magibrain: Hope you like eels. It's EEL SEASON out there. (It's EEL SEASON.)
Someone please tell me not to cross over White Collar, Live Arcade, Magic for Beginners (the short story, not the entire collection), and Candle Cove. At least, tell me not to try it until I've finished some of my other projects.

I just think it would be terrific, slightly-brain-melty fun to have Neal up at odd hours, watching a television show nestled in the snow of a dead channel or twenty, which seems to keep predicting, altering, or crossing over with Neal's life, but which no one else can see.

In related news, wow has my mental image of Neal's loft deviated from the actual set. I could have sworn that couch was red and claw-footed.


[ETA: Okay, and now it also wants to be an Alphas crossover (on a more literal than thematic level), and it is entirely the fault of this fic.]


[ETA 2: Son Of ETA: Oh, brain, we're also crossing over Dangan Ronpa? Oh, so we're also crossing over Dangan Ronpa.]
magibrain: Hope you like eels. It's EEL SEASON out there. (It's EEL SEASON.)
So, searching around in my drafts folder, trying to find something to jump-start my brain out of a dry spell, I came across a file titled creepsteriffic.rtf that I don't remember creating. There is no summary in this file. I have left no notes to myself. I don't know where I was going with it. What it does contain is the header template form, and the following text:

I'd probably go with 'wrong', personally. But then, I am duly chastised. )

...

...

...other things in my drafts folder – my SG-1 drafts folder, mind, not some random drafts folder I might store formatting data in: a file called temp.rtf which consists of 2391 words of Lorem Ipsum, closed with the line "And as it turned out, THEY WERE ALL BEES!!"
magibrain: A radiation symbol. It appears to be a little bit on fire. (Default)
Title: U is for Unheimlich
Author: magistrate ([personal profile] magibrain)
Rating: T.
Genre: Character study, ghost story
Beta: Walked away.
Continuity: Canon-compliant.
Prerequisities: Doesn't really relate to any specific episode.
Summary: It's all ghost stories, sir.
Disclaimer: Stories told to certain audiences may have unanticipated results. Hear that, MGM? The opinions expressed herein are the properties of the characters and not of R. L. Stine. The door is open. Questions, comments and creepypasta can be left in replies or directed to magistrata(at)gmail(dot)com. Thank you for reading!

Author's Notes: This is 9,000 words. I don't know why it's 9,000 words. All I know is that I started out writing this the day I got the prompt, and yet somehow I still found myself finishing in a desperate throw-words-at-the-page rush at 2 AM the day it was due. WHY.

I'm sorry if this is absolutely incoherent.




Not exactly a ghost story. )
magibrain: A radiation symbol. It appears to be a little bit on fire. (Default)
My partner introduced me to the WTFery of Dark Silent Hill, Google Maps version. (Just... go forward.)

Now I want a fic where this happens to Peter and Neal. They're just driving along, off to talk to a witness or examine a crime scene or authenticate a statue or whatever, and then suddenly the entire world around their car is a terrifying melting Goya and Peter slams on the brakes and, you know, horror ensues.

...I'm not sure I want to write this fic, but I want it to happen.


I have no idea what the hell happened to that Google Maps car. But it cannot possibly have been anything good.
magibrain: Hope you like eels. It's EEL SEASON out there. (It's EEL SEASON.)
Awesome! I think I've found a three-part strategy for approaching H/C Bingo. Those three parts are:

  1. Start as many fics as possible all at once, just to make sure I'm always distracted from finishing any of them,

  2. Make sure that the fics I am working on are carefully positioned to cover the maximum possible space on my card without actually forming a bingo, and

  3. Layer more complexity and plot into each fic than is strictly necessary to fulfill the prompt, so that each one takes a long time to complete, and will surely need extensive edits once done in draft.


...I don't think I'm doing this right.

(To be fair, though, I feel like 2 isn't actually my fault, 3 has not been intentional in half the fics, and 1 is just how my brain works anyway. But re: 3, I started off writing the Poltergeist prompt, and then it decided to absorb two other prompts that aren't even on my card, and as it stands the thing is 6000 messy words and maybe, at a generous estimate, 60% done. It's going to be longer than Misfire. That's just wrong.)

Stats )
magibrain: This alt text intentionally left blank. (This icon intentionally left blank.)
Back in 2007, for reasons which I'm sure made sense at the time, I got the idea to write a fic with Jack Harkness of Torchwood and Sam Tyler of Life on Mars in a bar together, and then furthermore to email it to [personal profile] rionaleonhart without explanation to see what she would do. As it turned out, because Riona is Riona (and because the fic was probably her fault in one way or another to begin with), she calmly beta'd it and sent it back.

That, I think, may have been throwing down the gauntlet.

Because there's something you have to understand about me, and that's that 70%* of my fiction writing is spite-based. A friend believes that I can't write slash? Here is the Doctor having sex with the Master. And also the TARDIS. Riona says a Silent Hill 2/House MD crossover where Chase is James Sunderland is the most frightening idea ever and she should not write it? I write it. Stargate SG-1 decides to be completely simplistic with issues of character death, the nature of identity, and memory? Here is 140,000 words deconstructing that by implication. And then there was the Silent Hill crossover meme, which was basically a (lighthearted, mutually-respectful, and mutually-gleeful) pissing contest with [livejournal.com profile] jantalaimon over who could write the most, or weirdest, crossover drabblets with Silent Hill. (Among my proudest accomplishments: Winnie the Pooh, The Sims, and Tetris.)

*Completely arbitrary estimate

So I think there's a certain amount of archaeological evidence** to suggest that I started Damaged People purely to see what it would take to get Riona to go "What on earth are you doing, you crazy person?"

**Not in any way archaeological

Which is how I ended up writing what I call "A massively multifandom accidental epic following Sam Tyler (Life On Mars) and Jack Harkness (Doctor Who and Torchwood) on their misadventures, as they explore the galaxy, almost destroy some worlds, and barely save others."

How multifandom, and how epic?

Well, as of the time of this posting, I've written most of the first of a planned three arcs (1: Jack and Sam cavorting around the galaxy; 2: Series 1 of Torchwood, rewritten, expanded, and made more weird; 3: Sam Tyler saves the galaxy), and it's up to 100k words. And the thing's spawned a sequel. It's also up to 22 fandoms the last time I counted, and I keep shoving more in whenever I find a spare corner. (Lie To Me is on the waiting list, for example, and will be added as soon as a compatible plot comes up. Sherlock is in much the same position.) Among the fandoms I've managed to wedge in: Stargate: SG-1, Global Frequency, Pirates of the Caribbean, Google's April Fools jokes, Withnail and I, Avatar: The Last Airbender, Top Gear, and Cube 2: Hypercube.

The story is told mostly from Sam's perspective, with occasional dips into Jack's, so it's unintentionally organized so that if you're familiar with both series of Life on Mars and series one of Torchwood, you're generally only ever as confused as Sam is. Which, you know, can often be Rather Confused.

Anyway! I'm beginning the process of mirroring everything from its original home at [livejournal.com profile] damageverse to its parallel home at [community profile] damaged_people. If you're interested in my one grand voluntary foray into slash and multifandom crossovers, I invite you to take a look. It's wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey, occasionally extremely sketchy, ranges from pure gen to explicit with warnings and back again, and it will probably never be finished, but new stuff should keep appearing from time to time.
magibrain: "Did they have morality majors at your school?" "No." (Don't ask me; I was not a morality major)
1) The one where the first time Sam uses the Goa'uld ribbon device it scrambles her neural pathways and leaves her without access to the linguistic portions of her brain for a few days, and the team has to find a way to bring her through it.

2) The one where something goes horribly wrong with Sha're's pregnancy, her body absorbs the Harcesis, and Amonet goes into a Goa'uld coma, leaving Sha're with the genetic memory of the Goa'uld and a position of power in Apophis' empire, and ends up becoming a fake System Lord/replacement main character for Absolute Power.

3) The one where Hammond comes in to the SGC one morning only to find that SG-1 has taken over the place and are playing some weird four-faction game of cat and mouse because one or more of them is under alien influence, but no one is sure who.

4) The one where Sam and Daniel fall through the Rift into S1-era [livejournal.com profile] beyondtherift and get dragged into Torchwood Chicago for three years before the Rift establishes a two-way connection back to the SGC, where only a few months have passed, and Jack O'Neill and Jack Harkness eye each other a lot and are quietly mistrustful because no one should get that close to/have that much power over their people without them knowing about it. (Okay, this one I have bits written out of in my braintics file, but come on. IT WOULD HAVE A READERSHIP OF ONE PERSON. ME.)

5) The one that comes before Scales.

[ETA] 6) The one where they discover a dialect of Goa'uld which exhibits rhyming slang and Daniel just doesn't want to explain.
magibrain: A radiation symbol. It appears to be a little bit on fire. (Default)
Down on the wasteland, barely distinguished from the dry soil around it, there was a dusty-gold body. Timon only noticed when the buzzards descended; they'd been circling for hours now, and the moment the first one dropped down his attention was caught.

"Ey, Pumbaa," he said, tugging on his ride-slash-mount's ears. The warthog pulled his head up, pausing mid-prance. "Over there. Looks like some poor guy didn't make it."

Pumbaa snorted. "Look at 'em, the bullies," he said, nodding toward the carrion birds. "Can't kick a rock without seeing one these days."

"Talk about your bad neighbourhoods," Timon said. "Hey! You know what this calls for...."

"Heh hehh," Pumbaa agreed. Timon leaned down, giving him a good Giddy-up! slap between his eyes.

"Let's get 'em."

-

It would be a mistake to say that the buzzards didn't know what hit them. They were smart birds, if unimaginative; after the third or forth time even they'd put two and two together. Timon and Pumbaa weren't making many friends, but the buzzards had better things to do than pursue the enmity. The flapped away, leaving Team Meerkat-And-Warthog victorious once again.

"I love it!" Pumbaa chortled. "Bowling for buzzards!"

"Gets 'em every time," Timon said, dusting himself off. "Now, let's see what we chased 'em off, maybe give the guy a proper--" He trailed off. "Burial," he finished, staring in confusion at the empty wasteland. "...huh."

He'd never known buzzards to attack empty ground. Maybe they'd been out in the sun too long?

-

It was the contrast that caused Simba to wake.

He'd been thirsty and hot and struggling to breathe the hot air; he was still thirsty but he was colder than he'd ever been, and he was struggling to breathe because the air was full of something that looked like smoke and wasn't smoke.

It was dark, but it wasn't dark like night. It was dark like thunderstorms but the sky was quiet; everything was quiet except for the creaking of dying bushes and the groans of settling skeletons and the scrabbling of rats in the boneyard.

Why was he in the boneyard?--hadn't he made it out?

"Nala!" he called, and that struck him as wrong; he remembered getting out, because Mufasa had come to rescue them. "Dad!" he yelled, and that was wrong too--and as soon as he called, he knew why.

From far away, like an echo or imagined thing, came his father's dying roar. Simba cringed, small and afraid among the dry bones. He was lost here, alone, and the clouds were getting darker. Back the way he must have come, back toward the bluffs that ringed the Pride Lands, all he could see were thick brambles with thorns like reaching claws.

When the roar subsided something else replaced it, something angry and hungry and mercifully far away. "Dad," Simba said again, to the bones, to the fog, to nothing. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."


BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT YOU DO TO CHARACTERS YOU LIKE. YOU SEND THEM TO SILENT HILL.
magibrain: A radiation symbol. It appears to be a little bit on fire. (Default)
Title: And What Art
Rating: M.
Genre: Darkfic, psychefuck.
Beta: HAHAHA No.
Continuity: Post-The Last Of The Time Lords for Doctor Who, and weirdly AU for Life On Mars.
Prerequisites: Know about Sam Tyler, know about the events of Utopia, The Sound Of Drums and The Last Of The Time Lords.
Summary: It's got to the point where Sam no longer knows whether he's losing or finding himself.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Life On Mars belong to the BBC. The opinions expressed herein are the properties of the characters and only occasionally of William Blake. Fic contains small parts not suitable for children and unpleasant parts not suitable for anyone. Do not look directly into face of watch. Questions, comments and tissue-compression eliminators can be left in replies or directed to magistrata(at)gmail(dot)com. Thank you for reading!

The drums, the drums, the neverending drums!--open me, you human fool; open the light and receive my majesty... )

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