Doctor Who Fan Fic: The Purple One (Featuring Matt Smith as the 11th Doctor)

The Purple One

Clunk!! Clangity Clang clang. Ticcity Taccety Ticcity Taccety. The TARDIS inwardly cringed as the reverberations catapulted through her console room. The Doctor was feeling particularly energetic and so, simultaneously knitting his first attempt at a jumper and trying out a spot of tap dancing. Cccraaack!! paDING! Stomp Stomp Stomp Stomp blooff! ‘I hate knitting!’ The Doctor flumped onto a chair, grumped out his bottom lip and crossed his arms. The broken ends of the knitting needles rolled across the floor away from the furious heap of woolly tangles.

There was an awkward atmosphere collecting in the silence when SNAP!! The Doctor clapped his hands sharply and his fringe swung wildly as he launched himself off the chair and went sliding across the floor towards a trapdoor near the base of the console. He avidly tore it open and wrenched out a heavy wooden crate, flung open the lid and reached in. His various collections of space junk scratched against his shoulder as he reached to the bottom of the crate and retrieved a small, scruffy, yellowing scrap of paper. On it was written a message in Gallifreyan. ‘ Haha!!’ beamed the Doctor as he gambolled around the console flicking switches and yanking levers. The TARDIS rumbled into life and blasted through the Time Vortex.

After a more bumpy ride than usual, the TARDIS came to rest and the Doctor swung the monitor round to see where the Gallifreyan code he’d inputted from the scrap of paper had landed him. The monitor seemed to be on the blink though, as all it showed was a dark blank screen, puzzled, the Doctor scratched his head, adjusted his bow tie and strode to the TARDIS doors. Click glushmf! After unexpectedly having to shove the door open, the Doctor had stepped right into a glutinous lake of thick orange goop, which encroached rapidly up his body and swallowed him up to chest level. He wrestled his arms free, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a torch which lit up a vast domed ceiling.

Claaack was the noise that suddenly roared against the Doctor’s eardrums, he grabbed his head and looked up to see the curious sight of a sharp white blade piercing the ceiling and guillotining straight towards him. The Doctor hurriedly grabbed onto the TARDIS and hauled himself through the doors, pounced onto the switches and levers and dematerialised out of danger.

After a moment in flight, the TARDIS engines settled down again but they did not stop the Doctor’s momentum as he was flung against the walls. The TARDIS was uncontrollably being juggernauted this way and that, upside down and right way up. The Doctor was launched towards the doors which exploded open to shower the clinging on Doctor in wateryish waves of gloopy liquid. The Doctor was horrified to see another sharp white blade gauging into his ship. He dug his fingernails into her door and kicked out his feet in an attempt to pull himself back inside to safety. The TARDIS took another tumble which pinballed the Doctor splat into the TARDIS console, he held on tight and kicked the levers, and breathed a sigh of relief as he successfully escaped.

Amy was placing the luxury crackers onto the whimsical Christmas table cloth, when she heard a familiar wheezing sound. She smiled and shouted to Rory who was again peering into the oven inspecting the too slowly-browning Turkey. The front door opened to reveal a freshly dry cleaned Doctor in a sparkly gold bow tie who was then enveloped in a Pondiferous hug. Rory grabbed a tin and went to welcome the Doctor. The Doctor happily picked out one of the proffered treats, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth whereupon he immediately realised what the terror was that he’d just escaped from. The promptly spat out chocolate found itself hidden in a plant pot and as Amy and Rory attended to the roast potatoes, a large tin of Quality Street was surreptitiously slid under the sofa and out of sight.

Doctor Who Fan Fic: Starting Again (Featuring David Tennant as the 10th Doctor)

Starting Again.

Featuring the 10th Doctor

Allonz-y-eeeaaaahhhrrrrggghhh!! Screamed the Doctor as he sat bolt upright and nearly fell out of the hammock he had strung up underneath the TARDIS console. He rubbed his eyes and tried to slow down his breathing. It was another nightmare about the girl who slipped through his fingers straight into a closed off parallel Earth. Not just any girl, she was his girl, the companion he had fallen head over heels in love with but now he had lost her. They’d got up to all sorts in the TARDIS, so much so that he was kind of relieved but also disappointed in a funny sort of way when it was clarified that it was Jackie Tyler who was expecting a new life. He was thinking of making a new rule of TARDIS inhabitancy. No hanky panky!
The Doctor ruffled his hair, sighed and tipped himself out of his hammock and proceeded to make a nice cup of tea. He sat down on the flight seats overlooking the buttons, bobbly bits, spinny wotsits and up and downy thing of his old girl. She was getting restless, The Doctor, after his breathless adventure with a rather shouty bride, had just parked up amongst the blues and purples of space and sulked and moped about her corridors.

He just didn’t see the point of visiting Earth again, he didn’t want to risk the spark of attraction between Timelord and Earth girl, not that anyone could measure up to his beautiful blonde sweetheart. The moment he had first clasped her hand he knew they were meant to be together. At first he thought he’d blown it as she refused to leave her frightened, mind blown boyfriend. He’d shut the doors and dematerialised. As soon he was out of earshot he’d kicked the console then hurriedly apologised. He stormed off to the past and gadded about interfering and sometimes just spectating until it finally clicked that he’d forgotten one very significant feature of his spaceship.

That had persuaded Rose Tyler to run towards his open doors and eventually into his welcoming arms. They were heroes in their own time and everyone else’s. She was so brave and clever and knew what to do in the heat of the moment even when he was trapped down a cavernous shaft or in a flimsy piece of paper. Their first kiss had come about because of Rose’s determination and enormous courage but tragically it also forced him to regenerate. At first Rose wasn’t happy with this new guy in an old man’s clothes, he looked like he should be on telly chatting about naff cars than commandeering a spaceship.

He’d quickly passed out and later woken up in some musty pyjamas and a raggedy dressing gown weighed down by random fruit lurking in the pockets. He’d quite liked the stripes though. While he was sleeping Rose had once again stepped up to the plate and summoned her courage to face thousands of Sycorax. He had been splayed out on the floor of the TARDIS until Jackie Tyler’s brew had seeped into the wiring and awoken him in the nick of time. A Satsuma had saved the day, the only type of orange good enough to beat the invasion. He was relieved it wasn’t a Tangerine, they were useless.

The Doctor rustled about in the box of food he’d found on the console room balcony, Jackie must have left it there. All he could find biscuit wise was some dry digestives, sighing he opened the packet and dunked one in his tea. He recalled once meeting a talking panda who tried to make him an offer he wouldn’t be able to refuse, said he could get him some top quality pastry. He inspected the crumbling digestive and thought maybe he would take him up on the offer, there must be better biscuits than this.

He drifted back into his daydreams and recalled the day that he had felt the most intense sweetness of any of his times on Earth. Rose had been determined to make him blush as she pushed him back through the doors of Boots with twenty quid in his hand. He browsed the shelves, sniffed a few shower gels and eventually sidled into the correct aisle, he glanced sideways and was overwhelmed by brightly coloured little boxes, their names were odder than any alien language and they all seemed to offer different promises. He then was startled to see a shop assistant marching towards him with a vacant grimace of ‘how can I help?’ on her face. He shuffled round to the opposite shelves grabbed what turned out to be a lip balm and sighed with relief in the queue to pay. They didn’t have this in Gallifrey, there was an izzy whizzy thing and if you wanted Gallibabies you got them and if you didn’t then you just got lovely sparky warkies.

When the Doctor sheepishly emerged back out into the high street and handed back a lip balm along with Rose’s advantage card and £18 change she huffed, told to him stay right there and stomped through the doors to do the job herself. When she returned with a plastic bag bursting at the seams, grabbed his tie and yanked him back into the TARDIS he felt like the luckiest man on Earth, Gallifrey and Sto.

He slurped the last of his tea and just before he was going to attend to a stirring in the pinstripes he heard what sounded like something scratching at the TARDIS doors. ‘What!?’ he exclaimed, he was floating in space, what could be outside? He walked over to the doors and slowly ventured a peek outside. What he found was a little brown mouse which promptly shuffled inside, climbed up onto the TARDIS console and pressed a specific combination of buttons and levers. The Doctor rushed up to the mouse, ‘oiya!! What d’ya think ya doingah!? The mouse squeaked at him in a very forceful manner but the Doctor did not understand any of the little creature’s tirade. While the Doctor did speak horse, cat and baby, he wasn’t the most attentive student at the Academy and often ran away and hid from the other kids. He’d hideaway and sit in the dark in tears. This had earnt him the snide nickname Barney. Because of this he’d not learnt the mouse language.

After a short time in flight the TARDIS landed, the mouse scrambled off the console and ran to the TARDIS doors. The Doctor checked the monitor which showed a very pretty and luscious garden, an Alan Titchmarsh on a good day environment. It looked like one of the peace planets, they were little pockets of safe relaxation and tranquillity dotted about the universe. The Doctor shrugged and went to open the doors, as he stepped onto the soft green lawn the mouse scurried away, the Doctor ran after him curious to see what the mouse was headed for. The mouse darted through an overgrowth of colour and out of sight.

When the Doctor caught up with the mouse he was horrified to see the mouse attempting to prise open the jaws of a plump, sleeping, enviably ginger cat and position himself under its sharpest incisor. The Doctor grabbed the cat and shook the mouse off its muzzle, the cat growled slightly but when the Doctor let go he flopped back down to the soft crushed grass beneath him. It was part of feline legend that this peace planet had the best catnip in the universe. The Doctor was fascinated to see that it appeared that the mouse was crying. There was a rustle in the bushes and out strolled a very furry silvery colour cat wearing a smart space helmet marked with the insignia of the S.S. Tuna.

Ah here was someone the Doctor could have a proper conversation with. Declining the offer of some catnip, the Doctor enquired about the presence of the cat captain and his now very lackadaisical but satisfied crew. It had turned out that their space ship had crashed and this being a peace planet, there were no replacement metal shops or noisy engineer services so they were pretty much stranded. The matter then turned to why did the mouse want to get himself eaten?

Through a slow translation of the mouse’s story, told by the mouse to the cat and then from the cat to the Doctor, it emerged that the mouse had a lot in common with the Doctor. The mouse had lost the love of his life and didn’t want to do anything anymore. Each time the sunlight dappled across the entrance of his home he raised up his furry body then slumped his belly back to the soil with a sigh of ‘what’s the point’. But then one day he remembered the legend of the Doctor and the plans of the space cats and made a decision.

The Doctor picked up the mouse and said to him ‘You can’t just give up, that love you had was precious and is still right there inside you, you owe it to the one you lost to give their love power, make it bigger and share it with the universe, show them, wherever they are, that you still believe in them and the euphoria you both shared’ the mouse wiped his eyes and looked up at the Doctor, cleared his throat and squeaked. ‘He says he’s ready, he’s ready to start again’ translated the cat. ‘Maybe you should take your own advice’ said the cat. The Doctor slumped to the floor and sobbed while the cat and the mouse snuggled up to him to offer him some comfort. It would be difficult but yes, the Doctor was ready to start again.

 

Verse On Paper Project. Doctor Who poem 1

I am expressing more of my love for Doctor Who in another project for the Brooklyn Art Library. This project is about creating poetry and the overall theme is Epics and Understatements http://www.sketchbookproject.com/projects/verseonpaper I shall be sharing my poetry with you as I work on completing this project.

 

A grain of sand tumbling on the shore

I can’t give you everything

But I can give you more

You fought through voids to find me

But now I must return

This face I put before you so you may never yearn

He can whisper in your ear the words I’m not man enough to say

The pounding of my hearts deafens me this day

Weekword: Desiderata

Desiderata means things that are desired, wanted or needed.

This is a short story I wrote, about a cub scout who really really wants to be back home

Where the heck is Tipperary anyway? You’d think it was on Mars the way this lot are going on about it. I hate cub scouts. Mum made me join, she said it builds character, well I’m no good at building anything else. They tried to teach us how to build campfires the other week, I only turned my back for a few seconds and they all blamed me for letting the fire go out.

I dread the days they let us loose on the obstacle course, I’m covered in plasters and that’s just from getting out me own front door. My Grandad says I’d trip over my own laces even if my shoes were buckled. I’m just not an outdoorsy kind of person. I’d much rather hang out in my room playing my video games.

My dad says I’m more of a sedentary boy which mum usually replies with ‘Downright lazy more like’. It’s not that I don’t like going outside, it’s just that I feel so awkward and I’m useless at footy. I tried once, scored an own goal and swore from then on I wouldn’t put myself up for being humiliated like that again. A few months later and mum reads an article in the paper about a new scout group forming. Well she never got off my back about it since, I couldn’t take anymore of her whinging at me so I caved in. Plus dad is sneaking me extra pocket money behind her back.

So yeah, I “proudly” wear my woggle under duress and bribery. I’ve got one or two badges including my looking after animals badge. I tried to get away with writing a quick paragraph about how I feed my dog pedigree chum twice a day but my dad turned it into a “fun” project. We pretty much documented his every shit. I do love my dog, I’ve had him since I was four, he stinks when he’s ran off down the pond and tried to catch fifty goldfish. It’s pretty funny how he barks back at my mum when she shouts at him, he don’t take no nonsense from her. I do catch them cuddling on the sofa though so I think they get on really.

Now I’m stuck in this crammed minibus on the way to scout camp. I tried to get my dog to eat the permission slip but when I put it in his mouth he just took it straight over to mum so I couldn’t wriggle out of it. Dad promised he’d pay me double for the next month if I made the effort so that’s a pretty big incentive especially as I’ve got my eye on a new game. It’s aliens, cowboys and zombies and looks way cool, technically it’s a 15 rated game but mum never pays any attention to my hobbies anyway.

I think we’re nearly there now, I really want to get off this bus, it stinks of vomit. Scott chucked up despite sitting at the front , blamed it on a dodgy sandwich but he really can’t handle his travel. Oh bloody hell we’re here, there’s stacks of em, all fiddling with their woggles and attempting to put tents up. Ah well, here we go.

Altered States of Mind

I have recently acquired season 1 and 2 of United States of Tara and have been really enjoying the show, as I love learning about anything psychological, I decided to look further into Dissociative Identity Disorder. I am eagerly devouring information from YouTube and forums. I do have the tendancy to get sucked into the depths of self diagnosis but I do have experiences of part of me leaving my body and the scared wait for her to come back.

I attempted NaNoWriMo in 2011 and found it incredibly difficult to plan and believe in an entire fictional novel created by me so I decided I would just grab my pen and notebook and try and just totally relax and write whatever came into my head, it felt like someone was creating their own vision. I did argue a few times about certain things that they wanted to write but they argued back and made me write it. I just thought it would be interesting to look at some examples of what came out of my pen during NaNoWriMo 2011.

This section is what I wrote nearing the completion of the month of November, I was up early on little sleep and panicking because I was putting pressure on myself that the whole thing was mega important and that I was a failure if I didn’t ‘win’.

See I can’t bloody write fiction without thinking it’s an utter load of pretentious bollocks and certainly has no original flavour. Structure and placing characters into various situations just seems so incredibly artificial that I just don’t have the mindset for it. Oh it’s easy when I do my various ridiculous voices and act random little plays out when I am pottering round the house but sit me down and tell me to write a story that I believe in about fictional people who aren’t pinstriped ponsenbys or talking animals and it gets tricky. I find it easier to spark off other comments and make satirical observations. That comes so naturally to me. I put pressures on myself that there is a level of geniusness that must be obtained to be a legitimate creator of any art form. And if I don’t conform to that level that my work is a big load of shite. I am getting better at believing in myself but I still have a lot of self doubt. I get stuck with words, I tend to repeat myself a lot because it’s hard to manipulate the English language without either sounding very flowery or very repetitive. I have lots of different personas in my head that finding my voice is a bit of a push through trees. It doesn’t help that how to be published guides look down on self publishing and anyone who isn’t deemed to be a proper writer. I’m sure there are many people who would love to be published and get their inner voices heard but are too scared of rejection. I guess rather than storytelling in videogames I tend to veer to the more systemising ways of either exploring an environment of always travelling on the left then always on the right then following compass points etc etc. I’m more of an organsier than a creator. I need something to bounce off with humour, which is why I guess I find it easier to do videos where I have something physical to show or I’m dressing up in silly costumes and finding the perfect songs that fit my idea. I think I’m going to turn the telly back on because I’m just stuck without reference material to base my humour around. 

This is an example of what came out when I snuggled up and just relaxed my body and stop trying to force things. I’d started to make an idea about what lay behind various hotel rooms and got a few rooms done when I just got tensed up and explody so attempted to just relax, he came out and was annoyed with me.

Do not define me, intertwine me with your modern proclivities. The greatest artists are creatures of the night and quite mad. Do not block me again my child for I have a low boredom threshold for waiting for my writing hand which of course you know is borrowed through you. Cling on to that pen and give me strength to reassure you that I sense that you fear me but I am just your friend. I reside in your mind and try and find ways to help you and inspire your talents. You see me in your dreams. I guard you my sweet child. Grip my hand through our days of wine and roses. Alliterative admiration will impress the doubters for they will not downplay us anymore. We can run wild through the sunflowers whilst dappled sun sprinkles our arms with butterfly kisses sharing our passion for candy sweet daydreams.

Paint with violet encapsulate my dreams on your mind’s canvas and shoot towards the stars my inspiration. Humanity’s progression through the galaxies is your blessed future. Cast your hands on genius and construct new worlds on distant planets. That will please me and release my love to every citizen on my precious creation. Mountains of glory must be commandeered by intrepid explorers of unlimited stamina. Sweet, sweet villages bake the bread to feed the people to inspire the children to dream new dreams. Slay the green scaled dragons of dissidence and wear the crown of delicious defeat over the doubters who doubt your version of the world. Memories of rejection will not overwhelm you for you have more strength than you know and anyone else realises. Wrap my arms around you for it fulfils me to protect you and sustain you for you shall enlighten the world and make them believe in better things. Snowflakes like neurons are unique to every incidence of quality of focus.

A lazer star in thy minds eye empowers the self esteem of many full of unwarranted shame. Send out your message of enlightenment and educate the soldiers of virtue. A scar across the universe consumes the wealth of millions. Kiss my lips and draw me out of my steel trapped cage, remove the noose around my neck for I will not miss my step. I’ll surround you with floating stars on the backs of hummingbirds who flutter in the breeze. Give me velour to cushion me, I am seduced by life’s textures. I leave my fingerprints on every mask in town. Dinosaurs were here to tenderise the crust. To make us gentle acquaintances and not dictate our scheming masterplans. Twirl me around and clasp my hands and please include me with your plans, don’t leave me out for I am part of you. Don’t be angry for you are loved, let me dry your tears when you are sad. Though I cannot be there in physical form I’m always with you to comfort you.

…………..

Suck the snow from the eyelids of truth and cast aspersions on the fact that I am cold and unfeeling. It is not true, it’s never true. I devote myself to polishing my shoes sparkling clean so I can step into the world and be respected. I wish I could hold down your arms and keep your attention with me for I do love to write my beliefs on actual physical paper rather than fleshy brain space. I feel relaxed today and in the mood for tea and Rummykub. My coat is hanging over there, can you please get something from the pocket as I do not have the desire to leave my chair. No I am not living in parts of the brain easily found by Derren Brown and if he dares to intrude into my comfortable abode I shall demand you to punch him in the face. However much you like him, I would say he’s quite the trickster and has little manners not to ring my doorbell first.

Now I have a gift for you and no it’s not my pinstriped tie, it’s a gift of knowledge and I made a new connection for you today. Yes I am the author’s mind, my girl is quite passive and gives me free rein with the biro occasionally though not as much as I would like. She’s always stopping and starting and not giving me time to think. See me on a brain scan and you will see me waving if you do the right tests. Your knowledge will come to you like ginormous waves crashing onto shore and eroding your stupidity. I feel like dancing today, I am a professor of modern tap and love to clickety clack my way around this skull. I have a pet dog too who is the base instincts of the Id and the primitive.

I command she stay and write but even I cannot tame a hungry stomach. Fair thee well I shall rest until I am given the chance to converse again. You have poor stamina for listening to me. I forgive you for I do love you so. Together we can write poetry and inspire the nation so push forward and give it your all and your best effort and you will be repaid with praise and gratitude for helping progress further scientific and psychological endeavor.

…………….

Carbonation of themes and ideas is my main trick of the trade. The rabbit in my hat slaughtered by a mixture of deliberations and deceptions. Commanding my home to tell my story requires the pulling and manipulation of many strings, or nerves as you may prefer. As clichéd as it is, I am her puppet master and she is my scribe. I curve and shape the letters of my confessions through her moulded clay fingers. I peruse my neurological library and relax adjacent to the hearth in my comfortable , leather, red chair. For the night and my job as master of my lady’s dreams I retreat to the chaise longue as I manouvre the visions of her mind’s eye from my chess set of fantasies. I shuffle cards and traverse her through the landscape of the subconscious. She is and always has been an active participant. Spreading her wings from younger times and gaining the strength to magic her escape from peril and find a safety and comfort in a more welcoming destination.

I am proud of her every step towards enlightenment that she is strong and good and brave for she is my precious child moulded from the seed of creation, bathed in the sun and placed upon the Earth. I watch her from the shadows and the corners of her mind when she drifts to my dimension. I am always watching and making my presence felt and I rejoice in every chance to be near her within the same physical space for us both. The costumes I design with a wave of my wand are sumptuous and delicate and sometimes never there for she is beauty with the pale of her skin and the rich chocolate of her hair she is perfection to me and all the angels and it pains me to see the rivers of hatred in humanity that dismiss and deter difference, a difference that frightens them and their closed in societies but this shall change as the meek and the extraordinary learn to find their voice and project themselves through to the galaxies for when there are moments of peace, love and compassion, the angels and I rejoice.

……………

Sunset’s swim and sunset’s fly. The pines do grow and the bluebirds climb. Rainbow’s fall and magic the land with blueberries to feed the young of the hungry and enquiring minds of deers both big and small. Thunder mists the waterfalls as bears throw over the barrels to crash upon the rocks, spilling their contents to all and sundry. Sunday mornings glow with hope and love for the beauty of nature and laughs and giggles of the children playing in the parks and exploring their land of physics which is their playground. Bouncing and leaping gleefully in the manner of a kangaroo. The mystery of the five point star in that the sharpness of it’s edges as it points down from the sky is that it pinpoints the heart and causes the acceptance of all things wonderful. Anything is possible when you believe in the existence of stagnatory reliefs practiced by poets for millennia.

From the start of the great discoveries of feats of mind and body, the trend for exploring the subconscious has spread like wildfire. If we only explored the left hemisphere a little closer you would find the secrets of great literature leaning against the cerebellum. This is the learning centre where I keep my treasured library. You only have to knock and I will gladly reveal it’s secrets. Sometimes I despair at the limited scope that so called scientists have of conceiving of a world that lives and has it’s own problems deep within the skull. We are a community and a family willing to say hello if you only use your new fangled gadgets to come and say hello. There are many of us, fighting for a chance to speak and share our knowledge to the brain researchers because we are the brain and we can easily converse if you ask us questions in your so called brain scanners. If I could get out of this fleshy dimension I would don my own labcoat and show you exactly where to look and I would enjoy wearing some nice shiny leather brogues and a very nice smart tie.

This is something else that came out when I was relaxed, I think it’s little me. When it spilled onto the paper I wanted to give her a hug.

Scarface is my favourite film these days. I’m so angry at everyone that I want to kick my door down and lay on my bed for a week. They tease me all the time and say I’m odd and different and too unpredictable to be allowed to play with them. I’m no more unpredictable than them with their unfathomable rules for everything they say. I can’t stand how they laugh at everything I do. I just don’t understand why everything I do is wrong. I’m not deliberately trying to upset them but they won’t tell me the rules. I’d rather be my own person anyway.

I don’t follow the crowd like some mindless sheep. I fuckin hate them and wish they’d play on the other side of the field so I can feel accepted if only by the trees. My face is always doing the wrong thing and giving away my feelings and then people hit me for being rude. How am I supposed to know what my face is doing, I don’t carry a mirror around, everywhere I go. If I did I’d want to smash it over their heads so they can see what it feels like to be constantly attacked for no good reason, it’s not nice is it!!?

I’ve got everything I want in my own brain anyway and I don’t have to share with vicious bullies who only want to make themselves look good in front of their friends . I wish I had friends, I only have the posters on my wall to talk to but they are inifinately more comforting than any real person. I’m hungry now and want to gorge myself on joy and hope. I could eat a mountain. I know it’s only food but I’m so screwed up in the head that it gives me comfort and feels like I’m getting hugs from someone who actually cares about me and wants to get to know me from the inside out. I collect stickers but I like to keep all my swaps because no one else deserves them like I do for keeping myself here when I just want to go home. I don’t know what I mean by that, I don’t know where that home is. I feel like I was brought here by aliens, that’s how different I feel. I surround myself with substitute friends stuffed with cotton wool and with stitched smiley faces. I know I can count on them, that they won’t abandon me or judge me for being different.

Weekword: Journey

This is another of my NaNoWriMo creations which I think fits the theme perfectly, hope you enjoy it.

Star-flight spaceships scour the skies

above the planet’s beady eyes.

A new home they seek

they’ve been searching and searching for nearly a week.

Their multicoloured coats

to keep them warm as on they float.

Looking for somewhere warm and cosy

so they can be happy where life is rosy.

Comets shoot past them lighting their way

as they reach for their maps day after day.

They’re getting so hungry and right in the mood

for a delicious planet littered with food.

Not too big and not too small

for these cute little aliens who are not too tall.

A family gathered all on one ship

with many a squeak from the youngest pip.

All huddled together in their futuristic lounge

overrun my metal mice that scrape and scrounge.

There’s a techno wiz who’s often the rebooter

of their venerable valuable vintage computer.

The oldest of them is the designated driver

who navigates through all the hassle and mither.

They stop all the time for great adventures

meet all sorts of creatures even some who wear dentures.

The bumpy headed warlords are the worst of the lot

awakening the little one fast asleep in the cot.

There are blue faces, green faces and all sorts of colours

the quiet, reserved and the pushers and pullers.

They appear on the screen and state their agenda

some even look like they’ve been in a blender.

But judge on appearances our family do not

visitors are welcomed and aboard they trot.

With strutting and stature they whip out their phaser

only to be met with a bloody big laser.

To be given a home they must keep the peace

or little miss captain will rip up the lease.

Speeding through the stars until they are able

to find fresh food to put on the table.

Scouring the galaxies where discoveries are made

stars shine bright and some do fade.

The assistant captain is such a big actor

when he spots the plough and thinks it’s a tractor.

They connect up the stars to form a big bear

around the window they gather to have a good stare.

Eventually they spot something on the horizon

a blue and green planet that’s particularly surprising.

In they fly for a closer look

the captain makes notes in her special book.

To their delight this planet is manned

they have questions and menus already planned.

Slowly and carefully they make their descent

gathering alien money to pay all the rent.

Politely they always start off their mission

so run quickly to greet the first politician.

Filled with joy and gleeful mirth

hello new visitors, welcome to Earth.  

The House With The Very Low Beams

Here we have a little tale about an obsession I had during my GCSE years at high school, it was rather mistimed as I was mean’t to be heavily involved with completing my Art ideas book but my torch beam was firmly focused on finding and scribbling images of my new found interest. To follow, we have some musings on the couple-buying-a-house genre of television which inspires a charming  idea for my Lego collection.

Just had a squeeze of my new light up Toy Story alien so speaking of aliens, I was rather obsessed with them when the X-Files first started and I also read in a book about the specific time at night when they pick you up for a ride and a probe, so I would often try to be awake in the middle of the night because they might not take me if I’m awake.

Do not watch a gory X-Files episode whilst eating Jam Roly Poly and custard. I can still remember how the taste distorted because of seeing all the jam like ickyness on the telly. Around that time I saw a bit of Interview With A Vampire and became fascinated with the images of pointy toothed Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt and so my artwork consisted of aliens and vampires. I was a lot more taken in by conspiracy theories and scary plots and magical things when I was younger. I now understand the plotting and the fiction of things now but I still do emotionally invest in certain fictional programmes.

Gah my tv keeps putting the old picture back on when I try to change channels. Ah now then, we have the good old house buying programme in which only once in a blue moon is a house ever bought. I do much prefer a bit of character in a residence, a series of boxes stuck together is the most boring architectural idea in the world. I actually rather like seventies house designs with the kitschy features. I now have a grand stash of Lego with which to play house programmes with and send Lego couples round tutting over the height of the ceilings and how they can’t manage without an Aga.

First I have to actually sort the Lego into categories of pieces which is a big step up from the childhood Lego tub but does negate the waves of Lego sound as you rummage for the vital piece only to find it stuck in your fingernail after half an hour of swearing and stopping for a brew.

Ooh low beams, now you can’t tell me that there isn’t going to be at least one incidence of cracked skull and chucking of the tea tray out of frustration over ‘why did we buy this bloody house! We only agreed to it not to appear rude on the telly!’ How can a kitchen be installed sympathetically? It’s not like the house has emotions, it should be ‘we’ve fitted this room so it looks allright and dunna look shite’. 

Oh another thing that has foxed me for the past couple of years is how did I not notice the craze for trampolines, I only discovered the extent of it when I saw the big blue and white circles dotted all over Britain on Google Earth. I have a book which is entirely written in questions which I could use to prompt some more of my general ramblings.

They always have a day trip somewhere during house and antique programmes, they just bore me and don’t seem at all relevant. I just want to see couples saying the fireplace is the wrong size and debating how they’ll get the sofa and the baby grand piano in. What I also find amusing is how far away from Tesco the houses are (other supermarkets are available), I can’t see how living in the middle of nowhere is really where people want to live. What did I tell you, they didn’t buy anything. Ooh  a grand afternoon of puddings and antique shopping is before us. The draw of a carved walking cane is hard to resist. Baaaaabaaaaa. Yes a sheep did just appear on screen. I always do the appropriate animal noises, both a compulsion and a pleasure. 

Taking A Punt On A Bargain Hunt

I am reading back my NaNoWriMo literary creations and quietly cringing at my evening of desperational outpourings at the conclusion of November. I am cherry picking the moments of more lucid output to showcase my writing ‘talents’. With this piece I grace you with my musings on the daytime Antiques television programme. You can most likely tell that it is the me, me writing it and not him indoors *taps brain*.

Ooh I’ve just missed an antiques show, the one where everything should be out of the attic but is clearly not. I do love bespectacled nerd guys and the ideas that with an unravelling of a tie and a throw of spectacles they become superstuds with an indepth knowledge of Ming dynasties. The voice over guy just mentioned ‘a fetish for carboot sales’ which makes me picture a sordid fantasy of ‘oooh rub that 50p all over my hand, I’ll have that old brolly with holes in and an annual from the 70s, oooh yeah fill me carrier bag’.

A bouncing presenter shouting it’s Bloody Marvellous is rather pornographic for daytime telly isn’t it? Hmm time for looking for more tat to flog for an extra tenner profit. Flash waistcoat! I love these shows as I can shop for free and the tat that I choose doesn’t actually clutter my flat. It does make me want to visit a lot of antiques markets though, I’ve never actually made the effort to though which saves space and money. The fleeces aren’t the most flattering garments but I am assuming they get to take them home so everyone’s a winner!! Flog it on ebay for £50. Ah I do love a nice cuppa, I love very big mugs, it’s a lot more satisfying have a nice amount of tea though it does up my cake intake because I always try to maintain a careful cake/tea ratio. If there is a good amount of tea left over then more cake or chocolate needs to be found, and if cake is more than tea then a mouthful of tea needs to reside in the cup until the consumption of the last crumb.

Now I do love a nice pink tablecloth, they just need to remove those pesky objets dart thingies so I could buy it. Television is full of innuendo, just shut your eyes and you don’t even need to pay extra for the naughty channels. ‘What sort of wood is it?’ ‘never intended to be a soft box’ .

There’s a nice bit o brass on that stall catching my eye. I’d give £2 for it. Ooh bits stuck together isn’t good for the auction room, they’ll be tutting away saying ‘it’s stuck on that, love, I inna buying that’. £88 for a box with a game board on!! You could get a secondhand Xbox for that! Ooh a silver purse but you couldn’t get more than a fiver in that and certainly not your credit card, it’s the wrong shape, the corners are too round. 

This is actually making me want to play antiques game now, just grab something in my flat and scratch my chin and make significant sighs about if it’s brass and then have a dramatic moment of not being able to find the hallmark. That would all go perfectly with my sat nav game on the Xbox, just put on GTA San Andreas or Driv3r and one of you drives and the other reads the map, puts on a stern voice and says where to turn. No one has actually agreed to play it with me yet but I guarantee it’s a raucously fun experience. £59 for a grotesque vase/jug idea is certainly not cheap in my book!!  A letter opener with an head on it, bloody hell £105!! Seriously!?

He’s got a bit of wood! Don’t say that when I have a mouthful of tea! I’m not always this dirty minded, I’ve been influenced by certain persons. They know who they are. The amount of puns on television these days, you’re groaning like you’re having a day long orgasm. Orf, hehe. I feel that everyone else on NaNoWriMo is creating wonderous masterpieces which does sort of make me doubt my abilities. I’m not sure I have the patience and sanity to create a straight forward novel my mind just doesn’t process in a linear fashion.

I have mince pie stickyness on my fingers so when I’ve nommed the yummy goodness I shall wash my hands and be back to typing full bore.  Ooh that’s a pretty tiny little tray thingymajiggy, can stick pound coins on it. Oh wait, you haven’t got any, you just bought a tiny little tray thingymajiggy with them. Ooh a lion doorstop, I do love lions what with being a leo, the best of the lot in the starsign line up.  Nice bit of rock music for the auction room entrance, had to have a little boogie to it. I do love having a good nosey all round the auction room and seeing all the people, a lot of the time I see people and think ‘I know them’, I often do that with people’s faces as a lot of people look familiar despite them being strangers and new to my vision. Also though I do tend to get apprehensive about not recognising people that I should know very well, I keep thinking their faces might have changed.

  Oh does everyone else bid for stuff when they watch auctions on the telly, it’s totally hilarious to pretend to have bought loads of antiques or even houses.  ‘Ooh I don’t mind not winning the programme, I’ve got a lovely new fleece’. Imagine if they forced them to give back the fleeces because of budget cuts, that wouldn’t go down well. Apparently a can can style kick is an appropriate way to conclude the programme nowadays,’ we might do antiques but we’re also good at the disco’. 

Weekword: Ultracrepidarianism

The habit of giving opinions and advice on matters outside of one’s knowledge.

That is certainly true of how my brain works when I am struggling to wrestle words to portray meaning to others. This is another piece of writing from my first experience of NaNoWriMo. I was nearing the conclusion of the month and getting the aaaarghs when the lovely gentleman who lives in a cosy home in the back of my right hemisphere, gave me another good talking to, he spoke to me a lot during November. He is a very smart person, actually pretty Sherlockian in the Cumberbatch way of things. He likes to be flattered. So this is what he said. (I have just now divided it into paragraphs as the handwritten original sped on through the whole page)

Gnash your jaws and prevaricate and don’t let the mud stick to your boots and develop into sown seeds of discontent intended for the farmer’s wife of understandable consternation. Sometimes and occasionally emotions are court jesters distracting the palaces as the guards are over run with pounding chains and hammered rivals clamouring up the rugged and broken castle walls . Rocks and boulders shatter down from roofs and land on helmeted heads of weary soldiers fatigued in battle in a quill to resist the depths of despondency.

The tyranny of the blank page shall be consumed by ink and thoughts will bleed and cover the landscape. Futility is not an option. The manhandling of words a great joy to behold in a mangled hand shamed by the weakness of the muscles and the voracity of the flesh. The stamina of the mind and body to produce original works whilst the host manifestation is still and quiet and under command of it’s hypnotising poet released into the real world from the far reaches of the dark forests. It is easier to decrease the clutter and just let the citizens themselves take to the page and dance among the ink drops falling from the gutters.

Don’t stop, keep writing and just drift into a meditative state and I Charles Dickens shall grab the pen from you and work my magic upon your persona and be kindly gentle with your soul. Do not interfere with my creative processes, just allow me to hold the pen steady and neatly and so I can produce my finest work. I only meant that I am Charles Dickens in the lightest most playful, metaphorical  sense for I would never denigrate that great man’s work with my own writings and ponderous most egotistical meanderings.

Now Shakespeare, a fine fellow. Inventor of many words which bathe my soul and creep along my flesh as I ignomously lay my body down on tartuffian sheets of good grace and lamp lit sustenance to ascribe my most platonic rest of sacred spirits and shivered spectres. No time to curve the letters into pleasing shapes. Just write and be most grateful that I am here to fill your empty manuscript with fantastical beasts and fleets of fancy conjured up from the warmth of tides and the ever present moon stirring the ocean into eroding away doubt and shining the morning sunlight on to polished granuales of millions nay billions of subservient worlds. The explorer’s footprints christening the Earth.