Rec: Twelve Hungry Men
Well hello again; I have the pleasure of recc-ing this week! I shall start off with a recent gem:
Story: Twelve Hungry Men
Author: shinyford
Rating: All ages
Word Count: 2610
Author's Summary: How do you choose your thirteenth regeneration?
Characters/Pairings: Original Character, Doctors 1 through 12
Warnings: None
Recced because: It is a quirky, funny, weird little tale that is as original as its narrative voice. First person POV is not the easiest thing to do but this one's just wonderful from the start, turns left when you might expect it to in some cases and then turns right back in directions you'd not thought of at all. It gives an outsider's perspective on an important summit with all of the canon doctors making cameos, and plays a lovely timey-wimey game of "spot the paradox" as it goes. Also, me being American and generally clueless, I learned the origin of a particular nickname I'd seen applied to one certain actor of the ninth Doctor persuasion. So go read it and feed the clever, clever author.
Excerpt:
It were a wet Wednesday lunchtime, I think. I remember that, cos the telly was on the fizz again, and I were missing Neighbours.
It was always on the fizz, that telly, what with the rain and all, and that indoor aerial what used to work but got a bit bent, and that transmitter at Crystal Palace not being what it was and having problems, our Norman said, pumping the signal all the way out here to the lower Himalayas.
It’s cos we’re on the wrong side. Of K2, you see. It’s not easy to get Neighbours when you’ve got half a Himalaya between you and Crystal Palace, and only an indoor aerial, that’s what Norman said. Then he’d jiggle it a bit, and the picture would be all right for a while.
I do miss Norman.
So there I was, holding the aerial above my head like the Statue of Liberty, to see if that would do any good, only it didn’t, so I were about to give it a whack, the telly, when I heard the bell go in the café. Well, I dropped everything. I mean, it were already Wednesday, and we hadn’t had a customer since, ooh, 1988. Just after Joe Mangel moved in. With his mum. On Ramsay Street.
It were an old, thin gentleman. Done up strange, he were - long dark coat, posh shoes. Wispy, white hair.
“Ah! My good woman!” he said, seeing me. “Is this the Shangri-La?”
Story: Twelve Hungry Men
Author: shinyford
Rating: All ages
Word Count: 2610
Author's Summary: How do you choose your thirteenth regeneration?
Characters/Pairings: Original Character, Doctors 1 through 12
Warnings: None
Recced because: It is a quirky, funny, weird little tale that is as original as its narrative voice. First person POV is not the easiest thing to do but this one's just wonderful from the start, turns left when you might expect it to in some cases and then turns right back in directions you'd not thought of at all. It gives an outsider's perspective on an important summit with all of the canon doctors making cameos, and plays a lovely timey-wimey game of "spot the paradox" as it goes. Also, me being American and generally clueless, I learned the origin of a particular nickname I'd seen applied to one certain actor of the ninth Doctor persuasion. So go read it and feed the clever, clever author.
Excerpt:
It were a wet Wednesday lunchtime, I think. I remember that, cos the telly was on the fizz again, and I were missing Neighbours.
It was always on the fizz, that telly, what with the rain and all, and that indoor aerial what used to work but got a bit bent, and that transmitter at Crystal Palace not being what it was and having problems, our Norman said, pumping the signal all the way out here to the lower Himalayas.
It’s cos we’re on the wrong side. Of K2, you see. It’s not easy to get Neighbours when you’ve got half a Himalaya between you and Crystal Palace, and only an indoor aerial, that’s what Norman said. Then he’d jiggle it a bit, and the picture would be all right for a while.
I do miss Norman.
So there I was, holding the aerial above my head like the Statue of Liberty, to see if that would do any good, only it didn’t, so I were about to give it a whack, the telly, when I heard the bell go in the café. Well, I dropped everything. I mean, it were already Wednesday, and we hadn’t had a customer since, ooh, 1988. Just after Joe Mangel moved in. With his mum. On Ramsay Street.
It were an old, thin gentleman. Done up strange, he were - long dark coat, posh shoes. Wispy, white hair.
“Ah! My good woman!” he said, seeing me. “Is this the Shangri-La?”