Between Planets

“Collision alert!” the Doctor shouted above the din of alarms.

The TARDIS lurched.  Nyssa clutched the console, attempting to steady herself. The Doctor, somehow, stood fixed, his hands flying across the controls the bring the ship safely from the vortex.

“Collision?  With what?  Where are we, Doctor?”

“Earth’s solar system, somewhere between Earth and Mars.  Twelfth century.”  The Doctor paused.  “Asteroid?  No, artificial.  A derelict spacecraft, probably the Ice Warriors, adrift for millennia.”  His manner was both breathless and conclusive.

He threw a switch, and the scanner opened.

“Oh dear.”

“Doctor, is that… a teapot?”

“Russell will not be pleased.”

Bleacher Creatures

“I can’t believe you wore that,” Peri said.

“How was I to know?” the Doctor said indignantly, raising his voice to shout above those jeering at him.

Peri frowned.  “You could have asked.”

“Did you not say, ‘Let’s go to a baseball game.’  Is this not the proper attire?”  He gestured at the cap and jersey he wore.

“For Fenway Park, Doctor.  Not here.”  She buried her face in her hands.

The Doctor shrugged and said nothing, oblivious to his conspicuousness as the only person in Yankee Stadium’s bleachers wearing a Boston Red Sox jersey during a heated playoff game.

Coffee Bars

Owen frowned.  Pubs he liked.  Coffee bars he didn’t.  The college kids in turtlenecks, the young professionals on their laptops — he’d lived this life and outgrown it.  He wanted a drink — bourbon or scotch — not a made-up Italian word for a fancy coffee.

He heard Tosh through his earpiece.  “You’re on top of the signal.  It’s the right place.”

Gwen tugged on his sleeve and pointed toward the stage.

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” he said.  “Why can’t it be another sex alien?”

Gwen giggled.  “What, aliens wouldn’t want to come to Earth for an open-mic poetry night?”

Crisis In Infinite Camelots

“Who are you all?” the boy with scruffy hair wanted to know.

“Why, isn’t it obvious?” said the animated man with the long white beard and the pointed hat.

“Not to me,” said the man with the metallic skullcap and the trim beard in his high-pitched voice.

The unkempt, unwashed man dyed in woad paint mumbled, but no one understood him.

A wizened old man, his drawn face impassive, said nothing.

A clean-shaven man in an anachronistic tweed jacket frowned.  “You can’t all be me, surely?  I know I’m to be ginger and Merlin someday, but this is ridiculous!”

Making Minds Free

“What we did, Doctor? Was it wise?”

“We brought down a corrupt religion, Peri. Minds clouded by dogma will now be free. These people now understand they will fail because of their decisions, not because of the fickleness of fate.”

Throngs of the once-worshipful tore a statue down from its pedestal. It crashed to the cobbled stones, the sound echoing off the plaza’s walls. The rounded head broke free and rolled away.

“Of all the things to worship, Doctor — a mouse?”

The Doctor shrugged. “He got what he wanted. The Brain always did want to take over the world.”

Of the Wanderers in the Fields of the Unbroken Arda

Though the Lamps were thrown down by Melkor long ages ere the awakening of the Elves and Men, it is said that one of the Kindred of Men, with a spirit that flowed like the waters of the mighty Sirion in later days, walked in the fields of the unbroken Arda and looked upon the light of the lamp Illuin with one who was neither Valar nor Maiar nor of the Two Kindreds, and though none but Ilúvatar knew how such a thing could be, all rejoiced with delight save Melkor, who greatly feared and hated the beauty of Arda.

Written for Tolkien Weekly‘s “Lamplight” drabble prompt

Old Friends, New Identities

“You know everyone.  Churchill.  Liz Ten.”  Amy smirked.  “So who is he?  Your friend, Captain Cornelius.”

The Doctor sighed.  “An old friend.  Very old.  Fifty thousand years old.”

Amy’s eyes widened.  “You’re joking.”

“He’s one of the true immortals.  In different eras, he goes by different names.  In your time, Captain Jack Harkness of the Royal Air Force.  During the Dalek Wars, Colonel Beauregard Shanley of the Imperial Draconian Fusiliers.  Today, Captain Cornelius, interstellar pirate.”

“You didn’t have to chaperon me on your friend’s ship.  I could have taken care of myself.”

“It wasn’t you I was worried about.”

On the Cusp of History

Many times in his life the Doctor had been on the cusp of battle.

But never like this.

The TARDIS was hundreds of miles away in London.  There would be no escape for him as bullets flew, as cannonshot fell.  His life could easily end here, on the deck of Victory.

His companion, much shorter than he, handed him a spyglass.  “There.  Just on the horizon.”

The Doctor put the spyglass to his eye.  “Sails.  Pennants.  Villeneuve’s fleet.”

“Glorious, isn’t it?”  Horatio Nelson smiled.  “Signal the fleet!  Make sail!  Straight in!” he shouted.

The Battle of Trafalgar was at hand.

Written for dw100‘s “Sail/Sale” drabble prompt


From:� Satie, Norah, Rear Admiral

To:� Picard, Jean-Luc, Captain

In light of recent actions undertaken by yourself and the Time Lord known as the Doctor on stardate 37141.5 in halting and destroying the Krynoid foliage overrunning the Berengaria VII colony, you are hereby authorized for detached assignment aboard the Doctor’s craft known as the TARDIS, with a full report on all activities while on assignment due to Admiral Gregory Quinn or his successor on stardate 40250.0.

Personal Addendum:� Truthfully, I envy you, Jean-Luc.  I read Dorcy’s journals long ago and dreamed many times of traveling with the Doctor.  Godspeed, Captain.

Written for dw100‘s “Bloom” drabble prompt


Martha gagged twice, bent over.  Orange slime covered her face, and some had run into her nose and mouth.

“You want a towel?” the Doctor asked.

“This… stuff is gross,” she said, her voice muffled as she wiped slime from her face.  “I thought you said we were attending a poetry recital.”

“We did.  Wasn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful?” Martha shouted.  “What the hell was that, Doctor?”

The Doctor wiped slime from his forehead.  “I may have forgotten to mention.  The Jiacones communicate visually.  They use colors instead of sounds.”

“One man’s poetry…”

The Doctor grinned.  “…is another man’s goop, exactly.”

The Dalek Invasion of Endor

“You can’t do this, Davros!” the Doctor screamed from captivity.

Davros rolled to the Doctor’s cell.  “You are too late. My Spider-Daleks are moving through the jungles. By sunrise, no Ewok will remain alive.”

“Ewoks,” the Doctor whispered, stunned.

The Black Dalek outside the Doctor’s cell shook its eyestalk. “ALL EWOKS WILL BE EXTERMINATED.”

The Doctor sighed. “Do as you will; they’re merely Ewoks.”

“You won’t stop me?”

“No, you might do the universe a favor.”

“A trick?”

“You have my word.”

“Release the Doctor!”

Villages burned in the night as the cries of a million Ewoks went unanswered.