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THE GREAT NOVEL(la) OF DOOM(ish) by Aron Toman Prologue Once upon a time. “No, no, no”, he says to himself irritably. “That won’t do at all. I mean, can you say ‘cliché’ any clearer?” He stares at the blank piece of paper, willing it to produce the best response for him. Perhaps some divine intervention will come down from above (or below, he’d take offers from anywhere these days) and give him the perfect opening. Something truly wondrous and inspiring to begin the adventure. That’ll set the tone of the story perfectly, hook the readers in and keep them hooked until they get to the last page, at which point they will pause for breath, before returning to the beginning to repeat the process. And so on and so forth until the book is suddenly considered the most perfect piece of prose ever created. All in that first, perfect opening. No wonder he’s having difficulty. The Doctor gives the page another extra long hard look, glaring at it, daring it to give him inspiration. A quote? A character? An action? A band of evil ninjas ready to chop whomever they see into itty bitty little pieces without rhyme or reason? “You know, this wasn’t anywhere near as hard when I was helping old Bill out all those years ago. Just get portentous and write about taking slings and arms against outrageous forces, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, and so on. But that was different – Shakespeare’s supposed to be portentous. I’m writing for me.” The Doctor takes another attempt at a start… It was a dark and stormy night …and instantly screws up the piece of paper he wrote on. He then proceeds to bash his head on the desk. Then again. Then again. Then again. “You know, that can’t be healthy.” The Doctor looks up and sees Astra walking into the room. “Bashing your head on the table. You know, I swear that’s how the Computer got the way she is.” “She bashed her head on a table?” “No, somebody kept bashing a table onto her. Whatcha doin’?” The Doctor gestured to the ever-growing pile of scrunched up paper around him. “NaNoWriMo.” “Bless-you.” “Funny. National Novel Writing Month. Every year, a whole lot of people get together and write an entire fifty thousand word novel in a month.” “What, one novel? Can’t be too hard, get fifty thousand people together, each of them writes one word, bingo, one novel.” The Doctor pauses for a moment. “Not one novel together, everybody does their own individual ones.” “And despite your insanely busy and crazy lifestyle, you decided to sign up for it?” Astra says. “I figured I’ve had more than enough spare time recently. And even though I’m technically three-hundred and twelve years, five months late for the one I signed up for, what’s time in a time machine?” He looks back down at his blank piece of paper before him. “I just wish I could work out how to start it.” Astra sighs, then bends down to pick up the latest piece of screwed-up paper, and gives it a quick examination. “So, what’s wrong with this one?” “It’s an irritating cliché” says the Doctor. “Do you know how many stories start with an opening like that?” Astra shrugs. “Well, sometimes when you have to write, a good cliché can be useful. Besides, you have to get fifty thousand words written in thirty days, I don’t think you can afford to waste time with muttering over clichés.” The Doctor reaches over and takes back the scrunched up opening. “So you think I should use this one then?” “Why not? Is there anything in the rules of this-“ she pauses, deliberately making sure she pronounces it right in her head “- NaNoWriMo that says you can’t get help from someone else?” The Doctor thinks for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. There is a rule that says you –“ “Right, then. I’m helping” and before the Doctor can protest, Astra grabs a chair from over the other side of the room, unceremoniously dumps the technicolour coat and the excessively long scarf slouched on it onto the floor, and places herself onto it beside the Doctor, staring intently. “We could be the next, umm, umm, I just realised, I can’t think of any famous two-part writing teams” “Pip and Jane Baker?” “Please don’t use that language in front of me” says Astra. She taps at the paper, impatiently. “Come on, what are you waiting for? You’ve got your opening, now for the next line.” The Doctor gives Astra a Look. “This is going to be one of those things where I try and have fun on my own, and you interfere and annoy me isn’t it?” “Looks like. Are you writing or not?” The Doctor sighs. What on Gallifrey is he opening himself up for, he thinks. Never mind, it can’t be helped, he decides, as he opens a fresh sheet of paper, dips his quill into the inkpot and begins the story. Astra coughs. “Umm, Doctor? You’ve misspelt “dark”.” Chapter One – Travellers and Trucks It was a dark and stormy night. Or at least, it was as dark and as stormy as the time-space vortex was likely to get. In fact, you could probably describe it as being constantly dark and always stormy, as various time streams and continuities thrashed and bashed together in an insane and apparently illogical fashion, pushing chronovores, time ships and any unfortunates who had accidentally slipped through the cracks between the now and the now through twists and turns and utterly unpredictable directions through the “Doctor, you’re rambling.” “Sorry. But hey, it boosts the word count.” “But I’m getting bored, get to the point already.” But one time ship had a very definite view on where and when it was supposed to travel to. It’s pilot was an expert at handling it, as spun its way down them temporal highways. With its light above it flashing rhythmically with the pulse of time, a wheezing groaning echoing through the corridors of history, the ship faded from view, heading towards its intended destination. Earth, London, November 3, 2013. Almost as soon as the ship wheezed into existence on the asphalt, the door swung open to reveal a cheerful face about to step out into a new world. Almost immediately following this, the door slammed closed, to avoid the hover car whizzing past it. It screamed abuse at whomever had landed there, as did the next one, and the next one, and the one after that. Which, as any bystander could tell you, is the likely result when you land a TARDIS in the middle of an intersection in a time zone known for its high speeds and crazy driving. The TARDIS’s owner poked his head out of the ship carefully, wondering how he was going to get out of this one. Thankfully, the lights changed, and half of the cars ground to a halt as bemused pedestrians crossed the road, trying very hard not to notice the time machine suddenly sitting in the middle. The time traveller used his chance to race across the road and onto the curb, hoping his ship wouldn’t be too badly harmed sitting where it was. “Excuse me, mister” came a small voice beside him. That’s all I need, he thought, someone’s actually got the courage to ask about the TARDIS. Or his unusual clothes, either one, he didn’t really want to have to deal with that today. “Umm, yes?” he asked, resigned to the fact that if he didn’t respond, the kid wouldn’t go away. “Is that yours, that box out there?” The time traveller sighed. He knew it. “Yes, I’m afraid it is. Why?” “Well, aren’t you worried it’s going to get smashed to pieces?” Despite himself, the traveller smiled. “Oh, I don’t think so. I think you’ll find it’s indestructible.” “Really?” the kid had a coy smile on. He couldn’t me much older than about eighteen, probably playing hooky from his exams or some such. He pointed. “Then you shouldn’t be worried about the truck barrelling down the hill at it then.” They watched, as a huge milk truck rolled down the hill at a speed both of them knew shouldn’t be allowable for a vehicle of that size. It sped down the hill, its horn blasting over and over, but there was nothing either of them could do. It went through the box like it was cardboard, breaking it apart with ease. There was a blast of light that came from within it as its shell burst open, dazzling everyone with its brightness, before vanishing completely, leaving a very few pieces of shrapnel around. The truck, blinded by the light, swerved across the road and collided with another car or two, sending them through a shop window. Alarms blasted, sirens wailed, but most people stood about in shock for a second, before leaping into action, calling ambulances, police and anybody else who might be necessary to deal with something like this. Only the traveller and the kid stood quietly for a moment longer, examining the damage. “Indestructible, eh?” said the kid eventually. The traveller gaped. “Well, it was rather old. I guess it couldn’t take as much as I thought it could.” “And what was that whole fireworks thing?” “Oh, just the remaining artron energy dissipating into the atmosphere.

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