Incarnations (a.k.a. A Legacy Story for Doctor Who Day)

At one point in their lives, both my parents were Time Lords. Well not just Time Lords, the same Time Lord.

            As in all things, my mother went first. Katherine Canavar joined Doctor Who in 2027 as the fifteenth incarnation. Her costume was not completely unlike her personal style: brown leather dress and crimson shawl. She did make her hair more extravagant, darkening the natural red and curling it.

            "For my look, I turned to past companions," she explained in an interview once. "I settled on the sexy savagery of Leela with Mel's fiery head of hair."

            Her performance was described as Earth Mother, a look that was generally agreed as being very new for the role. Nevertheless she managed to strike a balance between witchy and alien, moving about the TARDIS like it was her own walk-in crucible.

            The most recurring villains for her time were the Autons.

            "It just made sense," she said. "My Doctor couldn't stand the unnatural getting in the way of the natural. She was a true environmentalist surrounded by plastic fakery. Of course, she would try to recycle it into something better."

            In 2032 she regenerated into my father. Bilal Zaro not only met Canavar on set, he did so in the same outfit as her.

            "The shawl doesn't suit," she remarked, "but the dress matches the brown of your eyes."

            He would have laughed more had he not been so nervous. My Dad was a consummate professional but still this was his favourite show from childhood. His first Doctor had been Matt Smith but my Mum had never really followed the show before or even much after.

            "You'll be fine," she told him. "The fans will be glad testosterone has finally returned."

            At this my Dad did laugh. "Not quite what I'm going for."

            As the sixteenth incarnation, Zaro was much quieter than most of the previous Doctors, Canavar especially. He preferred tinkering with machinery to talking and made a fraction of the rousing speeches that his immediate predecessor had.

            His eventual costume featured Paddington-inspired toggle coats and glasses with extra microscopic lenses. The majority of his adventures came to feature the Doctor discovering a piece of tech that he fiddled with until the third act where its use became apparent. He needed an intellectual sparring partner and, with the Master on a well-earned rest, the Rani returned.

            "Part of me thinks that the show runners saw an opportunity with my casting," he once mentioned to me. "An actual Asian in the TARDIS to make the Hindu Queen relevant and not racially offensive. However I was raised Muslim and I'm not even that anymore."

            When my Dad called Mum up for advice on the role, they got to talking about a lot more than method. To this day Mum insists that she asked Dad out.

            The announcement of their love affair was, of course, a coup in both fandom and media. Mum basked in it, but Dad was far more reserved. He was still in the role after all and already had to contend with remarks that Mum was the far better Doctor. And yet this only proved a point of contention long after he had given up the role and I was born.

            "It was your fifth birthday when we had the idea," Mum explained when I was in my early teens. "Your Dad and I still had our respective sonic screwdrivers from our times on the show."

            Dad shook his head. "I knew it was a bad idea from the start."

            Mum shushed him. "It was a symbolic gift-giving."

            "And an experiment."

            She rolled her eyes. "We gave you them at roughly the same time to see which you would play with more."

            "And?" I asked.

            Mum glanced at Dad. He sighed.

            "Your screwdriver was more tactile. Of course a toddler would want to play with it."

            "Yours was too simple."

            "It was a classic design! Like Troughton's!"

            She turned to me. "You didn't let go of my screwdriver for the rest of the day."

            "Well, yes. It was firmly wedged between the girl's teeth."

            Mum nodded. "I should have taken it off you sooner."

            "A choking hazard."

            "A choking hazard that would have paid for your college education. And then some."

            I had just started college when I truly began to see my parents for who they were. I had also watched their respective runs on the show without them eagerly pointing at the screen whenever they subtly emoted or delivered a brilliant line.

            Their performances did actually speak a lot to their personal characters. The fifteenth Doctor was more than a little hammy and you could always hear her coming. I couldn't go anywhere in the house without hearing Mum mangling Dusty Springfield from the kitchen.

            The sixteenth Doctor was a little unsettling with his small gestures and rarely saw people for the pieces of the puzzle they held in their hand. I stopped bringing friends over for dinner when Dad interrogated Tina about her dental degree studies.

            You would think I would have instead focused on the seventeenth Doctor and all who came after her but, well, I honestly couldn't get into the show. Of course, that revelation made uni life fun: the theme’s sting playing whenever I walked into common rooms. I should never have told Julio on that first night in halls. I always made sure the place was empty before allowing my parents to pick me up in the holidays.

            In that time though the cracks that I'd tried my best to ignore finally spread through their relationship.

            "We need time apart," Dad said. Still he was holding his head in his hands. "It's just your Mum doesn't let up about the roles I choose. She keeps interfering with my career. I know she doesn't mean to, but she does."

            Mum's side of the story was inevitably different: "I don't like his silences anymore. He doesn't realise how hard it is for a woman my age to find work. The conventions are a boon. I just wish he understood and gave them a try."

            When the split was official, the media had long since moved on. A borderline incestuous sci-fi romance wasn't so interesting when the stars had faded.

            They managed to be civil even after all was said and done. Mum kept living on the convention circuit, Dad found plenty of character work on ITV primetime.

            And while I very much remain a postgraduate History student, I have finally succumbed to acting. Julio managed to mount a student production of the lesser-known stage show Doctor Who: The Ultimate Adventure. Though there were many contenders for the lead, he firmly believed that no-one would be more appropriate than the lovechild of two canonical Doctors. My costume borrowed Mum's crimson shawl and Dad's specialised glasses. I picked my own sonic screwdriver design though.

            They watched from the audience together, laughing, crying, squabbling over whose acting method mine best resembled. And I watched them in turn, wondering at which point I stopped being a midpoint between the two of them and became the next incarnation of myself.

____________________________________________

This is a fan fiction story about Doctor Who. All rights to characters and concepts mentioned are reserved by the BBC and relevant parties.

The Talk (a.k.a. Part Three of My 2020 Trilogy of Halloween Tales)

 

Two short taps and one scrape of a nail against the door.

            "Come in, Mr Almond," Peter says.

            A man with a green tinge to his skin enters. He clutches his thick hands together. "Hope you don't mind, Peter? I realise I haven't caught you at the best of times."

            Peter doesn't reply, just sits up and makes room at the foot of his bed. 

            Mr Almond perches on the spot, briefly entranced by October's gloom as framed by the boy's window. With a curt breath, he returns to the moment.

            "You remember the last time we hung out, Peter?"

            "At the park?"

            "Yes. We were talking and then you saw a couple of girls on the swings." Mr Almond offers a toothy smile. "You got lost there for a moment, didn't you?"

            Peter shrugged. "Kinda."

            "You said her name was Mona, the strawberry blonde. You seemed quite taken with her. Definitely her...developments." Seeing Peter's frown, Mr Almond sighs. "Her breasts, Peter."

            'You were looking?'

            "Not intentionally. I just followed your eyeline."

            Peter's posture stiffens. "What's wrong with Mona?" 

            Mr Almond catches his eye. "It's alright, Peter. I get it. I went through the exact same experience that you are now. It was a long, long time ago but essentially the same. New excitement. Girls changing shape. Impure thoughts. To be honest I saw it coming when you started spending more time with Mark and Adam. Which is also fine. You boys are facing the exact same discoveries. You need each other's support."

            "But..."

            Mr Almond raises the hand with the long black nails on it. "A moment, Peter. This is a tricky subject, yes? I have to remember how it was said to me before I can figure out how to say it to you." He shakes his head. "There were lots of restrictions back then. Times have very much changed."

            Mr Almond clutches his bony knees and exhales.

            "Look, you know I'm going to eat you next year. Your parents and I told you how it works: when you're of age, I'll need your virgin blood to stay alive. All of it. And that's just it: virgin." Mr Almond takes another curt breath, well-practised. "Now I don't want to be the bad guy here but I know there are certain pressures coming from Mark and Adam. Big talk about who has slept with who, eh? Still none of you have exactly fornicated, now have you?”

            Peter opens his mouth. Mr Almond gestures it closed.

            "But therein lies the danger, Peter. While you chaps keep egging each other on, someone's bound to slip up and lose that precious virginity. And I really don't want it to be you. I really don't want all the years of hard work your parents have put in to making you a fine, upstanding sacrifice to be wasted. I don't want any of you to be wasted. Because then I'll just be devouring three sexually-experienced men and that would taste disgusting." Mr Almond sticks out a forked tongue and grimaces. "Do you hear what I'm saying?"

            Peter nods. "I'll try."

            "I know you'll try," Mr Almond says, reaching for Peter's shoulder but remembering the germs. "But boys will be boys and I really don't want to have to devour Mona too. She seems nice and not a part of this at all. Don't you agree?"

            Peter nods again. "Yes, Mr Almond."

            "You just focus on your education and having good clean fun with Mark and Adam and all will be well. When the big day comes you might briefly regret not having sex but..." Mr Almond shrugs. "Then you're gone."

            "Gone," Peter replies robotically.

            "Quick and clean, I promise. And don't forget I'm here to talk if you ever need me." He rises to his looming height. "I may not be one of your mates but I'm not like your parents either. You can talk to me. Understood?"

            "Yes." Peter is already turning away.

            Mr Almond claps his hands together. "Okay, Peter. I'll say hello to Mark and Adam for you."

            Having closed the door, the green-tinged man produces a small bottle of hand sanitizer from his grey wide sleeve and wipes the darkening wrinkles of his palm. Floating downstairs, he passes Peter's mother.

            "Peter understands," he says as she holds the front door open for him. "I will return if he gets confused again. You know how it is. Sometimes a lad needs a special confidant to get through these complications."

            "You're sure?" Peter's mother asks. 

            Mr Almond winks both crimson eyes. "It'll only be for a couple more months.” He then drifts down the garden path.

            "Where are you going now?" Peter's mother asks as he rests a hand on the latch of the gate. A blast of chill wind catches Mr Almond naked throat where the skin is most tender. He reaches up to cover it.

            "To Adam and then Mark." He lets out a gasping laugh. "In situations like this, it's important to visit all the lambs as fast as you can." Then, with a sudden whirl of grey and green, Mr Almond joins with the night.

            Back up in his room, Peter neither weeps nor warns his friends. Instead he masturbates.

Plaster and Slime (a.k.a. Part Two of My 2020 Trilogy of Halloween Tales)

I was teasing weeds from my garden fence when I heard grinding among the plant pots. These were plastic so I could only assume that something had disturbed their contents. Most of these pots were empty except for the one beside the lettuce patch. I have a terrible problem with slugs so it seemed entirely possible that one had slipped off a leaf and landed inside.

            Peering within I saw that the pot was full of colourful plaster. One of the gnomes had been wrenched loose from the soil by a gale force wind and dashed against the fence just yesterday. When the wind died down, I swept up the pieces with a dustpan and brush. It occurred to me that I might be able to do something with the plaster and so tipped it into the pot for the time being.

            In a way I was glad the slug had reminded me of the shattered gnome: now I could tip it into the bin and make proper use of the pot. Still I needed to coax the slug out first. While they may destroy my lettuces, I’m not the kind of gardener who poisons. They’re just doing what comes natural to them.

            I grabbed the lip of the pot and was about to turn it when I noticed a large chunk of gnome shift all on its own. It was the red cap, showing the white of the plaster beneath the paint. I watched as a slimy black limb wound itself around this then yank it deeper within the pot.

            I took a step back. Something odd was going on here and I wasn’t sure I wanted to see. As I took a moment to catch my breath, the internal grinding picked up again. It grew so loud that I worried that the harpy next door would poke her nose over the fence and screech at me.

            When shame overrode my irrational fear, I reached out for the plant pot again, this time with the toe of my boot. It only took a tiny nudge to tip the whole thing over. Still the grinding continued, much louder than before.

            I glanced inside and saw the cracked bits and pieces of the gnome whirling around. When the plaster finally scraped past the rim, I jumped aside and reached for a trowel. What was once the crumbling white beard of the gnome stretched out like an exploratory hand. It pulled the rest of the shattered gnome’s body out of the pot; all the limbs that it once had, now serving as others. The gnome’s nose and corncob pipe had become its feet, the torso had split into two to become its legs and the legs joined together to become the torso. Wherever plaster gnome parts weren’t in use, slimy black slugs acted as connective tissue, giving the shards' impossible movement an oily elegance.

            This peculiar hybrid of slug and garden gnome pointed its beard hand at me. Dropping my trowel, I ran right out of there, pace picking up as I heard the definite scrape and clatter of plaster on paving slab behind me.

            I came back an hour later, my partner leading the way. He didn’t believe my story, of course, and I couldn’t blame him. He had to see for himself and I had to know that I wasn’t going round the bend.

            And yet, as soon as we had set out into the garden, we could find no sign of the slug gnome beast, not even in the guttering above the bins. My partner shook his head at me and went back indoors. I made one final sweep of the garden, trowel back in hand, then closed the gate that I had left open.

            Wherever the slug gnome has gone, it has at least left us in peace. It occurs to me that this beast may not have actually meant any harm. Even so I refuse to say I overreacted.

            I certainly refuse the suggestion that throwing out the plant pot was a waste of valuable materials. To that I say, valuable to whom exactly?

Inhospitable (a.k.a. Part One of My 2020 Trilogy of Halloween Tales)

Little red specks on my ceiling fan. Could be blood but I can't get up there to check, not since my hip replacement.

            You can't say anything to her upstairs. Well, she's young, pretty. A little disturbed, I think. One day I passed her in the hallway and I swear I've never seen skin look so sickly white. She wouldn't say a word to me. I don't think she even could. Something to do with addiction probably.

            The blood isn't the only thing, of course. More worrying are the strange moans that I can hear in the middle of the night. I never see any suitors go up, like you’d expect, so I suppose she’s alone. Then again the other voices are far too deep and real to just be her pretending, unless she’s got one of those megaphones that change pitch and tone. Still what would possess a young woman to go round behaving like that in her own flat?

            It's absolutely broken my sleep pattern but I've had to deal with her like before. This block has seen so many damaged young’uns pass through. Usually they start off well-mannered but then they go off their medication and start acting up.

            The lad who lived there before her had similar troubles though he scraped the floorboards with his well-bitten fingernails. It was horrific to see him being carted out like that, screeching through a foaming mouth. Definitely burned in my memory. God forbid if it happened again.

             I have thought about packing it all in, moving out but where would I find such a reasonably-priced studio with a view like this one? The woods look so striking this time of year. It’s all well and good to have pity but you also need to know when to stand your ground.

            I don't think it'll be long before this girl leaves. I just hope she hasn't lost too much blood by then. I'm an old woman: don't think I could see another child leave in pain.

            Maybe it’s time for a holiday if nothing else. These days we only ever seem to have stormy nights with lashing rain and howling wind. It's not at all good for the temperament.

            Oh. She's gone quiet. I'll just sneak into bed while it's still like this. You’ve got to be quick to get a peaceful night’s sleep around here.

            Still, as I touch the light switch, there it is again: drip, drip, drip on my ceiling fan.

            Lord above. What must be going on up there?

Horror Anthologies for Great Causes (a.k.a. Making Use of the Darkness)

While in lockdown I've been fairly productive. 2020 is my Year of Horror Anthologies and how appropriate it is that they're both available by Halloween!

The first book is Darkness: An Anthology of Dark and Twisted Tales from Twisted Fate Publishing. It is a collection of stories ranging from unsettling science fiction to dark fantasy, two of which are mine. I collaborated with six other talented writers and contributed to the editing process.

All proceeds go to the Mind in aid of men's health.

You can find the relevant Amazon link here. 

The second book is It Came From the Darkness (noticing a pattern here?) from Red Cape Publishing and Phillip Rogers PR 101. It is an even bigger collection of horror flash fiction, all using the title for the first line of their work. I only have one story in this but it's a little bit different.

All proceeds go to the Max the Brave Fund.

You can find the relevant Amazon link here. 

So that's some of my dark side in print! At least it's for a worthy cause...😉

Idle Pretention (a.k.a. Learning from My Lazy Student Days)

 After a bit of a tidy-up, my Mum found this sheet.

 

Holes with Flaps was a story that I wrote during my time at university. It was part of a flash fiction collection that I submitted for a short story module.

            The story itself is curious but re-reading the rather faint pencilled comment from the marking tutor really struck me. For one thing it is a rather generous critique for a flimsy and thematically embarrassing piece of writing but it also includes two words that have followed me around for many years. These are ‘poignant’ and ‘ambiguous’.

            ‘Poignant’ is one of my favourite adjectives to describe anything that makes me go hmm. Unfortunately it took me a couple of years to actually learn its precise definition, which is a strong and often sad effect of feelings. Here I was thinking it meant incredibly intelligent. Must have got it mixed up with ‘profound’.

            Nevertheless I have always intended to write stories that are poignant and profound. This is a foolhardy endeavour but has taken me just over a decade to realise the fact. I had an inkling as far back as 2010 that what I was putting to paper wasn’t quite as clever as I hoped it would be. Indeed my love of quirks and gimmicks in fiction doesn’t necessarily lend itself well to writing in the styles of Raymond Carver or Alice Munro. I tried regardless and had some occasional successes, Holes with Flaps not being one of them. Prior to rediscovering this sheet, I had all but forgotten the story.

            The other adjective ‘ambiguous’ is precisely the reason why these stylistic experiments rarely worked. Not enough meat on the bone. At university I learnt that the coolest short stories were the ones that were plain-speaking with short punchy sentences that only highlighted details the reader absolutely needed to know. I came to overlook the nuance of clear character development and mood-changing setting description. I neglected playing with a unique idea over multiple paragraphs, for fear that explanation would counteract a Hemingway-like honesty.

            While ambiguity was the common complaint, only I knew what it really was: laziness. Pure and simple sloth. I didn’t want to put in the hard work to make a story truly meaningful and memorable, I just wanted it to stand out. And it did though usually for all the wrong reasons. Oh sure, there was a poignance to some of those stories but it lacked depth and definition. In fact, you could say that there was a big ambiguous hole in my stories that was disguised with a thin flap of poignant expression.

            Now it’s not for me to say if I have developed much as a writer since then but I like to think I pad my stories better. If there are any conceptual tears, I try to sew them up and hide the stitching. It’s a lot of work but worth it. With every story I write now, I actively move away from idle pretention. It would be lovely one day to write something that combines gimmick, genre, philosophy and simplicity; something that sticks in a reader’s mind. Still that could take years. Another decade perhaps.

            Once upon a time I persevered blindly. I genuinely thought that stories like Holes with Flaps were erudite and enlightened. Since then I have added observation and self-awareness to that perseverance. I still create tales that fail to connect but I learn from them. That is the wonderful thing about keeping on with creativity through one’s life. You slowly shrug off idle pretention and grow up.

Out in the World with a Chunky Blue Jotter (a.k.a. What Actually Happens When You Write in Public Places)

Pub

I grabbed a seat in a busy pub and waited for a friend. He wasn’t late, I was early. Still I was concerned we wouldn’t be able to hear each other over the laddish din. Even the short bar stools were occupied by people spilling their pints on the varnished circular tables.

            Across from me sat three lads sharing a phone. One in a maroon rugby jersey was holding off about some ‘fat bird’ he knew in his nasal Geordie accent. He thumped the shoulder of the lad who was holding the phone, seemingly just for the hell of it.

            By this point I had taken out my chunky blue jotter and was distracting myself with a jokey story about the Trolley Problem.

            It took the Geordie lad a moment to notice this. “Harry Potter over here,” he muttered. He meant the glasses as that was the only similarity between me and the boy wizard.

            “Hey, mate,” he said. “What you writing?”

            “Something for work,” I lied.

            “What’s it about though?”

            “Nothing of interest.”

            Though he still had on his open mouth smile he clearly wasn’t happy with that answer. “Seriously though, what you writing?”

            I paused and looked him in the eye. “Work, you know?”

            He would have asked a third time had the phone holder not thumped him back. It occurred to me the Geordie lad thought I was writing about him and his mates or maybe even the ‘fat bird’ they just had been discussing. Perhaps I should have been more open and honest but I really wasn’t in the mood to justify myself to a nosy bar fly.

            My friend arrived shortly after that and supplanted himself between me and Geordie lad who had fortunately lost all interest. He announced to the whole pub that they would move on to a nearby alehouse and make a proper night of it. I was glad to see him go.

            A frustrating experience but, most frustrating of all, I didn’t get back to my story. The Trolley Problem had run away without me.

Café

I hid away in a café that itself was hiding from the high street. I settled at a granite top table beside an oak staircase and ordered a hot chocolate with all the trimmings.

            Having brought my chunky blue jotter, I started outlining a plan. The idea was thin, about a printer that printed dreams, but I made it work with two creative characters. Sometimes that’s all it takes to be inspired.

            The short blonde manager in a comfortable green hoodie stood behind the counter's cake display and grinned warmly at me. “Are you a writer by any chance?”

            “Yes.”

            “Is it a dissertation?”

            “No. I’m not a student.”

            “Oh. So you’re a creative writer?”

            “Yes.”

            “Excellent.” She seemed genuinely pleased. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

            Such interruptions can put me off my stroke but not that day. The sun was shining and the background chatter was moderate. Soon enough I had finished the plan and had started the story itself.

            A meeting broke up and a tall black-suited man with thinning brown hair stopped beside me.

            “Sorry to bother you but I’ve never seen anyone write so fast before.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Well. You do remind me of a lad I used to know. He had fast penmanship too. Hand-wrote his entire dissertation. Is that what you’re doing?”

            “No. I’m not a student.”

            “A creative writer then. Published?”

            “Some places. Not many.”

            Nevertheless he seemed genuinely interested. He offered me his hand to shake. “What’s your name if you don’t mind me asking?”

            I told him. He repeated it though if he was actually committing it to memory I do not know.

            “Right. Well I’ll look out for you on the shelves.”

            Another, more substantial interruption but I didn’t mind. The sun was still shining and the background chatter had diminished even further with his exit. Besides I had been rather sweetly complimented. The manager must have noticed the little smile playing on my lips as I sipped my hot chocolate.

            “Our own resident writer,” she said with a chuckle.

            I’m afraid I haven’t been back since.