Doctor Who - Schadenfreude

There are not many constants in life, Doctor Who is one of mine. Peter Davison is My Doctor, the one I enjoyed writing stories about and pretending to be when I was 8 years old. I've written some Doctor Who fan fiction before, quite indulgent, but comforting - like ferrero rocher.  

Nyssa tried very hard not to smile as The Doctor wandered crestfallen from the cricket field.
"Bad luck."
He glared at her politely and stomped off towards the Pavillion.
"Or not."
"Did you see that?" he asked "Did you see what he did? Totally inappropriate!"
"Totally." agreed Nyssa.
"Celebrating like that…"
"Entirely unsporting." she shook her head, "Can we go to the fete now? I thought that's why we were here. 'The best church fete and custard scones in the galaxy' you said."
"Well I'm certainly not going to dignify the rest of this match by watching it. Disgraceful."
The Doctor grumbled off to get changed.

"I was expecting it to be a bit more…picturesque?" said Nyssa.
The Doctor looked at the rows of vandalised cottages; here and there, dustbins burned gently. In the short half mile walk of the village main street, they had passed two ambulances and three police cars attending various incidents, including the rescue of a man who had become trapped under a grand piano he was trying to lift up some stairs.
"Yes. It has been a few years since I've visited…but all the same…"
"Look out!"
Nyssa jumped into the road, pulling an elderly lady back onto the pavement, out of the way of an out of control ice cream van.
"Oh! Thank you dear!"
"Are you alright?" asked The Doctor.
"Getting so you can't go out your front door this week."
"It's been like this all week?"
"Yes dear. At first it actually seemed rather funny, that local councillor slipped on a banana peel and fell down an open manhole, but then the really bizarre things started happening - raining frogs at rush hour or houses being hit by meteors and frozen…toilet stuff…from planes."
"So…a very unfortunate place to be then Mrs..?"
"…Pepperton."
"Delighted to meet you Mrs Pepperton. I'm The Doctor and this is Nyssa. Now, before all this started happening…was there any unusual activity, lights in the sky, that sort of thing?"
"Oh no. Nothing like that round here. Only thing that's happened in Shepley recently is them starting to build that new supermarket no one wants."
"Nothing unusual there I'm afraid Mrs Pepperton."
"They've had to stop though…since they discovered that time capsule."

Mrs Pepperton showed them into the museum.
"And it's been on show in here for the last week?" asked The Doctor.
"Yes…not much to see really. There was a big hole in it when they dug it up. A couple of little straw soldier dollies inside..."
The rusting capsule and the accompanying dolls were in a glass case in the corner of the room. The Doctor started searching through his pockets, eventually producing his sonic screwdriver. He began examining the capsule.
"A few folk think that one looks like Hitler, but I'm not convinced..." said Mrs Pepperton.
"There is definitely a malignant energy," he said.
"That's probably just the community council meeting upstairs…" said Mrs Pepperton.
Nyssa looked at the box.
"It doesn't look very old."
"It isn't," said the Doctor, "mid 1940s I'd say. There!"
"What?"
"I think I've isolated the source. Let's get back to the TARDIS and follow it back along the timeline. Back soon Mrs Pepperton."
"Be careful!" suggested Nyssa.

The TARDIS had materialised near a small forest at dusk. The Doctor and Nyssa quietly walked towards the small fire visible through the trees. Two figures moved around the flames, chanting.
"What are they doing?" asked Nyssa.
"Well...it looks like a really rather traditional black magic ritual."
"Does that require them to be naked?"
"Generally that depends on the ritual. Or the coven. Or the weather actually. We’re near midsummer. Midwinter magic usually involves a lot more robes and jumpers."
"And this dancing and chanting is actually magic?"
"Well...they certainly think it is. That’s half the battle. Come on, if we get a little closer maybe we can make out what’s really going on."
As they drew nearer, it became clear that it was two rather elderly gentlemen that were standing in the clearing.
"Hill.Ash. Land. Flesh. Baals fire ever burns. Flesh. Stone. Tree. Bone. Baals fire ever burns!"
"Oh great ones! From beyond our ken...listen to our supplication and....join us!"
There was a slightly awkward silence while nothing happened. One of the old men coughed.
"Did you bring that flask of tea Jack? My knackers are going to drop right off if I don't warm up here."
"Wilf! We’re in the middle of the summoning. And it said in the book we had to be 'skyclad' for it to work properly."
"Well its no wonder Irene didn’t come when you told her that. You’re very lucky not to have got a black eye for your trouble."
"Yes. She was a bit upset about that wasn’t she?"
"I'm not in the best of moods myself Jack! We’re supposed to be Home Guard not up in the forest playing Merlin and Mandrake with voodoo dolls."
"This is Home Guard. If we get this ritual right the war could be over by September."
The air fizzed and crackled, there was a low gurgling laugh.
"What’s that? What’s happening?"
"It’s working. It’s working! Focus on the box."
The trees shook and splintered as the laughter gave way to a manic giggling.
"It’s coming through the trees!"
"The box Wilf!"
Nyssa looked worried.
"Doctor?
"Interesting!"
"I thought magic wasn’t real. It seems to have worked."
"In a manner of speaking. Look out! Its coming."
"What is it?"
"It’s a Ghanfelik! And it looks terribly hungry!"
"A what?!"
"Ghanfelik. A sort of trans-dimensional imp. It creates bad luck and feeds on the resultant negative energy. Usually more inconvenient than evil."
There was a shriek and a muffled crunch as the huge creature stood on Jack.
"Though this one may be the exception to the rule."
Wilf ran towards them screaming, still holding the box.
"Drop the box!" shouted the Doctor "It's being dragged towards the power in the..."
Wilf was squashed nosily underfoot. The Ghanfelik glared briefly and ravenously at the Doctor and Nyssa before disappearing. The box rattled angrily, and then was still.
"Those poor men." said Nyssa.
"Yes. Well…misguided, but brave. Still, we know what we're dealing with now. So, let's get back to Shepley and sort it out."

Things had not improved in Shepley, the fire station had caught fire. Mrs Pepperton was trying to help put it out with increasingly leaky buckets of water.
"So how do we get rid of it?" asked Nyssa, dodging a randomly tossed custard pie.
"What we need is a concentration of negative energy to lure it…Mrs Pepperton, I need you to go and speak to the people in charge of the fete, I think I know how to catch it."

There were stories told about the last Shepley Fete for many years; how you couldn't win the bottle stalls, that the fortune tellers all overcharged and then gave you bad news and that the prizes in the fixed raffle were all awful. But mostly people remembered when a big green monster rampaged through the car park and squashed the local radio roadshow truck upon which the Old Folks Home display team had just started their zumba demonstration. It was chasing a man dressed in his cricket whites and a girl in a very plummy jumpsuit.
"Run…into the tarot reading tent!" shouted the Doctor.
The Ghanfelik ran after them both, disappearing into the tent, which promptly started wheezing and then collapsed entirely as the TARDIS inside disappeared.

By the time the Doctor and Nyssa returned for some of the famous Shepley Custard Scones, the town was already on the mend.
"It wasn't keen on leaving the TARDIS was it?"
"Yes, a real shame, we had to jettison so many rooms. I was very fond of that swimming pool. Still, can always build another."
"Could it really have caused all that bad luck Doctor?"
"Hmmm. Most of it. Though it would have required the folk of Shepley to give it a foothold. Mind you, I suppose it could explain my performance at the cricket match earlier. That was very unlucky."
"Hmmm. Very." said Nyssa. "Speaking of which, there's the Captain of the other team."
"Really? Being rude to someone is he?"
Nyssa pointed across the street to where the man was walking past some of the rebuilding work that was already underway on the main street of the village. As he passed a scaffold, a pot of paint toppled off, hitting him squarely on the head and covering him in light pink paint.
Nyssa silenced The Doctor's laughter with a very stern look. He gave an embarrassed cough.
"Yes. Well. Probably just some residual energy. Let's just get back to the TARDIS shall we?"
"Yes lets. Carefully."



The Sandman - "This Further Strand"

A Sandman sketch I got from the amazing Bryan Talbot
at a comic convention in the 90s.
It's not directly connected to this story, I just think its cool.

The fog had come down sudden. In a moment, the shore and the candles in the windows were lost, and only the dead dark silence of the river at night remained. The Fisherman felt sure he’d drifted for hours now, the fog still hadn’t lifted and the day had yet to break. He had gradually come to realise there would only be one way back; he’d heard the stories from the other fishermen,

You smell The River Witch’s barge long before you see it, a rotten hulk of fishbones, seaweed and shipwreck timber hauled endlessly between the two shores. And if you’ve cause to run in to the River Witch, it’s a safe bet your day is not going well and is unlikely to get better. For although she can help you back home, there’s a price to be paid.

The Fisherman did not have long to wait. The stinking broken bones of the barge tore through the fog, and there she was, squatting, smiling and waiting.
“I need to get back to the shore.” said the Fisherman.
“Oh aye. Ah daresay. But yer way aff. Waaaay aff.”
“You know the way back to shore?”
“Aye. Don’t care fur it. Mingin. People pee indoors.”
“Can you help me get there?”
“Aye nae problem. Course ah can.”
There was an awkward pause, the River Witch scratched herself.
“So...will you help me?”
“Much? Whit’s it worth to ye?”
“I’ve nothing but my nets and fish.”
“Eh. Ahm awright for nets and fish pal. How aboot anythin else ah find oan ye ah keep?”
The Fisherman held his breath as the River Witch hopped aboard and searched greedily about his boat and his person.
“Ah hah! Jist the thing,” she said, having found the purse he used for hooks and bait.
“It’s empty,” said the Fisherman, because he was an honest sort.
“Ah know it’s empty. Ahm gonnae put things in it.” said the River Witch. “Oh ho! Whits this though?”
The witch held out a small knife, with a carved oak handle. The Fisherman snatched it back. “You can’t have them both,” he said, “You told me you wanted the purse.”
“Fair dos. Fair dos.” said the River Witch, pushing some worms into the purse. “Purse it is. Fair payment. Right. Here’s whit ye dae. Fog like this...means her ladyship’s in a right mood. But! The Lady Clutha will probably let ye pass back to shore if ye bring her three things - a secret, a song and a full moon. And seeins as I like yer wee face, I’ll gie ye the full moon for practically nothing.”
“Practically nothing?”
“Aye. Ah dae need tae eat ye know. Cannae jist keep huvin fish every night. There’s guy’s over by who’ll gie me a decent meal for a guid trade.”
“What do you want for it?”
“Well ah quite liked the look o that wee knife.”
“My father gave me that knife.”
“And ah’ve got mah maws eye’s but I’d still pop wan o them oot if ah wis trading fur mah life.”
Reluctantly, the Fisherman handed her the knife.
“Ach ye’ll get another wee knife. Cheer up. Here’s some advice fur free. Roon here, the seamonster knows aw the secrets, and there’s a mermaid might sing ye a song. And just keep drifting, ye’ll find them aw in the fog. If they don’t find ye furst.”

The barge creaked back off into the fog, and the Fisherman drifted on.

It was not long before his fishing boat was shaken by something beneath the water. With more of a gentle splash than a terrifying tidal wave, a young sea serpent rose up out of the river.
“You’re...not a very big sea serpent.” said the Fisherman.
“I’m still quite new. But I could still smash your boat with my tail.”
Here, the young sea serpent swished her tail in a slightly menacing fashion.
“So you could. I need your help. Could you tell me a secret?”
“Any particular secret? Why the wind stopped whistling? Who knows best? Where is the edge of the world?”
“I don’t think it matters. You choose.”
“And what will you give me?”
“I don’t have much to give I’m afraid. Ask me anything.”
“I want you to throw your nets away,” said the sea serpent. “The river can only give so much.”
“I can’t throw my nets away, they’re my livelihood.”
The sea serpent smiled sadly.
“I see that. And I see you’re lost. Here is a secret anyway. Though it’s not one of my best.”
The sea serpent told him a secret, and the Fisherman thanked her kindly..
“If you’d thrown your nets away, I could have told you why we’re here.” she said, then she dived back into the depths.

The Fisherman drifted for a little while longer and then saw a mermaid, sitting on a rock, slicing at her silver hair with a cuttlefish bone. He rowed over to see if she would sing him a song.
“Hello. I wonder if you could help me.”
Now that he was closer, he could see the lines and wrinkles on her face.
“Oh. You don’t see too many...ehm...older mermaids.”
“No. You don’t,” said the Mermaid, “Merfolk are vain and shallow, while the Mer-King and his mer-men coutiers and ministers grow only wiser and more handsome with the passing years, mermaids are banished the day the first silver streaks our hair. Some drown broken hearted, some are killed by the sharks and some are wise enough to leave before they are told to. We swim to the secret court of the Sea Queen where even now, we prepare for war.”
“War? Really? When will that be?”
The Mermaid turned to look at the Fisherman properly.
“What do you want?”
“I’m lost, and I’m looking for gifts for the Lady Clutha so she’ll let me pass.”
“And you need a Mermaid’s song?”
“Well...yes. Would you do that for me?”
The Mermaid looked at the Fisherman’s boat.
“Throw your nets away. Too often my sisters and our daughters are tangled in the knots of the fishing boats.”
The Fisherman had thought that’s what she might say.
“I can’t throw my nets away. I need them to feed my family.”
The Mermaid nodded sadly.
“Well in that case, I’ll sing you an old song I no longer need.”
The Mermaid sang the song and caught it in a shell for the Fisherman, and he thanked her kindly.
She began to sharpen her sword with the cuttlefish, and the Fisherman sailed on.

“Now what?” he said. “Hello! Lady Clutha?”
There was only silence and fog.
Presently, another boat drifted out from the shadows, and a pale man stood aboard.
“Hello there.” said the Fisherman “Do you know where I might find the Lady Clutha?”
The pale man stared at the Fisherman for a moment before speaking.
“What business do you have with the lady of the river?”
“I’ve brought a secret, a song and a full moon. If I give them to Lady Clutha, she will let me pass through the fog back to my family.”
“I see. And who told you this...The River Witch I suppose?”
“Yes...”
“My tolerance for her games is waning,” said the pale man, “The Lady Clutha cannot help you. She is not here.”
“Where has she gone?”
“She is dreaming. And you are part of her dream.”
“I’m...in a dream?”
“Yes. The lady of this river often dreams of those poor souls she drowned. Some wreckage sometimes remains, flotsam and jetsam in the fog.”
“But I’ve brought a secret, a song and a full moon...”
“I’m sorry Fisherman. It would take much more than that for you to buy passage back to shore.”
The fog bell of the River Witch’s barge chimed through the white.
“What should I do then?”
“You have your nets. Keep fishing. Soon she will wake.”
“But...what will happen to me then?”
“A different journey.”
The boat carrying the pale man drifted on into the mists.

The Fisherman held his nets and thought of his family as the fog bell chimed again.

I'm a big fan of Neil Gaiman's The Sandman, and the work of Bryan Talbot (whose Alice In Sunderland inspired our own school project graphic novel). The story title is taken from John Davidson's Ballad in Blank Verse. But just in case you thinking I'm making it up about our river having monsters in it, check out this episode of Arthur C Clarke's Mysterious World...

The War of the Willows

From The War of the Worlds book cover gallery

In celebration of another exploration of the Martian surface and the impending arrival of autumn, a Wind in the Willows / War of the Worlds mash-up.

Summer had once again begun to give way to autumn, but the warmth of the preceding months still lingered – an old friend no one wished to leave. Yet even now, the colours and smells of the harvest had started to make themselves known. Early evenings were particularly fine, and it was on such a fine evening, the sky growing ever rosier, that Mole and Rat sat enjoying what could easily be declared the picnic of the season. Of both seasons.

The day and the picnic drew inexorably towards a close, and the two friends, perhaps still a little merry from Rat’s fine elderflower vintage, stared up into a sky rapidly filling up with stars, and talked of heady philosophical matters.

For a time there was silence, broken only briefly by the sound of birds preparing for the long journey southward.
“Look Rat!” exclaimed Mole “A shooting star!”
The green star lit up the night sky.
“It can’t be a star Moley. It’s much too slow for that. It must be a comet.”
“Oh! I’ve never seen a comet before.”
“Neither have I old man. Badger explained the whole business to me once. He and Toady’s father were amateur astronomers.”
The comet crept ever closer, green smoke trailing behind.
“Rat…it’s getting awfully close don’t you think?”
“Quick Mole!’ cried Rat ‘Get out of the way!”
The comet roared down from the sky before crashing into the adjacent field, ploughing through the trees surrounding the outer edge.
“Come on.”
Rat scurried into the field towards the fallen star. Mole followed at a discreet, worried distance – something did not smell right. The dry grass smouldered.
“Don’t come any closer Moley. It’s burning hot.”
Rat scampered around the outer edge of the crater, trying to peer in.
“I don’t like this at all Mole. I think we should leave it be.”
Mole, cautious at the best of times, was only too happy to oblige, and the two made their way swiftly back to the safety of the River Bank. The night was silent once more, until again, the birds flew by overhead.

The next few days passed as pleasantly as the rest of the summer. Rat began those riverside tasks which Mole had come to recognise as preparations for the high waters in autumn; but he was not so sullen about it as he had been in previous years, even putting his responsibilities to one side altogether for a day to enjoy a raucous game of cricket with the Wild Wooders. Toad was missed; he had let everyone who wandered near Toad Hall know that he was once again at deaths door - the third time this year - and Rat and Mole had resolved to visit him to shake him out of it later in the week. Rat was fairly sure it was nothing more worrying than a summer flu.
Rat and Mole did not return to the crater, but everyone at the River Bank could hear the clash and chime of machinery which echoed downriver at night. It was politely ignored, just as the building of the nearby railway had been - it was not for River Bankers to concern themselves with the Wide World and beyond.

It was on the fourth day after the star fell that the commotion really began. Rat woke Mole rather urgently with several rounds of buttered toast; Otter and his son Portly had arrived while Mole was still sleeping. Portly was as happy and bumptious as he always was, Otter however, looked pale and strained, Mole noticed that Rat had bandaged his leg.
“Whatever’s the matter Otter?” asked Mole.
“Theres been some trouble with that fallen star Mole.” said Rat, “Nasty business by the sound of it.”
While Portly busied himself in Rat’s pantry, Otter explained what had happened, pausing every few seconds to be sure Portly was within reach.
“Portly’s swimming has been coming along well this summer, and so I took him further downriver, near the village, it’s a harder swim upstream from the ford. We had only just arrived and were doing some practice dives when one of the villagers jumped into the river near our spot, They sometimes do that in the summer. But then another jumped in. And another. It was Portly who realised why - there was a fire in the village behind the trees. You know how sometime they set fires, well I assumed that is what was going on, but then I saw the machine. It was huge, taller than the oldest trees in the Wild Wood and it was making a noise louder than that aeroplane Toad bought last autumn. And it spat sparks and smoke like his motorised bicycle. It was starting the fires, that’s why all the people were running. Well, that was enough for me and Portly, we dived under and swam as fast as we could. We could feel the water heating as we swam.” Otter looked at his son and smiled, “He did brilliantly.”

Mole and Rat listened, scarcely believing Otter’s story, but he was never usually one for exaggeration or practical jokes.
“Did the machines come from the falling star?” asked Mole.
“That’s what I thought.” said Otter,
“There certainly has been a lot of crashing and banging coming from that crater.” agreed Rat. “Maybe we should have been keeping a closer eye on it”
“I’m not sure how much of the village will be left.” said Otter, “I’m not sure it’s safe here Rat. Or in the Wild Wood, we should go to see Toad.”

So it was that Rat, Mole, Otter and Portly made their way carefully to Toad Hall; Otter insisted they take the backroads and hedgerows, rather than the more well trodden paths. Mole and Rat felt certain their friend was being over careful, but they would never have dreamed of telling him so.

Rat knocked at the huge oak door. The grounds were quiet, with no sign of the armies of gardeners and beekeepers Toad generally employed at this time of year. Similarly, Toad’s butler was never this tardy, and it was not until Rat knocked again, rather more severely, that there was some response.

“Turn away good fellows! Turn away or risk being as blighted as poor hapless Toad! Laid low by a plague! Crawling ever closer to deaths door.”
Here, Toad - for it was he - coughed and wheezed to underline the seriousness of the situation.
“Poor Toad!” said the kind Mole, forgetting the severity of their own situation.
Rat however, was less convinced by Toad’s theatrics.
“You have a summer cold Toad, or at worst a little hayfever, open up and let us in.”
“Cruel Rat! Heartless Rat! I hope that when the sad day comes, you will realise your mistake and think kindly of poor Toad, and his aches and pains.”
“Now Toad.” said Rat, very firmly indeed.
It having become clear to Toad that his illness was not impressing anyone, he sheepishly opened the door, making rather a point of coughing and wheezing all the while.
“Hello you chaps. What’s all this fuss?”
“It’s the shooting star from the other night Toad.” said Mole.
“What shooting star?” asked Toad, affecting a slight limp as he led them into the dining room.
“Toad...didn’t you see the shooting star?” said Mole.
“My dear Mole, I have been unable to leave my bed these last few days, bravely battling my fever. This morning however, the staff completely failed to arrive with my breakfast, forcing my hand rather. At no small risk to myself, I have ventured downstairs only to discover I’m all out of blackcurrant jam.”
“Did your staff stay in the village?” asked Otter.
“Yes. Delightful little place. Perhaps a trifle basic for my refined tastes, but very pleasant none the less.”
Otter and Rat exchanged glances.
“Toad there’s been some trouble there. Machines came out of the shooting star that crashed into the meadow, and they have been setting fires all the way downriver.”
“Machines?” said Toad brightening. “What...sort of machines?”
“Strange looking things.” said Otter, “Three legs and noisier than all your motorcars.”
“Really?!” said Toad, “Where are these beasts. I must see them immediately!”
“There’s at least one just past the ford.” said Otter, “But Toad, the village..”
“Oh bother the silly village! I’ve a telescope and some field glasses in the upstairs study, we could have a look and see these machines of yours.”

Toad had of course taken first viewing through the telescope, but as he whirled it here and there, unable to find something to focus upon, Rat and Otter had taken charge of the field glasses.
“Well it looks like there is only one there at the moment.” said Rat. “I just can’t believe how tall it is. At least the fires have gone out.”
“It looks like some of the Wild Wood may have burned through the night though.” said Otter
“Let me see! Let me see!” said Toad, grabbing the glasses from Rat.
“Glorious!”
“Toad! Anyone could have been in there!” said Mole.
“Not the fire. The machine! Look at it. Polished brass, shining copper! A thing of beauty.”
“A thing of beauty we have to get rid of before it causes any more damage.” said Rat.
There was a sudden banging at the doors of Toad Hall, causing them all to jump.
“Toad! Toad open up you fool!”
“It’s Badger!” said Mole. “He’s safe!”
The friends hurried back downstairs to the main door.
“Hurry up Toad.” called Badger “I’ve Weasels, Stoats, Rabbits and Hedgehogs here in need of shelter.”
“Hah! Absolutely not Badger. You know what happened the last time they were in here. I couldn’t get the stains out of the tapestries for months!”
“Oh Toad!” said Mole, ignoring his protestations and opening the door.
“Toad, there are woman and children standing at your door, their homes destroyed by fire. If you don’t stand clear this instant to let them in and then busy yourself in your larder preparing a suitable feast...I will not be held responsible for the consequences.”
Here, Badger lightly tapped his cudgel to help make his point.

While Mole prepared breakfast with very little assistance from Toad, Otter and Rat explained what they had seen of the machines to Badger,
“They are very tall, they might not see us if we kept to the undergrowth and tried to attack from below?” suggested Rat.
“Hmmm. Something that tall is less inclined to look up than down.” said Badger, “What we need is a way of being higher up than it is. Then we attack from above, and while it is distracted our weasel friends try to knock it off balance down below.”
Returning from the breakfast table, Toad smiled wickedly and rubbed his hands with glee.
“Not your aeroplane Toad, it’s far too noisy. Besides we don’t have time to fish it out of the river.”
“No Badger, NOT my aeroplane. But I have something even better for a Master Aerialist such as myself!”

Even Badger was moved to admit the hot air balloon was impressive. While Toad regaled them with tales of the fine eastern silks and bamboo that had been involved in its construction, Otter, Badger and Rat strategised on the best way to attack. It was Mole however who perhaps put it best.
“We need to drop things on it.” he said. “Toad do you have any New Year fireworks left?”
“Dear me Mole old thing, I hardly think this is the time for celebration.” said Toad, and then, after a brief moment, “Oh! Oh I see! Capital! Yes there’s a whole crate in the cellar. Hopefully they’re not too damp.”

It was time for action. Rat, Mole and Toad were in the hot air balloon armed with the finest fireworks, the Wild Wooders had sticks and stones at the ready, while Otter was staying in Toad Hall to look after the families in case of counter attack. While Badger and the Weasels marched out across the fields, Mole, Toad and an entirely terrified Rat floated gently towards the clouds.
“Make it go that way Rat!” said Toad, “The machine is over there!”
“This is a little different from sculling Toad.” said Rat rather irritably.
“Nonsense! Wind, water, it’s all the same. Take us over there.”
If anyone had noticed Toads rather out of character insistence on leading this attack, no one had mentioned it, but the truth was Toad was more interested in getting inside one of the machines, than in knocking it over. It was not until the balloon had drifted silently over the fields and was almost on top of the strange machine that this became clear to all involved.
“The fireworks.” said Mole, “They aren’t lighting Toad!
“Yes I thought they looked a bit damp. I probably shouldn’t have poured that bucket of water on them.”
“Toad you fool! Now we’ve nothing to throw!”
The machine was directly beneath them now.
“Don’t worry Mole! As ever it is left to fearless Toad to save the day.”

Toad clambered over the side of the balloon and tumbled into the hood of the machine. He was now face to face with the driver, a creature who had travelled across space in a shooting star. Never one to be upstaged however, Toad elected to commence his assault by pulling as many levers and pushing as many buttons as possible. If we were feeling generous, we could assume this was master-planning on Toad’s part and not simply an opportunistic attempt to drive the machine. Regardless, the tripod went spinning across the meadow, and, already unbalanced, it was easy pickings for the Wild Wooders, led by Badger and the Chief Weasel to cudgel its two remaining legs into submission, toppling it altogether. It was at this point in the proceedings that Toad, having now realised the flaw in his heroics, scrambled desperately out of the hood of the machine and jumped towards the weighted ropes of his hot air balloon. He dangled wildly, as the machine crashed into the meadow, signalling it’s colleagues with an unearthly howl and hiss of green steam. Two other machines appeared in the distance, striding purposefully towards the field. Below, the Wild Wooders scattered in all directions, but the balloon hung in the sky.
“Ratty! Ratty make it go faster!” shouted Toad.
“I can’t Toad. We’re going to have to jump.”
“Jump? Jump?!”
“Look down.” shouted Rat “We’ve floated over the river, it runs slow here and its deep enough to catch us. Jump!”
The three friends jumped from the balloon towards the water, and not a moment to soon, for one of the other machines set the balloon on fire, finally igniting the fireworks which scattered the skies with stars.

Toad was already retelling the tale of his epic battle with the thing from another world over cocoa.
“I will say this though...he was a dashed queer fellow. Rather unpleasant looking and a few more arms and legs than one is used to in polite company. Still, we gave him what for eh?” Toad shook his head sadly, “Just a shame that they made off with that wonderful machine, Just imagine...but alas...back to the common old motorcar.”

For a time they stood at the study window, watching the shadows of the machines moving through the dusk; in the distance, the sky was streaked red and black with fire and smoke; overhead, birds fled the flames and headed downriver and out to sea.
“Oh Rat! What do you think will happen?”
“Nothing we can do about it old man.” said Rat sadly, “What goes on in the Wide World is nothing to with us river bankers.”
The sun finally set as another shooting star roared across the sky.

I think I've mentioned before I'm a big War of the Worlds fan, all the same, lets hope any life on mars isn't hiding beneath the surface preparing Fighting Machines for attack. I also enjoy a bit of Victorian fan fiction, here's my take on Alice in Wonderland and another Wind in the Willows story.

And here's what Orson Welles did with War of the Worlds, cos y'know...any excuse.

Platitudeypus

11 March 2012 would have been the 60th birthday of the writer and thinker Douglas Adams, author of The Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy, lover of Apple Macs. This only slightly derivative story is by way of a wee tribute...

The assault fleet of the Galaxia Media Corporation hung silently in orbit, waiting. Below, the focus of their long mission, the last planet to provide a home to the almost entirely extinct platitudeypus, beloved of publishing companies and lecture circuits everywhere.

So important, so vital was this mission, that the entire operation was being beamed back to their homeworld as a reality TV series, the longest running in their planet’s history. In truth, most people preferred the first few series before all the staged wars and jacuzzi planets. Initially, the advertising revenue from the show had funded the tanks and guns. Now it was lucky to cover the freeze dried ice-cream.

Admiral Fnurt wearily straightened his lapels and walked on to what he was beginning to feel was the rather optimistically named Battle Deck.

“Admiral on deck!” chirped a well groomed lieutenant.

“Well Captain..are the forces preparing to strike?”

Captain Zstash shifted awkwardly in his very comfortable Captains chair.

“Well...yessss...but me and the lads we was thinking”

Fnurt sighed.

“Yes?”

“Well it’s not a very nice day is it? I mean looking at those monitors. It’s pouring down.”

“I fail to see what this has to do with our planned attack.”

“You don’t want to turn up on a wet day is all I’m saying. None of the lads have got macs or anything...and yknow...it might be sunny tomorrow. Sets a better tone for an invasion.”

Fnurt had known this was how his day was going to end up.

“This is not a holiday Captain. We cannot afford to wait.”

“You’d kick yourself it it was nice tomorrow though. I mean wouldn’t you?”

Fnurt had read a book earlier in the week, “Just Managing”, it suggested that you do the thing that you are most dreading first in the day because then the rest of the day would be a breeze. It did not allow for the possibility that the thing you are dreading most might take all day.

“Captain we have been orbiting this planet for the last ten years. And every time we are ready for attack...something goes wrong.”

“Oh come on sir. That last time was hardly my fault.”

“Well I can’t see how your emergency dental treatment would take priority over the mission.”

“I lead from the front Sir. If I’m not there the lads are all over the place.”

The assembled Generals on the Battle Bridge nodded in agreement, one or two dropped their weapons or held them upside down to illustrate their incompetence. Fnurt was fairly sure most of that was intentional.

“Captain we were here two years before you mentioned you’d forgotten to pack all the attack saucers.”

Fnurt winced at this memory, this remained one of the most popular episodes of the TV show.

“Well..”

“And what about the time before that when you couldn’t attack because your task force were all being fitted for new trousers?”

“But I think you’ll agree they looked a treat”

Second most popular episode. Third was the first time they found a jacuzzi planet.

“We are here to take this planet...rain or no rain.”

“It is awfully heavy rain.”

Admiral Fnurt recalled another lesson from his book.

“Now is not the time for us to pick the low hanging fruit. Moving forward I want us all singing off the same hymn sheet. Today, we attack!”

So, what was it that inspired the heroic Galaxia media empire armies to brave the near torrential rains? What could be worth travelling halfway across the universe for? Well, money obviously. The platitudeypus first came to prominence just over a century ago, indigenous to several hundred very similar carbon based planets it has since been hunted to near extinction not because it tastes particularly nice or looks good as mittens, but largely because it irritates many lifeforms to the point of violent fundamentalism. And that is because this bafflingly literate beast’s many and varied mating calls sound exactly like the sort of vague half baked false wisdom that people really like to hear in times of personal crisis. So, while a male platitudeypus might be frantically signalling all females within a five mile radius, it would sound to our ears like he was suggesting that “time heals all wounds” or “ah well, it wasn’t meant to be”. The fact that medicine and surgery are more likely to heal wounds than letting them fester over time, or the notion that you are solely responsible for your own destiny and frequent mistakes is really neither here or there - who likes to hear that miserable rationalism when you can listen to a reassuring platitudeypus instead. After all it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. As indeed, is almost anything.

It only took one savvy entrepreneur to set the whole nightmare in motion; by recording the mating calls of the platitudeypus, naturalist Fillian Trantantor realised he had enough material to release an audiobook on increasing your self esteem through interpretive dance. He released “Like No One Is Watching” on Monday, was able to quit being a naturalist by Wednesday, and by Thursday teatime, the platitudeypus was being pursued by publishers across the galaxy.

Behavioural discoveries came thick and fast; herds of captive platidudeypi would synchronise the style and theme of their mating calls to the point where within a week you could almost guarantee that you would have enough material for a book on management theory, the power of positive thinking or relationship counselling. The outlay was low, a few leafy cages with a tank full of aquatic insects, and with just a sprinkling of judicious ghost-writing, you could be hitting the bestseller lists in no time.

As is so often the case, the popularity of the platitudeypus became it’s ultimate undoing. Ruthless publishing companies scoured the universe for ever more creative mating calls in an effort to continually reinvent the self-serving self-help boom; mighty media empires turned their guns on one another in the race for supremacy, with whole galaxies laid waste; households paid furtive platitudeypus poachers to provide them with their own home based oracle, always there with helpful though largely vapid and insubstantial advice; whole countries began to interpret the messages of the beasts in wildly opposing fashions and self actualisation wars broke out all across the universe.  However, more problematic by far, was the attention of gangs of increasingly angry rationalists who were incredibly ticked off by the popularity of such patently ridiculous advice and the damage it seemed to be causing; this was especially galling given that its very existence appeared to be an evolutionary fluke.

Indeed on one planet, a crack team of fundamentalist rationalists hunted the platitudeypus to extinction for no other reason than they were sick of people taking its advice on low-carbohydrate diets and self worth so seriously all the time. And sure enough, once it had gone, and the final platitudeypus had been stubbornly parboiled and served on a nice bed of rice, everything did actually get a lot better and there were less disagreements and upsets all round; but the planet became so monumentally grey and dull that no one even remembers where it is anymore.

Meanwhile, on the planet below, the imminent arrival of the Galaxia media empire assault fleet had not gone unnoticed, partly because the planet was very self conscious and had telescopes trained on the skies to see if anyone was looking at them, but mostly because the Galaxia media empire had started beaming down adverts for their cutting edge, reasonably priced, market cornering services. Most people were at least mildly interested in the introductory offers, but could have done without the attack saucers. Here and there, disillusioned by the brutal assault on their world, or perhaps just unhappy that their area was not within coverage of Galaxia services, pockets of resistance were gathering.

Former civil servant Hershel Genshburger decided that the time had come to take a side, and having seen an advert for his local resistance group in a newspaper shop window, he turned up at the secret meeting and was rather surprised to find that there were plenty of biscuits and tea available. But not quite as many burly ex-military explosives experts and former special-ops as he might have hoped.

“And are you connected to any other groups?” asked Hershel, helping himself to another ginger nut.

“Sorry. Could you sign in please.” said The Secretary, passing a notepad and pen over to Hershel. “Thanks!”

“Well....” said The Chairman, “There’s a group up the road in Plantard. And one down in Lurg. Jessie’s sister runs that one.”

“Okay. Any national networks? What’s the plan?”

“Well...its really still developing at the moment. We’re hoping to have some sort of conference.” explained The Secretary.

“A conference?”

“Yes...then we can workshop it all out. Figure out exactly what it is we want to do?”

The Chairman nodded and smiled as The Secretary minuted this point.

“What you want to do?” Hershel looked around at the collection of rather pleasant elderly folk. “What you want to do?! Surely you want to get ready to fight all the alien invaders and get them off the planet! That’s what a resistance movement do. They resist!”

“Told you!” said a lady by the tea urn, “I told you if we said we were a resistance movement that people would expect more from us.”

“Well this is precisely one of the reasons we need a conference.” said The Chairman “An open forum to discuss all of these issues and come to some sort of consensus.”

“There doesn’t need to be a consensus...” said Hershel “The spaceships are landing right now...”

 “I mean...maybe it isn’t about resistance at all. Maybe it’s about negotiation and understanding between ourselves and the attackers.”

At this point, The Treasurer could hold his tongue no longer.

“I think we’re all concentrating on the wrong issues. Think about the carbon footprint these things are making.”

The Chairman shook his head angrily, gesturing helplessly to Hershel in attempt to make it clear that this was old ground, well trodden.

“I honestly think that an organised group with an agreed mandate and agenda has more chance of influencing the decision making of the invaders. That’s what we’d be striving for at this conference.”

The Treasurer threw his arms up in the air.

“Oh! You and your conference.”

“Strawberry Tart?” offered the lady at the urn. Hershel smiled and shook his head.

“No...ehm…thanks very much for that.” he said, walking slowly back out of the community hall towards the battle scarred and burning streets “Probably all a bit much for me to take on in one go.”

“No problem. We’re here every week.” said The Secretary “Oh! But not next week. There’s a bingo night on. And Jessie’s got her appointment.”

“Now then,” said The Chairman, “arrangements for the AGM....”

The first of the attack saucers exploded just after lunch on Friday. A delegation of Galaxia Media executives were on their way to address a peace conference, when the rain had really started chucking it down. The hard water and acidity level of this planets precipitation did not at all agree with the Galaxia Assault Fleet’s fusion generators. Within minutes, an entire squadron of anti-matter propelled saucers starting malfunctioning. It really was very heavy rain. The planet didn’t stand a chance.

As the world below exploded, drifting swiftly out across the dark emptiness in waves of dust and rock, Admiral Fnurt sighed and turned to the camera.

“Ah well. There’s plenty more fish in the sea.”

End
Douglas Adams said many wonderful things, among them this very poetic defence of science and secular reason,
"Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it as well."
I'm a non-believer myself, but in our increasingly polarised times, I'd certainly like to think that Douglas Adams wasn't suggesting that anyone who does believe in fairies is an idiot, and that maybe, it is really up to individuals what they do and see in their garden...providing they don't start berating other people for not seeing things too. I've eh..I've run out of metaphor.

Enjoy some of my very own Vogon Poetry.

Enjoy "Shada" a lost Doctor Who, which Douglas Adams wrote for the BBC .

Get tweets from "The Meaning of Liff", Adams dictionary of things there should be words for.

Here is an episode of the bizarre childrens TV show "Dr Snuggles" written by Douglas Adams and John Lloyd.

Doctor Who - Red Letter Day

The disappearances had been going on for some time before myself and the other gentleman became involved. On many occasions since, I have cursed the day I ever set foot in the wretched bookshop – certainly my nerves have never fully recovered. There are still those who recognise me in the street, glancing askance, inferring upon me a sinister notoriety I scarcely deserve. For that reason, I have resolved to record my own version of events, in the hope that it will go some way to drawing a line under the whole affair. Perhaps too, it will convince some of those who left my life that it may yet be safe to return.

The Bookshop in question enjoyed a reputation in the town for sourcing rare and unusual editions. It was equally famed for the haphazard nature of its collections and so I had set aside a day for my explorations. I was looking for a particular copy of “Peter Pan and Wendy” to gift to Miriam – it had been her favourite book as a child – and as I wandered leisurely in and out of the rickety wooden maze of shelving and book stacks, I became gradually aware of being watched. I looked around, but seeing no one, I continued my deliberations. Shortly thereafter the feeling came upon me once more, and this time, I could also hear a whispering – again, not uncommon within the more respectable bookshops, but as I looked around, there was still no one to be seen. I rang the bell upon the counter for service, more for the reassurance of company than assistance, and as if in response there came a low guttural giggle. There was then within me, a very sudden and inexplicable panic, a tremendous overpowering urge to flee, and so, with scant regard to who might see me, I ran foolishly towards the door, intent on leaving immediately. But the door was no longer there.

At first, assuming I had become confused and inexplicably lost my bearings in a small city bookshop, I looked around, expecting the door to be elsewhere. It was then that I saw the man sitting cross legged on the floor.

“Odd isn’t it?” said the gentleman “That’s where I was sure the door was as well.”

I politely nodded, hoping my acknowledgement would not be taken as an invitation to further conversation. Naturally it was.

“Sorry.” He said “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m the Doctor. Good afternoon. Is it still afternoon? You lose track of time in bookshops…”

“No…it’s before eleven.”

“Ah…then is it still Tuesday?”

“Not until tomorrow. Excuse me.”

I wandered across the room, still looking hopefully for the door, no longer interested in buying anything this shop had to offer.

“At least a week then. No wonder I’m getting tired.”

I was embarrassed and annoyed and in no mood for further nonsense from the gentleman.

“What’s this all about?” I said “Were you the one laughing just now?”

“No. No I don’t find our situation remotely funny.” He said “And that feeling? Like you’re being watched? I feel that too. Something’s watching both of us – presumably the same something that has hidden the door.”

“Don’t be ridiculous” I said, intent on maintaining some semblance of normality “I stepped through the door not 5 minutes ago…I’ve become disorientated is all.”

The Doctor smiled.

“Possibly. Though again….that’s how I tried to rationalise it. Is it really that big a bookshop d’you think?”

I looked again, I was so certain; I ran my hands over the wall as if expecting it to give way, revealing one of those secret passages so popular in gothic fiction.

“This was the door.”

“And yet…it isn’t there.”

The panic came again, this time finally resolving itself into terror. I grabbed at one of the shelves to steady myself.

“I only came in here for a gift for my fiancés birthday.”

The Doctor stared at me for a moment, then, clearly having reached some sort of decision he smiled and leaped up from the floor, hand extended.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Harper. Maxwell Harper.”

“How do you do Harper. Glad you’re here. And no. I don’t know the way out either.” 

Hands still shaking, I passed the Doctor my flask, but he declined.

“Unlike yourself Harper, I didn’t actually come here looking for books. I was looking for people. Missing people.”

Here finally, was something I could understand, something real.

“You’re investigating the disappearances?”

“I was. What do you know?”

“No more than has been in the papers.”

By this stage you may recall that more than twenty people had apparently vanished over the preceding fortnight. It would be fair to say that it’s very likely more than twenty people vanish every day in London, people who are already invisible, destitute and alone. This twenty, who had more obviously vanished, were well heeled city folk. The presence of the gentleman and the strangeness of our situation suddenly put an altogether different complexion upon the matter.

“You think the bookshop has something to do with the disappearances?”

“I know it has. Listen.”

I was first aware of a low moaning, then a whispering

“It’s the books.” Said The Doctor “There are ghosts in the books.”

“Ghosts! Please don’t tell me you’re one of those dreadful spritualists.”

The Doctor hushed me, and I heard once again the strange whispering I had heard before. This time though, the voices were more distinct, sad, some crying, all talking at once without order or reason, as if desperate to be heard.

“Can you hear them? The books are talking Harper. I’ve been hearing them for hours now.” 

He lifted a book from the nearest shelf, ran his fingers carefully along the cover, then lifted it up to his face, first sniffing at it, then listening to it as if it were a shell found at the seaside. His face darkened.

“Something very bad is happening here Harper. These aren’t just books.”

He handed me the book. It had no title. I carefully opened it; the pages were of a heavy yellow vellum, more suitable for manuscript. Indeed, that seemed to be what it was, for across every page the words were scrawled in a deep angry red, like scars across the parchment. Realisation came then, and I dropped the book in horror and disgust. The Doctor carefully picked it up and respectfully returned it to its resting place on the nearest shelf.

“The books are…written in blood?”

“I’m afraid its rather worse than that. Whoever has been making the books doesn’t believe in wasting anything at all. And we need to put a stop to that.” 

I’m sure my face betrayed my terror, my cowardice, for he brightened then, as if resolving to reassure me by his own example.

“There’s a door back here I can’t get opened. Maybe if we give it a go together eh?”

We pushed at the door and finally it gave way, revealing stairs leading down towards the cellar. Below, burning torches, bathed the room in a low red flickering light. I will not pretend I took the first steps down those stairs. Neither did I run, much as every part of my being seemed to scream at me to do so. 

We surveyed the room, even in the poor light the cogs and grinders of some awful machine could be seen, stretching and stitching the terrible leather of those bindings. The Doctor was staring into the corner. As my eyes became accustomed to the light, I could make out a hunched figure. The shape shuffled and giggled.

“Hello there! I’m The Doctor, I’m a…”

“Time Lord, yes. I gathered. I’ve been watching you wander around my shop for days. I cannot wait to write your story.”

The figure kept his back to us, still clearly busying himself with some unpleasant task.

“Oh there was no need to be shy. You could have come and said hello…I don’t bite. Which I’m guessing is probably more than can be said for you.”

The man turned and stepped out from the shadows into the dim red light of the workshop. He was a fat, unpleasant looking fellow, wearing the telescopic glasses jewellers use for precision work.

“This is my friend Mr Maxwell Harper. And you are?”

“A simple craftsman.”

He gestured around the room.

“Do you like my machines? Certainly they can help you create…but you must of course have the spark of imagination to start with.” He grinned. “And the right materials.”

“You’re too modest.” Said The Doctor “Operating this level of technology takes more than craftsmanship Mister..?”

“On this world, I am but the nib.”

“Mr Nib.”

He stepped forward again, just far enough that we were able to see he was brandishing a number of knives.

“There are always collectors on the look out for something new and different. My books from this planet are very much in vogue in certain circles.”

“And you use this machine to what? Unpick and extrapolate their life and memories?”

“As a starting point.” Said Nib “Then I embellish the stories slightly. More glamour, more pain. My collectors can only take so much of the mundanity of this tedious little planet. But they do love the misery. The sorrow.”

The Doctor lifted a book.

“But these are people….in every possible sense.”

“Yes. That’s rather the unique selling point Doctor. You however, will be a true original. It’s whether you are one oversized edition or an eight volume set.”

All the while they had been talking, I continued to look desperately around the room for something, anything that could aid us in escaping. Certainly there were no other obvious exits from the cellar, only his machines and the endless dark shelves, rows and rows of unread lives, unlived. It became clear to me then, that far more than twenty souls had become the focus of Nib’s craft. 

All pretence of polite conversation now dropped, Nib circled The Doctor in predatory excitement.

“You will be my finest work. Truly priceless. Timeless.”

Nib lunged for The Doctor, blades outstretched and instinctively The Doctor shielded himself with the book he was holding. As the knives plunged in, there was a shriek then what sounded like a sigh before the book crumbled into pieces.

“No!” cried Nib.

Seizing his opportunity, The Doctor pushed Nib back towards the machinery and then grabbed one of the torches from the wall.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this Harper…burn the books!” he cried “It’s the only way to free them.”

I flailed around, grabbing as many of the braziers from the wall as possible, and setting them to the shelves while the Doctor continued to fight off the fiend who had written them. 

As each book took flame, there was a terrible screaming, a wailing release from the pain and the eternal sadness of what might have been. Not undaunted, but certainly undeterred, I visited fire upon each and every one of the damnable volumes. The cellar walls were now aflame, and the shelves began to crack and topple. I caught sight of The Doctor attempting to haul Nib back, but he charged into the flames as if somehow expecting to rescue his abysmal machines. There was fire all around and amidst the burning books, a constant unearthly howling. In those final moments, The Doctor dragged me back up the stairs. By now, blackened and coughing, I was sure my own story was coming to an end. The Doctor smiled sadly as everything began to blur..

“You know, my birthday always seems to end up like this.” he said, and then he handed me a book.

It was two days later that I was discovered unconscious in the scorched rubble of the bookshop, surrounded by the bones of the missing, still holding the book The Doctor had given me. My own distressed and dishevelled state went some way to convincing the authorities of my innocence – but only just. In any case, my association, however unfortunate with the horrific bookshop murders was enough to immediately distance me from polite society. 

I spent months unable even to leave my house, my only comfort, the book given to me by The Doctor. For days I would grip it, as if to anchor myself to this world lest I once again drifted into his. But those days are behind me now, and I am ready to give it to Miriam, for whom it was intended, if she will but pass my way again.

There are loads of sites featuring "fanfic", stories, books and novels based on other people's creations; some really REALLY weird stuff out there, but loads of cool stuff too. This was my entry into a Doctor Who competition run by audiobook company Big Finish a few years ago. As you may have guessed...it did not win. But it was right good fun to write. For the record, its meant to be the Paul McGann version of the Doctor. But yknow...if you have to explain it...