I don't know what the hell this shit is. It was 2:30am and unreckless 's door was pulsing and I wrote this. Happy halloween, I guess? (Rusty writing skills are rusty, yo.)

Title: ghost story 1988
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1010
Pairing: None
Spoilers: None
Status: Complete
Warnings: Ehhh...none, really. Weechester, in the way that, for the brief minutes the boys appear, they are children.
Summary: If walls could talk, people say. These walls can. (And dream, and moan, and take your soul.)

( She strokes your hair while you sleep and calls you Lydia, and it tears her heart out anew when you leave in the morning. )

So I had this dream last night.

We were living in a dystopian future-Athens full of high-rises and windblown streets. Most of this dream takes place in New Bentley, a multi-purpose building. The first two floors are classrooms, the third has a laboratory, a few dorms for overnight subjects, and male and female shower rooms. Fourth floor was administrative offices. Everything was connected by walkways over a huge open space in the middle. There were two elevators, and a walkway from the fifth and uppermost floor led to a parking garage. I was up on the fourth floor, running a form into the offices for some reason when the events of this dream began to unfold.

Everything seemed fairly normal. Then this virus hit. The only physical outward signs were orange and green markings on a person's face, but they became basically zombies. The marks grew as a hive mind began to usurp the victim's personality and motor functions, meaning newly-infected people may hardly look lethal at all. But they are, oh god they are. And they're violent. There had been vague uncomfortable rumors of this for a couple of days before anything hit Athens. Except nobody believed it was actually happening.

The outbreak started on the third floor of New Bentley--I think in the lab. Hearing crashing and knowing that my sister Erin was down on the third floor waiting for me, I rush downstairs in a panic. The first of the shambling, orange-and-green-stained infected are clawing their way out of the labs. I find Erin in the women's shower room and we run. Up the ramps and over to the parking garage we go--the echoes of screams are behind us. Running along elevated walkways, we come to a residence building--a place I believe Victoria has correctly identified as Bromley. It wasn't New Bromley, however, as it was decrepit and nearly abandoned. Victoria is hiding in one of the rooms, so I leave Erin with her and run back to look for others.

I find several more friends and acquaintances and send them back to Victoria for hiding. These people include Daniel, Zach, Eden, Jen, Justin Joo--basically everyone I know and care about at the university. The screams are becoming more panicked now, and I find myself back in New Bentley. Finally the administrators seem to understand that something is wrong, and they all speed for the elevators. Seeing that new infected are just behind us, I cram on with them. The number of people, however, causes the elevator to break, and it opens halfway between the second and third floors. I crawl out onto the third floor and start looking for some way out of the building. By now the sprinkler system has started going off and I'm wading in ankle-deep water. I know my backpack is on this floor somewhere, and I get the idea that finding it will help me. I'm trekking towards the lockers in the women's showers when a girl comes running out of there, two zombies in hot pursuit. As I watch, they drag her down and tear her apart. I'm retching, but I have to escape before they notice me.

I find stairs leading down to the street and take them. The streets are abandoned, the sky a hazy red color. I'm disoriented--nobody takes the streets, just the safe elevated walks. I'm running down an alley, the doomed girl's demise playing over and over in my head. Suddenly I run into two people, a guy and a girl. They also look panicked, so they fall in behind me. I'm explaining what happened in New Bentley when we run under one of those orange-tinted outdoor lights. In the sudden brightness, I see the thin line of green running down the length of their noses.

I shriek and try to swing at the guy. They both smile, oh so slow, and then attack. I've forgotten any self-defense I've ever taken, and I'm just swinging and flailing as much as I can. I get the guy's head under my foot and stomp down as hard as I can. Then the girl lunges at me and sinks her teeth into my shoulder. She's chewing, so I grab her hair and pull. Part of her scalp comes away in my hand, and I beat her down when she releases me in shock. I run to the parking garage, panicking and in tremendous pain.

For some reason, I know that I'll succumb to the virus as soon as it reaches the base of my skull. Since the wound is in my shoulder, I figure I have minutes. Maybe less. I want to see my sister and friends again--say goodbye. I start making my way to Bromley, but part of the way there, I rethink it. It's a terrible idea--what if I turn while there? Then I realize--oh, I realize--why, going there is the best idea I've ever had. Oh yes it is.

So I arrive, and it takes next to no time for them to let me in. And there they all are--my friends, my family, all scared senseless. Then Daniel comes forward, trying to get a better look at me. A couple feet away, he recoils--but too late. I've pulled him down, bitten him, and then everyone else is shrieking and beating at me, but I'm snapping at anyone and everyone that approaches. Daniel's just gotten up to help me when I notice Victoria in the back, Erin mute with horror behind her, and I know my next target.

And then I wake up.

(Did I mention that just prior to this saga I slept-walked over to my pantry and chugged a whole blue Kool-Aid Burst in one go? Victoria is of the opinion that this may have influenced the rest of the night's adventures.)

Twenty minutes before my fail-this-and-you-don't-graduate comprehensive exam, and the last thing I have to review (and the one thing I totally forgot about until just turning to it in my notes) is Song of Myself.

And so life comes full circle, and I once again must say:

WALT WHITMAN, I HATE YOU WITH THE BURNING FIRE OF A THOUSAND SUNS. YOU FUCKER.

-flees to comps-

A change of pace feels nice. No more ugly layout!

Thanks to Victoria for pointing me to milou_veronica, the creator.

Now to make some more icons.

(PS - Apparently Catullus, who I at least find amusing, thought Cicero was kinda a douche too. This is very gratifying.)

I dedicate this fic to three people: Victoria, Todd the TA, and of course, Dr. Jellison. Also, first-ever RPF and first-ever slash in general. Wow. Two birds, meet my one stone.

Title: An Absence of Rain
Pairing: J2 (AU)
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Inspired by a comment unreckless  made during our History Through Film class after we watched The Grapes of Wrath. Set in the 1930s in the Dust Bowl part of Kansas.

SO STOP GOING ON ABOUT HIM, CICERO. I CAN'T BELIEVE, TWO THOUSAND YEARS LATER, MY GRADE IN LATIN IS DEPENDENT ON CORRECTLY TRANSLATING YOUR VARIOUS HATE-ONS FOR A POLITICAL OPPONENT.

FOR THE LOVE OF MINERVA ON A LIGHTHOUSE, SHUT UP.

Wow. That was very cathartic.

Title: Notecard Doodles
Rating: G through PG-13
Spoilers: General season four.
Warnings: Stick figures. Stick figures cussing. Stick figure monsters. Exasperated stick figure angels.

So. I did those notecard comics a while back, right? Ever since, I've been doodling little Castiels and Sam&Deans all over the place. (Ask unreckless , who currently has a miffed Uriel in chalk on her dorm wall.) Today was craziness with the doodles. There were so many, in fact, that I decided to scan the day's products for y'all. Dunno if they're funny or not, but they were enjoyable when I was drawing them. Happy reading!




( And fifteen more under the cut. )

Title: Nothing Matters But the Part with the Numbers
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1300
Characters: Sam, Dean, Trickster
Pairing: None
Spoilers: 3.11 Mystery Spot
Status: Complete
Summary: It would be almost frighteningly easy to step away from a time loop and simply...forget about it for a bit. Not on purpose, of course, but you know how things come up. And while it may only be a little while for the demigod creator, that could be forever in the mind of the only human who doesn't reset.

 

Yet I'm still unreasonably proud of myself.

Baaaasically, I'm being a cheap bastard and having my mom help me with laundry tomorrow. She'll be in town, and she called up and said, "Bea, do you want to go with me to the laundromat?" To which my enthusiastic response was "Yes!"

(See, it's not like I can't do my laundry myself. I've been doing my laundry myself since I was twelve. And it's not like I can't exactly afford it--it's ten bucks, a little prohibitive, but I could swing it. But there's something about having Mom there that's...comforting. I think it may be because she always remembers dryer sheets and she folds the dried laundry. When I do it by myself, I never fold anything. I just wad it up in my duffel and go home. But Mom folds stuff, and it's nice.)

So she says laundry day is Thursday. Great! Perfect! Only one problem: I only have clean undergarments through Wednesday. My choices: do laundry by myself on Wednesday, wear dirty underwear Thursday, or wash a pair out in the sink.

The first option slipped by me.

The second I refuse to accept.

So I went for the third. And I spent ten minutes scrubbing and twenty-five under a dinky hand-dryer, but I have a clean, detergent-smelling pair of boyshorts for tomorrow losing their last bit of dampness over the heating vent right now. I took care of the problem!

Clutching them while sneaking back to my room and hoping no one noticed me carrying a pair of underwear through the halls at 6:15am, I felt a rush of the urban savage. I was no wilderness woman, pounding my clothes against a rock and mending them with plant fiber, but I had washed something without the use of a machine! I guess it's kinda like a man buying a pre-spouted tomato plant and giving it a spot on his patio. When it fruits, he must have the same feeling. Sure, he didn't collect that seed, germinate it, or care for the fragile sprout, but he still kept it alive to bear him at least one tomato! He too must feel the echoes of the primitive time, of being the meat-provider: that tiny heirloom tomato is, in his mind, the cooling carcass of the deer he has slung over his shoulders, and thus his role is complete. Same thing with my sink-washed underwear. I am not a slave to you, Maytag! Aha!

Oh god, it's really late. I'm sorry about this post.

Postscript - You dared tease me about my lack of posts, Victoria? Have a massive love letter about washing my underwear. Bwahahaha, and all that jazz.

For Victoria, of course. Who I <4, obviously. Ahaha, I thought I was gonna die when you said "Psychic Pamela Aqualung."


Title: Playlist Trio (Rootless Tree, Coconut Skins, Aqualung)
Rating: PG-13 for non-graphic sex and language
Word Count: 328, 287, and 194 words, respectively.
Characters: Dean, fantasy!Lisa, Psychic Pamela, passing mentions of others
Pairing: Dean/fantasy!Lisa (in Coconut Skins only)
Spoilers: General season four.
Status: Complete
Summary: Three very short fics that took a combined total of an hour, all of which were prompted by unreckless  and her iTunes playlist. A study of Dean's mental resistance to being a vessel of God, fantasies and half-formed regrets on the open road, and the development of Pamela's powers.

--

( Under the cut, yo. )

Wheee, dark!fic time! I love you, hell mythology. Even when everything else about the mytharc is bleh, I still love you. So! Er, this is not appropriate for...anybody. It's basically just Dean-whumping of the most sadistic and gory kind I've written to date. That's hell for ya, though. Oh god, I really shouldn't write things about hell when I've been awake (and writing papers) for four days straight. I'm sorry in advance.

Title: Send Lazarus to My Father's House
Rating: M for violence and dark themes
Pairing: None
Spoilers: 4.10 Heaven and Hell
Status: Complete
Summary: Four months in hell is a long time, and what doesn't bend breaks.

Dear Walt Whitman,

DIAF.

Fuck you,
Bea

Postscript - I guess you can just escape with some minor second-degree burns, Dickinson. But watch yourself.

So...I was dying of boredom in my Latin review session tonight. Instead of oh, I don't know, listening, I decided to doodle these little things on the back of my flashcards. Have six wee SPN comics. I'm sorry.

Title: Notecard Comics
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: OMIGOD YES. Through 4.09 I Know What You Did Last Summer.
Warnings: Stick figures. Stick figures cussing. Stick figures having sex. Exasperated stick figure angels.

Teaser:




( I get way too much pleasure out of drawing those tiny little angel wings. )

Title: Monster Ballads
Rating: PG for language
Pairing: None
Spoilers: Vague through the third season.
Status: Complete
Note: This is an AU written per unreckless's instructions: Mary died in 1979, Sam never existed at all, and Dean was the Demon's chosen child. Also, there had to be voodoo dolls made out of pears. Yeah, I don't get her either. Anyway, title and quote are from the Josh Ritter song of the same name.
Summary: You never get used to it, Dad would say. You never get used to it, but sometimes it has to be done.

 

( Dean sets down a tiny human-shaped figure made out of woody unripe pear, then picks up another piece of fruit. )

So I’m pretty sure this idea’s been done to death. But I still wanna, you know? Just so I can go “yay, I wrote apocafic!” and all. And if there was ever a better time to do it in the SPN canon, I don’t know. Hope you enjoy!

Title: wooden nickle's pride
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: None
Spoilers: 3.16 No Rest for the Wicked
Status: Complete
Summary: He almost stopped then and there, once he saw what was happening. It was enough to give him pause, even with the overarching goal of retrieving Dean from hell looming.

You know the 20Q games, right? The kind where the little electronic device asks you twenty questions and then tells you what you were thinking of? Well, I decided to play one I found online. After a few inane games, I decided to try and make the wee little game guess something inappropriate. (Don't look at me like that. I'm a college student. It's what we do. >D)

The result was something like this:

20Q: Question 1: Animal, mineral, vegetable, other, or unknown?
Bea: *clicks other*
20Q: Question 2: Is it larger than a breadbox?
Bea: *clicks no*
...
...
...
20Q: Question 20: Is it warm?
Bea: Heh. *clicks yes*
20Q: I know what you were thinking of!
Bea: Oh? *clicks continue*
20Q: You were thinking of...bratwurst!
Bea: BAHAHAHA. *clicks no*
20Q: Oh. Try again! Question 21: Does it like to be held?
Bea: Kekeke. *clicks yes*
20Q: Question 22: Does a cowboy use it?
Bea: Depends on the context, I suppose. *clicks sometimes*
20Q: I know what you were thinking of!
Bea: I'm sure. *click continue*
20Q: You were thinking of...a hotdog!
Bea: AHAHAHAHAHAHA <3. *clicks no*
20Q: Oh. Try again! Question 23: Does it get bigger and smaller?
Bea: OMIGOD. *clicks yes gleefully*
20Q: I know what you were thinking of!
Bea: Please, enlighten me. *clicks continue*
20Q: You were thinking of...something your mother would not approve of!
Bea: \o/!!! *clicks yes while laughing her ass off*
20Q: Told you I could read your mind! ...Play again?

And it showed me a bucket and a scrubby brush when it guessed the last time. Oh, game. I love you so much. <3333

SO. You'll never guess what happened to me today. Well, maybe you will, BUT PROBABLY NOT.

For those of you who don't know, a brief overview of my university life: I am an English major in OU's Honors Tutorial College. HTC is a tiny (about 300 students total) outshoot of OU's larger student body, designed to give smartasses honors students who care more about grades than life a personal, intensive program focusing on their individual interests. It eliminates prerequisites and core classes from their schedules and instead puts "tutorials" or one-on-one classes with a highly qualified professor in their place. Very cool, but tons of hard work for the students. My current tutorial is taught by my director of studies in her area of expertise: medieval English literature. There are four people in the entire course--me and three freshmen. We meet in the history-philosophy-classics-English building, Ellis Hall. (A common hall, not particular to HTC.)

On to the good part.

I was in a two-person tutorial in my professor's office today at about 12:50. We have a midterm due in two days, so we only had to bring questions over this week's book instead of the customary five-page paper. She asked me why I disliked Troilus for Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde so much and as I was blustering through my answer, a piercing cacophony erupted above out heads. I fairly yelped, and Eden (the girl who was in tutorial with me) jumped. Dr. D barely blinked.

It was the fire alarm. All around us I heard people coming out of their offices, saying "Is this for real?" and "Should we go outside?" Eden and I packed our stuff to go (tutorial was scheduled to end at 1pm anyway), and Dr. D said, "No, wait, it's nothing. They would email us if it was anything serious." She checked her email and there were no new messages. So she asked Eden her opinion on Troilus.

Now, we're kinda shouting to be heard over the siren, right? And I can hear people evacuating. I keep waiting for the alarm to turn off and Dr. D to dismiss us--but instead, she decides to go on a soliloquy about how Troilus is actually Chaucer's ideal romantic hero. I can't even really hear her over the siren (despite the fact that she's only two feet away), and my entire body is kinda spasming at this point due to the panic brought on by sitting under an impossibly loud siren for an extended period of time.

Finally she looks at her watch, realizes that it's 1:15pm (yes, a quarter of an hour AFTER we were supposed to be dismissed and TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES after the alarm had first started going off) and lets us go. At this point I shout that I hope there actually is a fire, as this will make a great anecdote. Dr. D tells us to come back up to the third floor and get her if there are a bunch of people standing around outside (her tone implying that obviously no one would be foolish enough to do that since this is simply a drill).

We step out into the hallway  only to be assaulted by the ever-louder alarm. (My eyes are watering at this point.) We head to the stairwell and see that there are a couple hundred nervous-looking people standing outside--just outside the police tape. We run back upstairs to get Dr. D and she poo-poos us and heads back into her office.

So Eden and I make a break for it and discover that the reason the building had been evacuated was there was a bomb threat. A BOMB THREAT, PEOPLE. AND THE POLICE THOUGHT EVERYONE HAD EVACUATED ALREADY. So Eden and I come spilling out of the doors and people are all like "OMG WHY WERE YOU STILL IN THE BUILDING?!" And we were all like "WE WERE IN TUTORIAL! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH OF OUR OVERALL GPA THAT'S WORTH?"

Yes.

Uh-huh.

HTC: WE'RE FUCKING HARDCORE.