Category: Silly

For more explanation see Part I.

Trish was positively thrumming with excitement. In honor of the first World Who Con the science museum was setting up a Dr. Who exhibit. They were going to have all kinds of props and memorabilia from the series. It wouldn’t open for another week, but that was okay. Trish had a friend who worked in the ticket department. Eddie had called her that morning and told her that they were going to be unloading the stuff for the exhibit all day. In honor of the occasion Trish had called in sick to her job at the book store. She was going to spend the whole afternoon out behind the museum hoping to get a glimpse of the Tardis or something equally important. It had been cold and lonely but she was about to get her reward. A crane was lifting the familiar shape of a police box from the back of the big truck. She edged closer to the rail that kept people out of the loading zone. Just then she felt a hand planted firmly against the base of her spine. It propelled her forward with surprising force. Before she could make any attempt to save herself the rail caught her in the thighs and she went over onto her face. There on the ground in front of her was a sticker. It said, “There can be only one!” She had just a second to ponder that before the chain holding the police box overhead let loose and she was smashed to pulp against the unyielding concrete.

This is the last one that got written though there were ultimately supposed to be five.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

(Originally published on the Wyrdsmiths blog December 16 2008, and original comments may be found there. Reposted and reedited as part of the reblogging project)

For more explanation see Part I.

Erik turned the car’s stereo up a little louder and pushed the gas pedal down hard. This was the last delivery of the night. Once he got rid of this pizza he would be free for three whole days. And what glorious days they would be! The science fiction channel was going to be broadcasting seventy two straight hours of Doctor Who episodes. A bunch of the other fen were going to come to his place and they were going to have a marathon viewing session. Of course there would be times when he would have to go to the bathroom or something, but that was okay, he was going to tape the whole thing. He had a fresh box of video tapes on the seat next to him for that express purpose. He grinned in anticipation and wished the night could be over. As if in answer to his prayers he spotted the address he was looking for. He grabbed the delivery bag and hopped out, pausing only to make sure that the celery on his lapel was at the right angle. You never know when you might meet an attractive femme fen. He was almost to the door when a noise made him turn and look to his left. “Pardon me,” said a deep gravelly voice, “but I think your boutonniere is wilting. Allow me to provide you with a new one.” Then there was a twang and he felt an impact in his chest. He looked down. A green bolt which appeared to be made of frozen celery was sticking out from between his ribs. His strength left him and he slumped to the ground. “Why?” he asked. “There can be only one,” was all the answer he ever got.

To be continued.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

(Originally published on the Wyrdsmiths blog December 9 2008, and original comments may be found there. Reposted and reedited as part of the reblogging project)

Laura and I were rewatching Season IV of Dr Who last night and it rang a very faint memory bell for me. A little work with Apple’s spotlight search and hey presto I’d dug out the three pieces of a Dr Who themed serial that I’d written for a zine called Pirate Radio Neptune back around the end of 1994, years before my first actual sale. Anyway, I thought I’d post them here as a window into the head of a developing writer. There were supposed to be two more, and some day I might even write them. Here’s the first.

Melvin rubbed at his eyes. Staring into a computer monitor for hours on end could really take it out of you. But, it was well worth it. After thirty two straight hours he had solved the Dalek riddle. Now he would have some real status in the Dr Who MUD. He got up from his desk and put on his world war two surplus trench and the real Dr. Who scarf that his mother had made for him. Then it was down the stairs and out the door. He was going to SA to grab a case of Mountain Dew and some jelly beans. Nothing like caffeine and sugar to pick you up. It was dark out. No surprise. It was close to midnight. He was about half a block from the store when he felt the tug on his scarf. At first he thought that he had caught it on something. By the time he saw the shadowy figure it was too late. Whoever they were they had a firm grip on his scarf. He felt the wool stretch tight across his windpipe. He fought, but his computer-mushroom lifestyle hadn’t prepared him for a death struggle. It was over quickly. The dark figure stood over the body and let out a harsh laugh. Then it bent and took the scarf. “There can be only one!” said the figure.

To be continued.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

(Originally published on the Wyrdsmiths blog , and original comments may be found there. Reposted and reedited as part of the reblogging project)

Today is the first day of classes at the University where my wife teaches. And that means that I have structure in my life again, which means much more writing happening. Don’t get me wrong, I love having her home for the summer and living on an academic schedule. There’s something truly joyous about four months of down time every year and the the only thing in the world I love as much as writing is Laura. But school starting means that I go back to a full time writing schedule, and the only thing I love as much as Laura is writing. So, without further ado, and all appropriate apologies to old Will:

Once more unto the book, dear friends, once more;
Now mark the page up with our English words.
In lulls there’s nothing becomes a writer
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the novel call blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d ink;
Then lend the pen a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the word o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth bad metaphor
O’erhang and shadow its intended thought,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful word.
Now set the start and stretch the keyboard wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every writer
To their full plot. On, on, noblest novelist.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of literature!
Fathers that, like so many Asimovs,
Have in these parts from morn till even writ
Then sheathed their pens for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your keyboards; now attest
That those whom you took as models did beget you.
Be example now to those of grosser blood,
And teach them how to write. And you, good yeoman,
Whose pens were dipped in ink, show us here
The mettle of your writing; let us swear
That you are worth your paper; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not vital story in your heart.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for story, pen, and written word!’

(Originally published on the Wyrdsmiths blog September 03 2008, and original comments may be found there. Reposted and reedited as part of the reblogging project)