Every Wednesday, the mods choose an author who is newer to the DW fandom, and rec a fic. There is so much awesome writing in the fandom, and as a new author (we’ve all been there), it can be terrifying to upload your work. But we’re here to bridge the gap!
Summary: The Doctor returns to the alley to tell Rose that “it also travels in time,” but what if he botched that landing?
Rating: General/All Ages
“Hello. Welcome to Bad Wolf,” she recited. “What can I get you?”
“Pint of bitter, please,” he said, hoping he sounded more relaxed than he felt.
“Coming right up.” And then she waltzed away.
He tried to think of her behavior as a blessing, since it gave him a moment to formulate what he wanted to say. But she’d obviously been doing the same, because she came back with a casual question in addition to his glass.
“So, where have you been in the last year?”
Year? Blimey. That was one hell of a botched landing. He was going to need to climb under the console and check the wiring to the chronometer. Returning directly to the previous coordinates shouldn’t be this bad. A week he might expect. An hour happened often enough. A month was concerning. A year was ridiculous.
Stay tuned for next week’s Welcome Wednesday! Have a lovely week, all.
You are lying on your stomach with your head upon your folded arms. Your torso rests across a black rubber inner-tube. It is pleasantly hot against your skin, while the river water that laps your belly and dangling legs is cool. The air smells of green things and seems to vibrate gently between the water and the sun. If you open your eyes, you will see your riverside campsite - a cheerful orange tent, a cooler full of drinks, a picnic table. Your friends will begin preparing for dinner soon, but for now, someone is playing acoustic guitar and everyone is singing along. You smile when the lyrics are botched. A damsel fly lands upon your moisture-beaded shoulder, soft as a whisper. It is electric blue and startlingly beautiful.
You are content.
The water rocks you gently, as if you were a baby in a cradle. You could sleep like this, if you wanted to, but although you are drowsy, you are not tired. You will sleep well tonight, better than you would expect. The patter of light rain against the tent will wake you sometime after midnight, and you will hear someone snoring softly. In the distance, you will hear a chorus of frogs - reedy and contrapuntal, a symphony in the reeds. Now and then the deep bass of a bullfrog will cut through the song. You will listen to this strange music for a time, for it is haunting and lovely. You will think night-thoughts, blown by the breeze between the trees. Then you will close your eyes, and dream.
You are content.
In the morning, there is fresh coffee, served in a blue metal mug flecked with white. You help set up the camp stove, and then someone is making pancakes. You step barefoot into the river, shaded by overhanging trees, and toss a handful of pancake crumbs into the water to watch the fish dart after them. When the crumbs are gone, you rinse and towel your feet before slipping into clean, dry socks. You notice that there are fresh raspberries growing on the other side of the campsite. They stain your lips and fingers dark with juice, but they are sweet and full as happy secrets.
Horse diving. According to inventor William Carver, the idea of launching a panicked equine into the watery void came whilst riding off a collapsing bridge in 1881. And like all things entertainment back then, recreating tragedy on a grand scale was instantly lucrative. The show was a summer staple at Atlantic City … up until like the fucking 1970s.
That’s right – we really held on to horse diving. Partially due to how surprisingly few horses were (externally) hurt from this bizarre act, as what few anecdotal stories that exist range from hoofed panic attacks to a single horrific drowning. Meanwhile, their human counterparts had the troublesome task ofnot slamming their face into the water upon landing. And while that sounds simple enough, consider that the most famous horse-diver, Sonora Carver, went blind after a botched landing detached both of her retinas. And yet, much like this entire asshole sport, our hero continued to risk her life well after the loss of her eyes. Her commitment to stupidity in the face of overwhelming reason was the subject of a 1991 movie called Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken.
Because the bravest thing you can do in America is refuse to give up, even when that means blindly plunging 60 feet into a shallow pool for the delight of day drunks. This Yankee stubbornness wasn’t exclusive to the performers either, as one July Fourth reveler named Eunice Winkless was photographed attempting a 40-foot jump on a $100 dare.