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still not ginger.

Jul. 17th, 2007 | 12:04 am

I'm very back.

Don't quite remember why I did what I did, probably best not to poke at it for a while. Things usually come back, if they're really important things. Like me, I came back. This is me, here, creating a log entry for the first time in ten years. I can't find the last one, something else that's a bit of a mystery. Not to worry, I love a good mystery, or at least I'm reasonably sure that I still do this time. It's very me, this one. Sort of... fallollopy, yet rarrrh. Fallollopy, four l's, is that some sort of record?

Missed the Tardis, inasmuch as I could miss stuff I didn't know existed. Missed her a lot. Must remember, not a good idea to use the Arch on my own in the future. Or the past. Bits of me went missing, fell off like soggy bits of biscuit, and they're only just coming back. If it wasn't for the fact I've got so very very many bits up here anyway, I'd be quite upset. As it is, I might have been stuck there forever if it weren't for Rose. Bit of preja-vu, there.

And Rose, she's another new thing. Person. She's got the most extraordinary... whatsit, that phrase people always use, French, maybe, or Italian, or Dentrassi- that and eyebrows. Tardis likes her.

She wants to go places, which is lucky, 'cause so do I.

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(no subject)

Jul. 3rd, 2007 | 12:27 pm

It's raining hard outside the windows of Martin's flat, the sky dark with stormclouds hard at work drenching the landscape of not-particularly-tall grey houses and and patchy back gardens beneath them. Martin's first action when he walks from the portal is to grope for the light switch, which improves matters a bit - at least making it possible to navigate the living room floor without tripping and vanishing with a surprised yelp into a sea of books.

He lets go of Rose's hand and runs his fingers through his hair. probably with the intent of flattening it. Sadly, it only makes it stick up wildly, like some semi-sentient creature that's trying to receive TV signals. "Now I know y-you're actually here, I feel like I should welcome you to England, something along those lines," he says. Trying to sound a little closer to calm, now that he's back home.

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(no subject)

Jul. 2nd, 2007 | 11:18 am

Martin wakes, his body curled in a U-shape in the small bed, gasping for breath. His hands snatch out for the pad that always sits on the bedside table, pen arranged at a careful right-angle on the top page, but once it's in his grip he can do nothing but pull it to his chest and hold it, crumpling the thick wad of paper against his racing heart.

It feels too thin, the racing galloping beat of his healthy heart, too distant and distressed. The plastic pen-tip digs into his sternum through the shirt, a tiny point of pain beneath his white-knuckled fingers. They twitch against the pad, jerking involuntarily, crossed and folded over it with the intricacy of a Celtic knot. Minutes pass and he merely lies there, wide eyes staring blindly through the clutter of his bedroom, his mind racing back over the dream.

I came through the flames, I came out alone, as the world burned. As all the worlds burn. I looked into the void, and it looked back, and I ran. I never stopped running. I was so tired, all those lives, lives flickering like mayflies, by my side and then gone in a heartbeat, in a blink. Last. Alone. Tired. And I thought, at last I thought, enough. I'll be a single sweep of the second hand, I'll be one strike of the hour, anything. Anything, not to be the tick.

His eyes finally break their empty staring and drop to the page gripped in his trembling hands, just as the pen in his grip stops its frenzied scratching. The words wander across the page, scrawled in that writing, the words his and not his. And the last words...

Find me.

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Through the Swirly-Thing

Jun. 26th, 2007 | 05:51 pm

Martin's flat is so cramped that there's hardly room for a picture on the wall that he and Rose step from, let alone a giant blue circlular hole leading to another world. The elderly TV is wittering away almost silently to itself, almost buried in piles of books heaped around its legs and, well, almost every empty surface in the room.



Martin looks a little embarrassed and picks a dogeared heap of books off of the coffee table in an attempt at tidying. There's nowhere to put them, so he places them carefully on top of another stack on the sofa, which collapses gently. "Er, yeah, sorry. Bit of a mess."

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