waitress to interview. What do you think the odds are she's hot?"

"What are the odds of you thinking of anything other than getting laid?" Sam shoots back.

"Slim to none," Dean says, grinning and turning the car back the way they came.

*

The waitress is named Maddie, and she looks like she's maybe eighteen on an old day. That doesn't stop her from bringing Dean free refills on the iced tea and making sure the breadbasket is never empty. Dean eats about eight of the rolls while Sam shreds one of them into ever-smaller pieces.

"Would you like the special?" Maddie says, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear and looking straight at Dean—and oh yeah, he's got a good idea of just what she means by the special.

"Y'know, actually, I think I'll just have the lobster," Dean says, smiling to let her down easy. He adds a, "Thank you, darlin'," for good measure; it makes her blush.

"And for you?" she says to Sam.

"I'll just take the crab cake sandwich."

"Aww, come on, is that all you want? Don't you want lobster? He'll have the lobster, too," Dean tells Maddie, watching as she scribbles it down and ignoring Sam's glare.

"Hey, Maddie?" Sam says. "Do you mind if I ask you something? Our cousins were in here a couple weeks ago, and I was wondering if you remembered them. The Browns?"

"The Browns," she repeats back. "I don't know that I—oh my God, the Browns, that family that disappeared?"

"That's the one," Dean says.

"Oh my God, let me get my manager," Maddie says, but Sam cuts her off, all big eyes and pleading voice.

"No, actually, you're the one we wanted to talk to," Sam says. "You were their waitress that night, right? Do you remember if they acted strangely at all?"

Maddie shakes her head. "They didn't make so much as ask for extra cocktail sauce. Honestly, I wouldn't have even known who they were if they hadn't given me a good tip. Not the best of the night, y'know, that was the drunk old guys over there—" She gestures toward the other side of the deck, where there's a table of four weathered fishermen types who look like they're trying to drink the place out of Coors Light. "They're regulars of mine," Maddie adds. "Anyway, oh my God, I am so sorry about your cousins. The police still haven't found anything?"

"Nope," Dean says. "Three weeks and not a hint of what happened."

"That is so awful," Maddie says. "Let me go put your order in real quick, okay? Do you want more bread?"

"No, we're good, thanks," Sam says before Dean can get a word in.

"I'll be right back with your food," Maddie says, and Dean watches her saunter back toward the kitchen. Those are some seriously small shorts.

"I'm pretty sure you can get arrested for that," Sam says sourly.

"I'm not gonna go for it, Sam, keep your panties on," Dean says. He looks down and realizes he's been tearing the last roll into pieces just like Sam was doing and stops, laying them on the table. "So this is kind of a bust, huh?"

"There are still the neighbors," Sam says.

"I didn't mean the whole case," Dean says. "Just, y'know, Maddie the waitress."

"You're just saying that because she's underage," Sam says.

"I know I say this a lot, but you could really stand to get laid," Dean tells him. "It doesn't have to be every day or anything. Just every once in a while. I bet that'd really improve your outlook on life."

"It might also improve my outlook on life if my brother who's about to die in a month would stop acting like a little sex would fix everything that's wrong with this situation," Sam says.

Dean drops the pieces of the napkin he's also been shredding. "And I seem to remember my brother promising he wasn't going to be a pain-in-the-ass emo downer for the next month, but then again maybe I'm wrong. How many times can we have this conversation, Sam? There's nothing either of us can do to stop that demon from collecting on my deal, so I really don't see the point in crying about it all the damned time."

Sam exhales slowly through his mouth, blowing the hair off his forehead. "You're right," he says finally. "Sorry. I'll try harder."

"Can you say that and maybe sound like you aren't at my funeral already?" Dean says.

Sam fakes a smile.

"You look kind of scary right now, dude," Dean tells him. "Like, little kids' nightmares kind of scary."

That gets a laugh out of Sam—not really the kind of laugh that means he's amused, but more a wet sort of half-sob, but if that's all he can get, Dean'll take it.

They're seated at a booth right on the bay, so they both spend a while watching boats chug past while seagulls bob in their wake. The food comes pretty quickly, anyway, and it's good: huge platters of seafood with French fries and hush puppies. There are crackers for the lobster but Dean ignores them and goes for the knife in his boot, stabbing through the shell.

"Seriously?" Sam says, staring.

"It's faster," Dean says through a mouthful of lobster. He dips another piece of the claw meat in melted butter, then sticks it in his mouth with the rest. "Also, more delicious."

"I don't think how you get the meat out of the shell has any effect on what it tastes like," Sam says, struggling to crack one of the legs open.

"Shows what you know," Dean says, licking the butter off his fingers.

When he thinks Dean isn't looking, Sam seems to be sneakily trying to enjoy his food. It's a miracle. It's the first time Dean's seen him eat a whole meal in the better part of a month, so Dean doesn't comment on it; he doesn't want to jinx it.

Maddie brings over the check just as Sam finishes his last hush puppy. Dean puts the bill on Mick Jagger's brand new VISA and leaves Maddie an exorbitant tip—a little consolation prize. He might not have gone for her, but she should know that he appreciated the effort.

"So what now?" Sam says. "You want to head back into town and find someplace to stay?"

"Are you kidding me?" Dean laughs. "Did you see that town? Nothing but B&Bs as far as the eye can see."

"Except for that whole stretch of hotels on Ocean Avenue," Sam says. "But yeah, if you ignore all those, then sure."

"No vacancy at any of them," Dean says. He'd had fifteen minutes of circling in search of a parking spot to get plenty clear on that. "I saw a place a couple miles back up the Garden State. Let's check that out."

The Hy-Land Motor Lodge advertises a swimming pool and TV in Technicolor. The TV looks like it dates back to the Johnson administration and the level of algae on top of the heart-shaped pool says it probably hasn't been cleaned anytime in the past four decades, either. But for $39.99 a night, Dean's not complaining.

"You want to sleep for a while then go talk to the neighbors?" Dean says.

Sam pulls his t-shirt over his head and curls up on the far bed, back to Dean. "Sure."

Dean doesn't set an alarm on his phone; he's good about waking up when he wants to. The A.C.'s on full blast, the unit in the corner of the room whirring and kicking, and Dean falls into an uneasy sleep.

When Dean wakes up it's dark outside—not the early blue of twilight but completely black.

"Hey," Sam says from across the room, his face illuminated by the glow of the laptop. "I was going to wake you up, but you were really asleep there. No hellhounds today?"

"There aren't ever any hellhounds," Dean says, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Whatever you say, Dean." Sam doesn't look away from the screen. "And it's a little after midnight."

"Dude, seriously?" Dean says. He sits up too quickly and curses as the blood rushes to his head. "What are we going to do now, pull people out of bed to talk to them?"

"I wasn't going to wake you up when it was the first time I'd seen you sleep more than two hours at a go since March," Sam says. "Sorry." He doesn't sound especially sorry. "I was thinking we could go take a look around the house and see what we can figure out before we talk to the neighbors. They'll still be there in the morning."

"Not if they get kidnapped, they won't," Dean says, but Sam doesn't really seem to be listening to him. Dean sighs and goes and takes a piss, and then they head back into Cape May.

Even after midnight the parking situation hasn't gotten a whole lot better; they end up leaving the Impala on a cul-de-sac about half a mile inland and walking back toward the house. They're carrying multiple rifles loaded with rock salt concealed in bundled-up coats, so Dean's sincerely hoping that they don't get stopped on the way. Luckily, all the swarming cops from earlier seem to have disappeared, and there's no one on the streets but him and Sam.

"Not exactly a hoppin' place, huh?" Dean says.

"Wildwood's supposed to the party town," Sam says. "Next town up."

"Then that's where we're headed next," Dean says. "After it turns out there's not a single paranormal thing in this whole house, and after the neighbors confirm that the Brown family ran off to join the circus. We should get there just in time for some college girls to take their shirts off for Saturday night."

"Sure," Sam says, with that laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Okay."

The house isn't quite as ugly at night, but then again Dean can't see the paint. There's a streetlight right outside the front door, so they go for the back. It barely takes Sam twenty seconds to jimmy the lock, and the expensive alarm system advertised outside the front door isn't on. It's one of the easiest break-ins of Dean's life.

"So you want to take the downstairs and I'll take the upstairs?" Sam says, clicking his flashlight on.

"Sure," Dean says. "Let me know when you completely fail to find anything."

Sam rolls his eyes and heads up the stairs, each step creaking under his weight.

From what the outside looked like, Dean was expecting all kinds of creepy Victorian stuff in here: huge heavy curtains, Oriental rugs, doilies on the tables. But it's not like that at all. The house is completely normal looking. Not even seashore kitsch or that trying-too-hard creepy normal that means a coven's probably headquartered in the basement; just regular normal, like the people who live here are probably perfectly nice people, and Dean really hopes that Dave Brown just had an early mid-life crisis and dragged his family on a trip to Vegas. It's not impossible, and really it's looking more likely by the second: Dean's EMF isn't registering anything in the entirety of the downstairs.

Just when Dean's gotten himself 95% convinced that this whole thing isn't their problem and they can head right up to Wildwood, maybe catch a couple of the bars before they close, Sam calls from upstairs. "Dean? I think you might want to see this."

"Fuck me," he says under his breath, and then, for Sam's benefit, "Coming!"

Sam's standing at the end of the hall, outside what looks to be the daughter's bedroom, if the plaque labeled LIZZIE in hot pink letters is any indication. "The EMF started going crazy as soon as I got within ten feet of the door," he says. "Try it with yours."

Dean flips the switch on his EMF reader and it does its best to blast his eardrums off, all five bulbs lighting up instantly. "Huh," he says. "Guess you win the case-finding prize." He pulls his shotgun out from under his arm. "You wanna go meet Casper?"

For the first ten seconds after they open the door, the little girl's room is as normal as the rest of the house, except that the EMF won't drop below full blast. Dean has time to register that the room is decorated in pink, the curtains pale against the windows; he has time to notice the ragged teddy bear on the girl's bed. And then the door slams shut and the EMF goes quiet and the flashlights go out, and Sam yells, "Dean!" but it's too late: there's a heavy hit across the back of Dean's skull and it all goes black.

*

When Dean comes to, there's a candle about three inches away from his face. "Oh, you're awake then!" Whoever's holding the candle jerks backwards, nearly spilling hot wax on Dean's face. "Bessie!"

Dean's temples are throbbing like he drank a handle of tequila last night and then got thrown against a brick wall. His vision takes a moment to clear all the way, but then the person behind the candle resolves into a boy. He's wearing tan-colored tights tucked into boots and a white shirt that looks sort of like a blouse.

"You escape from the local theater group or something?" Dean says, trying to sit up. His brain makes a serious effort to escape from his skull. He doesn't immediately see Sam, but before he can really get into panicking Dean sees him lying flat on his back a couple yards away, clutching his head. "Sam? You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam says, wincing. "I'm good. I think."

Dean manages to sit all the way up. That puts him right about at eye level with the kid, who's still holding the candle too close to Dean's face. "Uh, you mind backing up a little?" Dean says. "I like my eyes, thanks."

The kid moves it a few inches away. "Are you robbers?" he asks. "Because you're not very good ones if you fell asleep before you stole anything."

A girl walks up carrying a candelabrum. She looks like she's about fourteen, about the same as the boy, and she's wearing crazy theater-group clothes too, an old-time dress and a bonnet. She stares open-mouthed at Dean for a long moment.

In the light of the extra candles Dean can see the room a little better, enough to know they're in the same house as before—only it's like someone flipped the switch, because the creepy Victorian decoration is out in full force: a thick ugly rug where there was hardwood before; a bear's head hanging from the wall opposite Dean; and then there are the two kids and their clothes and their candlesticks.

"Will, go wake the mistress," the girl says.

"But I don't want to leave—" the boy starts.

"I mean it, and be quick about it!" the girl hisses, and the boy glares at Dean as if to say he's going to make Dean hurt if he tries anything. Dean holds up his hands to show he doesn't mean any harm; he's pretty sure the boy doesn't buy it, but he leaves anyway.

"So, uh, you going to tell us what you're doing in here?" Dean says. "Because last I checked, the house was empty."

Sam's standing up now, too; they both tower over the girl, but she doesn't exactly seem intimidated. She doesn't reply, just keeps cutting her eyes between them and the door.

"Okay, I guess that's a no," Dean says.

"We were looking for a little girl named Lizzie Brown," Sam tries. "You don't know anyone named Lizzie, do you?"

The girl's face is blank for a moment, and then her eyes flare out a bit—jackpot—but just then Will comes back with a middle-aged woman in tow. She's wearing a robe with frilly white nightgown poking out from underneath, all old-fashioned stuff for her too, and about twenty years ago she was probably a real knockout. She's still decent-looking, although at the moment she mostly looks tired.

"I'd like to know exactly you're doing here," she says. "Quickly, now, before I send for the police."

"We were looking for the owners of the house," Sam says. "Are you—"

"You found me," the woman interrupts, raising an eyebrow. "Although really, I'd be quite curious to know why breaking in in the middle of the night seemed a preferable way of finding me than coming by to call during the daytime like everyone else."

Dean breathes a huge sigh of relief. "So wait, seriously? You've just been hiding in here for the past three weeks?"

The woman raises her eyebrows. "Contrary to popular belief, I have been leaving the house fairly regularly."

"And you were just, what, hiding from the police? What about your daughter?" Dean says.

"I don't see what business you have in asking about my daughter," the woman says primly.

"And your husband?"

The girl gasps, the boy stares at Dean in abject horror, and the woman's face goes completely cold. "I'd thought it was common knowledge," she says. "My husband was killed five years ago, in the war."

"Five years ago?" Sam says, gaping. "But he only disappeared three weeks ago, along with you and your daughter."

A strange expression comes over the woman's face, cutting through the coldness. "When exactly are we meant to have disappeared?" she says.

"June 12," Dean says. "Three weeks ago."

"Of what year?" the woman asks.

"2008," Sam tells her, and the woman immediately bursts out laughing.

"You must be confused," the woman says. "This is the year of our Lord 1870."

birthdays!!!

Sat, 25 Jul 2009 15:03:06 GMT

It is the birthday of a number of people on my flist: jamesinboots, deirdre_c, and walkawayslowly! Happy birthday to all of you lovely people, and I apologize, James and Dei, for the bias here!

So, as I think we all know, Merrin is my very favorite person in the entirety of the internet, and it is HER BIRTHDAY! I wish you the very best possible birthday, and I hope the people at HPB are still enjoying your flowers (or that your cats had a good time devouring them, if you brought them home!), and most of all I really hope that Amy and Jack's car situation gets fixed so that you can have an actual good birthday celebration, because you deserve it.

<33333

Also! Merry Christmas in July!

opening lines

Wed, 22 Jul 2009 03:51:58 GMT

I'm working on rewriting the first scene of Merrin's and my Big Bang (posting two weeks from today, yo!) and am thinking about how it's pretty important that a first scene be AWESOME, because otherwise, hey, readers get bored and they drop your fic immediately.

And then I went back and looked at old J2 of mine, and was thinking about how my openings were, huh, functional but not stellar, with one exception.

Jared's about to do a line of coke off a stripper's ass when his cell phone buzzes in his pocket. (from this fic)

There are some things I would definitely change about that fic if I were writing it again, but THAT, in my opinion, is a freaking awesome opening line. Largely because I think it's hilarious, and I think hilarity is an excellent way to hook a reader.

What do you guys think -- are opening lines that important to you, or is it more about the opening scene(s)? Or none of the above?

damn it, gossip boys!

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 03:03:43 GMT

Chace & Ed's Love Nest Is No More

They had to go and kill the happily ever after in my fic. Ugh! (Can I say how freaking lame it is that GG RPS is the most recent fic I have posted, STILL, five months later?)

However, this means that Chace Crawford lives in my backyard now. Like, literally. As my roommate said, "If we stagger our schedules, we can set up 24-hour surveillance!" The better for catching Ed sneaking back for a little cuddle!

Now back to my regularly planned econ paper corrections. The things I do for friends' sort of cute older brothers!

and nothing we've actually seen has been mapped or outlined

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 15:42:53 GMT

I'm sitting on the front porch of my family's new beach house, hanging out with my mom and my twelve-year-old dog and working on Merrin's and my Big Bang -- pretty good way to spend a summer Monday! -- and in the process of editing the Big Bang, I ran into a question that, for the first time in a million years, has prompted Merrin to say, "You should post a poll about it!"

View Poll: #1429160

In case you are wondering why I ask, it is because at my college we always, ALWAYS called professors "Professor Whatever." And at Merrin's college, which is where our Big Bang is set, they always called professors "Dr. Whatever." All of my professors WERE doctors; we just didn't call them that.

Anyway! The Big Bang editing, it continues! Along with totally not studying for the LSAT, oops.

a tree grows in brooklyn

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 01:25:10 GMT

There are some books I've read that I've known, from the very first page, I was going to love. Middlesex is one of them. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is not. I actually said to walkawayslowly, "Is there a point at which I am suddenly going to start loving this book?"

"I don't know," Merrin said. "I sure hope so, since it's one of my favorites!"

I emailed her from a train in Germany to say, Have started to love this book. Emailed her again to say, NO REALLY IT IS 100% AWESOME.

When I got back from Europe, she said, "When did you realize you were going to like it?"

"On page 62," I replied.

Merrin laughed at me -- "On page 62? What??" -- but seriously, this is where I first got the sense that I was going to like this book a whole lot, and it is indeed on page 62 (of my copy, anyway):

She had been a virgin when she married and had humbly submitted to her husband's brutal love. His brutality early killed all of her latent desires. Yet she could understand the fierce love hunger that made girls--as people put it--go wrong. She understood how a boy who had been driven from the neighborhood for rape could still be a good boy at heart. She understood why people had to lie and steal and harm one another. She knew of all pitiful human weaknesses and of many cruel strengths.

Yet she could not read or write.

And this is where I began to fall in love with this book (pages 72-73 of my copy):

And the child, Francie Nolan, was all of the Rommelys and all of the Nolans. She had the violent weaknesses and passion for beauty of the shanty Nolans. She was a mosaic of her grandmother Rommely's mysticism, her tale-telling, her great belief in everything and her compassion for the weak ones. She had a lot of her grandfather Rommely's cruel will. She had some of her Aunt Evy's talent for mimicking, some of Ruthie Nolan's possessiveness. She had Aunt Sissy's love for life and her love for children. She had Johnny's sentimentality without his good looks. She had all of Katie's soft ways and only half of the invisible steel of Katie. She was made up of all of these good and these bad things.

She was made up of more, too. She was the books she read in the library. She was the flower in the brown bowl. Part of her life was made from the tree growing rankly in the yard. She was the bitter quarrels she had with her brother whom she loved dearly. She was Katie's secret, despairing weeping. She was the shame of her father staggering home drunk.

She was all of these things and of something more that did not come from the Rommelys or the Nolans, the reading, the observing, the living from day to day. It was something that had been born into her and her only--the something different from anyone in the two families. It was what God or whatever is His equivalent puts into each soul that is given life--the one different thing such as that makes no two fingerprints on the face of the earth alike.

it would be my honor to be your new stepfather.

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 04:38:47 GMT

I went to Borders today and bought two books. One of them was A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, because it is one of walkawayslowly's favorite books, and I have never read it. I was all set to call it a day right there, but then decided I wanted another book. Two seemed like a good number.

Out of Merrin's set of favorite books, the other two I could remember were The Time Traveler's Wife (which I have read and love), and The Sparrow, which my local Borders totally failed to provide me. So I bought The Demon's Lexicon, by Sarah Rees Brennan (sarahtales) instead.

Here is how much of a fandom geezer I am: I was reading Sarah Rees Brennan's stuff back when she was writing as Maya and had just finished posting Draco Malfoy and the Amazing Bouncing . . . Ferret? on Schnoogle. I remember being delighted by that story at the time, but also, I was fifteen. I've greatly enjoyed her stuff more recently than that (she was the last HP writer I still read), although, as discussed with dark_reaction, her Draco was pretty much always exactly the same from story to story.

I didn't come into The Demon's Lexicon with super high hopes. I've been burned by other ex-fandom forays into original fic (see: Havemercy, by ladyjaida and danibennett, which I read all the way through, and the Mortal Instruments trilogy by cassandraclare -- what was with dropping the i in Claire, btw? does Clare actually make it look less thirteen-year-old? -- which I would maybe be willing to give another chance on a really, really strong recommendation, but thus far have not been able to get into). My main complaint about The Demon's Lexicon is that the dialogue is a little too clever in the way that Maya's Draco was always too clever, but it's entertaining, and I'm having a good time with it so far. Also, it's got a little SPN thing going on (brothers! on the run! demons!), if that's up your alley.

Also, this evening, my roommates and I entertained one of their friends from college, who is a boy who is dating a girl. This girl: a) is his roommate; b) has a boyfriend; c) is bisexual and mostly interested in girls; d) has a brother who is the third roommate in their apartment; and e) is the only one actually on the lease, and therefore the landlord in this situation. "I think this is kind of doomed from the start," the boy said. "But you know, one second we're just friends, and the next second we are stone cold sober making out."

Of course! These kinds of things happen to me ALL THE TIME.

This boy also once dated three girls simultaneously, and was delightfully befuddled about how it had come to pass. He's sort of an accidental ladies' man. I think this would make for an excellent romantic comedy. Bonus points: he was also a very good sport about watching the second season premier of True Blood with us, which is the guilty pleasure that has taken three-quarters of my apartment by storm. Possession of HBO On Demand is a very dangerous thing.

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 07:53:10 GMT

Only my roommate and I would go to a lesbian bar with the expressed purpose of making out with girls and both end up making out with (very attractive!) Turkish boys. A+, us!

i'll get the super soaker.

Mon, 25 May 2009 01:23:14 GMT

I'm hanging out with one of my roommates and her tiny adorable gay friend, watching flashes of lightning through her floor-to-ceiling windows (it may not have a closet but her room sure does have some perks), reading Star Trek meta and awesome Kirk/girl!McCoy genderswap (I thought I was all done with genderswap a couple years ago when I wrote this but apparently I am not), drinking wine and typing up a truly craptastic scene from walkawayslowly's and my Big Bang that I am going to rewrite probably before I even show it to Merrin, and wanting something, I'm not sure what. Something.

The summer before I started college, I was jittery all the time, a little nervous -- not about the idea of entering into college exactly, but at the idea of all the possibilities that were in front of me: that I was going somewhere completely different, that I could turn into a whole different person, that I might fall in love at any moment.

I feel that way a little now, too -- not jittery or nervous, really, but on the verge of something. It's a warm and humid night, after a day that felt like full-on summer, and humid summer nights make me think of kissing on porch swings or in hammocks, of the possibility of falling in love (though I never have), and summers have always been that in-between time for me (and everyone, I guess) -- the time before I left for college, for Germany, for New York; the time before I had to figure out my life. I'm taking the LSAT this fall, though I'm not sure that law school is what I want to do; I have no idea what it is that I want to do. I'm not sure that I'll ever be sure. I think a lot of life is about just picking something that seems like it could be what you want and going for it, seeing if it fits. In the summer it just feels like the possibilities are spread wide open for me, like I could fit into all these different versions of my life, in endless ways.

*

My roommate just held up a stuffed animal and twisted it around and said, "Flipping llama!", apropos of nothing. You know what, I think this is a sign -- the universe is telling me that the best choice for this evening is Get Drunker.

[original fiction] Zodiac, by Dixie Walters

Thu, 21 May 2009 04:31:37 GMT

I intended to go to bed a while ago, but instead got caught up in archiving a relic of true genius. Maybe it's in honor of my new and rather ridiculous love for Star Trek, but ladies and gentlemen, I give you a work of science fiction goodness by me, age nine. And by me obviously I mean Dixie Walters, because that was my pen name. Oh yes.

Totally unedited, and presented in all its original glory:

Zodiac
by Dixie Walters

"Lyna! Where are you?" My energy tank was running low. Even in Xeeksor's low gravity, it's no fun to run out of energy. That would mean I couldn't talk to my friend. If I took off my lycron tank to try and talk to her that way I would die from lack of air. "Lyna! We have to get to the energy charger! I'm running low!"

Lyna nodded. She barked for me to follow her. We bounded quickly in Xeeksor's low gravity. Lyna had seen an energy charger. Dogs on Xeeksor have much sharper eyes than Xeeksornians. One of the best (such as Lyna) can see a grain of sand two miles away!

I checked my bank again. Oh no! It said I had five minutes! The closest charger was six minutes away. Luckily, I remembered about light speed. I switched it on fast. So did Lyna. We zoomed to the charger. I charged up and we headed home. Phew! That was close!

1.

"Karita!" Mom yelled for me. "We are going to Aynstoin to visit your grandmother! Come help me mix up the Xeekdivite!"

"Coming!" I yelled back through my voice transmitter. Oh, I'm sorry! I forgot to tell you what Xeekdivite is. Well, you mix up Ueikdivite, Mchytite, and Solitite together and add Grodimite. Shake well, and you have Xeekdivite. Simply pour on the surface of a gas giant, and it freezes to a hard, asphalt-like surface that you can land a shuttle on.

"Karita! Come on! The shuttle leaves in five days!" (A day on Xeeksor lasts only 26 minutes.) I raced for the door.

"Come on, Lyna, go through the dog door and unlock the door! It's locked!" Even though Lyna couldn't speak Xeeksdal, she could understand it. She leapt through and stuck her paw on the button. The glass retracting door opened and closed when I stepped on the pad. Then I typed in the combination (51249109) and a second retracting door opened, into my house.

"Mom! Here I am!" I raced into the cymbly. (Oh, whoops, my English is slipping. I learned to speak English after I learned Xeeksdal, our native language. Cymbly is our word for kitchen.)

"All right, Karita, what have you and Lyna been doing?" She glared at me.

"Nothing, Mom! Lyna and I were playing outside. I had on my heated clothes and everything!" I decided not to tell her that I had forgotten to refill my energy tank before we went outside. If I did, she would ground me. Yuck!

"Well, go to the chemical holder and get the solitite jug. Hurry! Dad wants to leave in three days! It has to sit for two. We can finish in time if you hurry!" I brought back to the solitite. She poured it and said, "Well, that's all. It can sit for two days. You go sleep. You'll need your rest for your grandmother on Aynstoin." When she says something there's no arguing. I went to sleep.

When I woke up, three days later, I heard screaming in the background.

"Get a fresh lycron tank, Karita!" I heard my father yelling. His voice was sharp.

"Sure," I said groggily, not quite awake yet.

"Make it fast, Karita! Remember that your grandmother's planet, Aynstoin, is in the Andromeda. That means five days in the spaceship!" Mom had to add. (Don't remind me of the five day trip from Xeeksor in the galaxy Taukana on the farthest, newest corner of the universe; hang a left at the Youaka Nebula about six billion light years back and keep going for six billion light years . . . you can't possibly miss Taukana galaxy.)

Okay, okay! Mom's tapping her foot; I can hear it. The fact that I'm an Xeeksornian really helps; my hearing is 3.5 million times better than a humans, I can spot a red grain of sand on the ground from a mile away . . . you get the point.

I scrambled across the room. Then I picked up a few things: my collar (yes, my collar, you heard it right: here on Xeeksor, we all have to wear a collar with ID tags on it whenever we are leaving the planet and reentering it. It's a sort of a passport, as you say.), my heating pads (Aynstoin gets very cold; the only real reason Grandma moved from her home on Fysont in the Wiyita galaxy where she'd lived for 37 years was that her doctor said that the heat of Fysont was damaging her nervous system slightly and that she needed to move to a colder planet, which Aynstoin most definitely.), my telescope (oh, I do just love to gaze into the lens and look at Earth, on the way other side of the universe, and see how stupid the people on it are (no offense to the readers, of course!) and how tiny their miniature solar system and galaxy really are, compared to our solar system, centered around the star Latrocis, and our galaxy, Taukana), and a present for Grandma: a new invention from Xeeksor, the fold-up house! It folds up to 2 ft by 1 ft by 5 inches! She'll love it for going on vacations to Aynstoin's moon, Makaya.

"Karita! Now! The shuttle is already heated up!" Mom's voice shattered my daydreams.

"Coming!" I screamed. I raced around, collecting things . . . yanking on boots . . . making sure I grabbed a tail warmer . . . I'll explain about that later.

"KA-RI!" Mom exploded. "NOW!"

I gulped. "Yes, ma'am. Coming," I said meekly. I raced down the stairs and rocketed into the shuttle.

I plopped down next to Lyna, who looked at me saying, plainer than words, "What took you so long?"

You see, Lyna and I have our own sort of language. We understand each other so deeply that if I simply make up a mind message, "Well . . . I had to get Grandma's folding house . . . and everything else," Lyna nods her head in reply and I know she's gotten the message. When I glanced at her, her head was tilted at an angle, a sure sign that she was concentrating hard. I'm getting the message now . . . "Yeah . . . , I understand. You sure came speeding into the ship! I wouldn't be surprised if you lost half your energy on that sprint. Better check the tank." I nodded my reply and checked the tank.

"No, Lyna, still have almost all of it!" I grinned. She started panting and gave me one of those defeated but still spirited looks that said, "You may have won this time, but you just wait, girl! You just wait!" She laughed. Or it looked like she was laughing at least.

Mom said, "Oh, you two!" Mom didn't understand us and our language. Neither did Dad. And I'm glad they don't. Really glad. Maybe Lyna would be able to make them understand in an emergency, but it hasn't happened yet.

The spaceship coughed and sputtered. "Oh no! The stupid machine's running out of fuel!" Mom screamed, and then we both looked at Dad, who laughed nervously.

"I hope there's a planet nearby, or at least a moon." Dad gulped.

As it turned out, it wasn't a planet or a moon that saved us. It was an asteroid, and a little help from Lyna's supereyes. She barked excitedly, and jumped all over the seat. I cooled off and got to concentrating. Through my thoughts I said, "Lyna, what is it?"

"Oh, Karita, don't you see?!?! Off far in the distance, the big gray asteroid! It'll save us!" Lyna was very excited. So was I!

"Dad, Mom! Lyna saw something that'll save us! Bag gray asteroid two miles away!" By now, both Lyna and I were bouncing off the walls.

"Are you sure?" Mom, always cautious, was at it again.

"You bet, Ma!"

"Okay, but . . ."

"Learn to trust Lyna and Kata, Mom." Dad to the rescue.

"Are you sure it's safe?" Mom's always worried.

"I'll listen," I volunteered. "Absolute silence, please."

"Sure, silence," Dad grumbled. I didn't answer. I was hearing nothing from the asteroid. It was hollow, and had several bedrooms, and and aircraft landing pad. Super! Lyna was concentrating, and I was receiving something . . .

"It's great, Kata, great! But do we have enough fuel to reach it." The last part sounded sad, far off.

"I'll check, Lyna." I went to the front. "Dad, how many miles of fuel left?"

"2.157, Kata. Enough?"

"Yeah! Great!"

"That's a relief! Phew!"

We landed on the asteroid two minutes later. But as soon as I stepped onto the asteroid, I sensed that something wasn't right. Lyna apparently sensed this, too, and I could tell because her left front paw was lifted in the air, which I knew was a signal. Luckily Mom and Dad were so preoccupied with fixing up the craft that they didn't notice.

"Lyna . . . something's wrong with this picture. I just can't figure out what." I was really nervous.

"I don't know, Ka, I don't know." Lyna only calls me "Ka" when she's really nervous.

"You know, I almost feel like I'm being WATCHED."

"Ka, that's it! You've hit it! Somebody's . . ." Lyna stopped in the middle of a sentence, stuck her front left pay up in the air, and began to emit ultrasonic sound. (Ultrasonic sound is 20,000 Hz or above.) Apparently she'd learned what she wanted to know, because she put her left front paw down and lifted her right front paw, the "universal" sign that DANGER IS NEAR. She threw her head back and began to "howl," this time in infrasonic sound. Unforunately, Xeeksornians can't use "echolocation" like Blue Labradors can.

*

Tragically, there ends the tale! Whatever happened to Karita and her telepathic Blue Labrador BFF? The world may never know.

everything you need is a delicate disaster

Thu, 21 May 2009 01:47:17 GMT

I spent far too much of my day reading old xkcd comics and spamming my friends at work and walkawayslowly with my favorite ones. This is all my friend S.'s fault, for linking me to this one yesterday: The Race, Part 1 (Make sure to read its sequels, too!)

That one is directly related to my extreme delight over Firefly, which I still have one episode left of (plus Serenity). Randall Munroe, the creator of xkcd, is kind of my hero. Tragically a lot of the math jokes go right over my head, but that does not stop me from loving the stuffing out of it. He has awesome things to say about everything!

Driving is fun: Google Maps

The truth about Han Solo: Improvised

The Klingon language is everywhere: Impostor

(Speaking of the Klingon language, I did not mean to end up on a forum that was discussing the likelihood of Klingon getting you laid, but um. Apparently that happened. MOVING RIGHT ALONG.)

"Now you just put on that shark suit, Jimbo, and you see if it hurts when they bite you": Outreach

And finally, things we have all experienced: Bored with the Internet

And how very sad and true that is.

I also recommend just hitting the Random button and reading everything ever, because they are pretty much all hilarious.

ETA: I suck and forgot to mention this -- walkawayslowly also made icons, including this one, because she is awesome!

not only farm animals

Wed, 20 May 2009 02:14:29 GMT

Today I said to my roommate, "I have officially lost all respect for myself," and she said, "Does it have anything to do with Klingons?" And when I had to answer that yes, it did, I lost even that tiny last bit of respect I did not know I had in reserve.

But but but. The linguistics of Klingon is really INTERESTING, okay. I'm a total linguistics nerd; this is not news! I should just probably . . . think about directing that interest toward something else. That is not Klingon.

Epic sigh. Here, cunningly I distract you with a rec:

How to Avoid Kicking Puppies and Other Valuable Lessons in Leadership by sparky77
gen with lots of UST all around | R | ~2,000 words
I was amusing myself by imagining Kirk attempting to be an authority figure and this is what happened.

I'd been forlornly trolling the LJ waters for days in search of fic that hit on the way the movie does truly hilarious banter, and this is that fic. It's gen, but a) it's short, and b) everyone wants to bang each other, you can tell.

Also, it is one of very few fics I've seen that has approached the kind of characterization of Kirk that I loved so much from the movie, which is to say, a Kirk who has hints of truly awesome leadership skills down there somewhere, but is also like:

KIRK: You know what my favorite thing is?
MCCOY: Boobies?
KIRK: I was going to say pissing Spock off, but yes! Boobies.

Read it, it's awesome.

today is random Band of Brothers day, with some other shit thrown in for kicks.

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 04:11:28 GMT

Over the past couple of days I've been rewatching Band of Brothers again. I love that series like burning. This is probably the fourth time I've watched it all the way through, and yet I can never remember characters' names beyond, like, Col. Winters -- which is not saying much, seeing as he's the central character. I've never been able to, not even the first time I watched the thing and then immediately rewatched within the same week.

It's always really bothered me, but I'd assumed that I was just not paying enough attention or something, so it was extremely heartening to find, when I was looking at the Wikipedia page today, that the Washington Post review at the time it came out mentioned that "few of the characters stand out strikingly against the backdrop of the war. In fact, this show is all backdrop and no frontdrop. When you watch two hours and still aren't quite sure who the main characters are, something is wrong."

I don't think it's NO frontdrop, but it's definitely backdrop-heavy. And I don't mind, really! I think the backdrop is damned awesome! I just do wish I didn't come out of every episode being like, "Shit, who was that guy from two eps ago?" and thinking I need a fandom primer just to keep track.

BoB is one of those shows I've never felt any particular interest in seeking out the fanfic for, partly because there's never been a pairing I've shipped all that hard. I mean, okay, Winters and Dixon are doing it, have always been doing it, and will always be doing it, but that's just such a no-brainer. Beyond that? I like the idea of Toy/Guarnere, but it would probably have to be pre-"Bastogne" -- although I do kind of like them getting sent home from the war and hobbling around on their prosthetic legs and sitting on their farm porch somewhere. This idea would totally work for Winters/Dixon too, sans prostheses. I also have a sort of huge crush on Doc Roe, whose name I have only just remembered thanks to having just rewatched "Bastogne" and all. I ship him with Nurse Renee a little, except for how she is dead at the end of the ep. I would also be very down with him being gay with SOMEONE. I just do not know who!

Any thoughts? Like I said, I don't really have an OTP or whatever, so if there is some totally seminal work of BoB fiction that I have yet to run across, hit me up!

I don't think I can handle that JoBros crossover thing, though. I kind of hate my life that when I got back into watching BoB and thought, "But have I seen any BoB fanfic anytime recently?" that was the first thing that came to mind.

Speaking of war miniseries, I still have not seen Generation Kill. I've heard lots of good things about it; clearly I should watch! Also, Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg are collaborating on another WWII miniseries, The Pacific, which might be enough to kick me into springing for HBO. It's meant to be coming out sometime this year, and I want it. Also, Entourage comes back sometime this summer, I think. MUST HAVE. I told my roommate I was thinking about getting HBO, and she was all, "Oh yeah, I would be down for that. It's really hard to find The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency online." And then she realized what she had admitted, and I laughed and laughed.

Two further points vaguely related to BoB, war movies, and general badassery:

1) I am all kinds of psyched about The Hurt Locker. You can see the trailer via the link. The movie in general looks like it is right up my alley, but in particular it's got Jeremy Renner! Who was super hardcore and awesome in 28 Weeks Later! HOT.

2) I think in some part of my brain I had known this, but I had not paid a ton of attention: the guy who plays Guarnere in BoB? Frank John Hughes? Oh yeah, he is also on 24, and therefore is on my TV EVERY WEEK. Woohoo, powers of observation!

And one last point related to how my roommates think I am an enormous tool:

The final book in Sarah Monette's Mélusine series, Corambis, is out, and is in my hot little hands! However, it is in my hot little hands sans cover, because this is its cover:

I swear it looks like something out of a Harry Potter fic back in the day, like, when every story absolutely required that Draco wear leather trousers. In fact, come to think of it, I'm pretty sure this could be the cover of Cassie Claire's Passionate Trousers. All you ex-HPers know EXACTLY what I'm talking about, don't lie.

Uh, anyway. There's a good reason I'm reading this book without its jacket. This is a better series than bad romance novels, I swear! Even though I'm sure that at some point the scene the cover art depicts will come to pass, I feel like a better human being leaving the cover art hidden on my bookshelf.

let you feel the raindrops falling down, seeping through your redscales

Tue, 17 Mar 2009 04:56:08 GMT

Happy St. Patrick's Day! I am very sorry to say that I was just walking out of work as it turned to March 17th, after having been at work since 9:30 in the morning! This is the resurgence of the project from November which caused me to not post for a month straight. Not that not posting for a month straight would be that unremarkable at this point, as infrequently as I'm around these days, but anyway, if I seem to be around even less than usual, it's because I'm at work until the end of time, or April 3rd. Whichever comes first!

(Also, 7+ months into this job I continue to not check LJ at work, because I am just that paranoid.)

Anyway, I missed rawkin_ur_sox's birthday a few days ago, which is just pitiful, since there was that one time not too long ago when I called her from Brooklyn and talked her ear off about Harrison Ford and she very kindly put up with my rambling. It occurs to me, as I type this, that that was Valentine's Day, and that was more than a month ago. Haha, I'm good with time. Obviously. ANYWAY, happy belated birthday; hope it was lovely!

My roommate texted me a couple of hours ago to say that she had a surprise for me when I got home -- turns out she'd gone out to dinner in the West Village with one of her friends from high school, and had brought all of us back cupcakes from Magnolia. So now my bed is littered with chocolate cupcake crumbs. DELICIOUS.

I've been telling myself that I wasn't going to post again until I had fic, but HAHA I thought I was going to have this Merlin fic done two weeks ago and it is still not done (in spite of being approximately eight words long), so never mind. Fic coming soon! Just hopefully not in the way that, like, the MTA says "Second Avenue subway, coming soon!!!" and then immediately afterwards it says, "In 2015!!!" and has, apparently, been saying it's coming soon since the '70s. My new goal: being speedier than the MTA. I set my standards REAL HIGH.

let's talk about you for a minute

Wed, 11 Mar 2009 01:59:39 GMT

I've been reading a lot of Merlin fic, as one does, a good bit of which has been modern day AU. I really love modern day Merlin AUs. (There are four fics in particular that I love like burning; two of them are still WIPs, though, so I think I'll save that rec post till they're done.) And I've been thinking about other Merlin AUs I would want, and there is one that I have not seen and am pretty much dying for.

I cannot even BEGIN to tell you how much I would love to have a Merlin footballer AU. Normally if I were dying for something I would at least consider writing it myself, but since in this case I know shit nothing about football, I am not even close to the person who should be writing this. Clearly someone who knows football should make this happen. Arthur the international ~~man of mystery~~ football star! Merlin the . . . sort of incompetent keeper who manages to make these saves out of NOWHERE and it just doesn't make a damned bit of sense and maybe he is slightly magic! (This is another thing I love -- when Merlin's still got magic in modern day AUs.)

I don't have a fully fleshed-out plot or anything, and just in terms of not knowing British/football culture I do NOT feel like I should be writing this -- I think it would be a much better and richer story written by someone who does -- but anyway, the idea was inspired by this blind item on Dlisted a while back*:

Which star athlete is having an affair with one of his teammates? In the macho world of sports, homosexuality is rarely discussed. However, these two teammates - one much more high profile than the other - have been practically joined at the hip for the past several months. Both are married, and both of their wives are in for a nasty shock if they find out. Team managment does know, and is seriously considering trading the lesser player to prevent a full-blown public scandal that might diminish their star’s reputation and ticket sales.

*How much do I LOVE Michael K, btw? SO MUCH. Never has anyone managed to gross me out so consistently in so many new and hilarious ways.

I would cut the line re: the marriage and the wives, and just leave it as "Arthur is the huge star and Merlin is the teammate," but anyway. If this kind of AU already exists and I just missed it, clearly you need to link me now. Otherwise, fly free, little footballer AU idea! Fly free!

Oh and here, have another couple of ideas for stories in other fandoms! Two first lines for stories I am never going to write:

Sam/Dean: In Stone Creek, Alabama, on a night when it's too hot to sleep under the covers, Dean pulls Sam's boxers down and licks up the length of his cock.

John/Rodney: Not that Rodney was opposed to being bathed in milk and honey, exactly, even when the milk came from cacti and the honey was the secretion of a creature that looked a lot like a yak. The women doing the bathing were all kinds of hot, and in the next tub over Sheppard definitely looked like he was enjoying himself.

I don't care if you credit me for anything above, but do shoot me a link if you do anything with them, so that I can see these stories actually existing in the world. ESPECIALLY THE FOOTBALLER AU.

And okay, hopefully this won't be confusing: now for some stories I AM writing!

Post a single sentence or two extract from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick). No context, no explanations.

Some original fic, some fanfic. A couple of these are rather less in progress than more, but they're all in some state of partial completion. And again, these are the stories I'm currently writing myself, so these ideas belong to me (and in one case, also to walkawayslowly). They are not up for grabs! (Although personally, I think the stuff above sounds way more exciting. FOOTBALLER AU.)

1. The rental house sprawls over its beachfront lot. It's a Cape Cod, two gables, cedar shakes and a widow's walk; it's not a beach house, it's a mansion.

2. Charlie's proximity brought me great comfort. And there were other benefits, too, to this arrangement, beyond the warmth.

3. An army is only as strong as its weakest man. Uther had drilled this into Arthur's head repeatedly, until it stuck; until it was the only thing Arthur could think about when he was on the training pitch until supper each night—that he would not be that man.

4. So Jared tells him about the dining hall, and then he remembers that he never got to tell Jensen about last night either, so he backtracks to tell Jensen about that, and then goes back to the dining hall, and ends with knocking over the trays and having the dining hall lady glowering at him as he knelt in the middle of orange juice and left over eggs.

5. The taxi dropped Jared off on Jensen's street before, but the West Village is a rabbit warren of streets.

Oh, little Merlin story, be done already.

RaceFail '09

Tue, 10 Mar 2009 02:42:01 GMT

I spent a long time reading RaceFail '09 entries last night. This is a good place to get a very short overview, along with this.

For more, look at rydra_wong's post here. There are a lot of links; it can seem overwhelming. sheafrotherdon has good stuff to say about that here: One white person to another.

Pick one of the links, and open it. Start somewhere. deepad's I Didn't Dream of Dragons is another good place.

I'm reading, and I'm thinking. It's a start.

you can blame that on my occupation

Sat, 28 Feb 2009 03:09:30 GMT

Hahaha, okay, I can hear SPN fandom going LALALA and scrolling past now, but WHATEVER.

So I have a Colin Morgan beard sweet spot. It is shown in this picture, which um yes I am reposting, because it is my favorite.

sweetestdrain and various others just posted links to these Colin Morgan pictures where there is a rather good bit more beard in evidence. I think he's hotter with less beard, but that is not really the point here. He's still really stupidly attractive, but that is also not the point:

Colin Morgan + the extra beard = I HAVE HOOKED UP WITH THAT GUY. Like, not ACTUAL Colin Morgan, obviously, don't kill me, internet. But seriously, this guy Adam I hooked up with my sophomore year? KIND OF A DEAD RINGER. SCRUFFY BEARD AND MESSY DARK HAIR AND EVERYTHING. He was from Santa Fe and very much not Irish, and after we hooked up I kind of freaked out and never spoke to him again, and DEAR GOD was I dumb at nineteen. As sweetestdrain pointed out, I could have had a Colin Morgan lookalike of my very own!

Oh, right, the real point of this -- I looked at the extra scruffy beard and my first thought was, "I wish he'd trim that a little." My second thought was self-inserty and involved Colin and his beard doing filthy things. GOD, Colin Morgan.