A bad birthday poem for Kes
ANYA AND TARA'S MYSTIC MAMAS DETECTIVE AGENCY AND THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MISSING MEMORIES -- an early birthday poem for keswindhover, partly inspired by her musings over the possible fanfic futures for Donna Noble
[Note: In this bit of doggerel I’m shamelessly ripping off some of the characterization and plot developments in missmurchison’s Tara/Anya stories, Resistance is Useless and Sitting on the Dock of eBay, at the end of which Anya is intrigued at the money to be made in criminal investigations and bounty-hunting. In this alternate universe, Anya and Tara had become a couple shortly after the abortive wedding in season 6, and so this poem is set sometime in what would have been season 7, perhaps.]
'Twas stormy, and the night was dark
in Sunnydale, CA,
When Anya and Tara began a lark,
seldom mentioned to this day.
The Magic Box was quiet and still
after a hard day’s capitalism,
while the money nestled safe in its till,
close to the proprietor’s tender bosom.
Suddenly through the shop’s doorway,
a trenchcoated woman flounced.
Her hair was auburn and her eyes intense,
and, “I need a witch,” she announced.
“My name’s Donna Noble, temp extraordinaire,
And I don’t have time for slacking.
Your internet ad led me here to your lair,
to get back the memories I’m lacking.”
Tara winced just a bit as Donna’s problem was named --
her own sore spot, even now -
but her manner was kind as she firmly declaimed,
“There’s no witch here, only-OW!”
“Sorry I pinched you,” Anya told Tara contritely,
“But Miss Noble is not here by chance.
Our detective business is new, so we can’t turn clients down lightly.
And besides, she paid in advance!
“Now, Donna, tell us what you know, how you first came to sense
all those times you forgot you’d forgotten.
Do you suspect a bad spell? Maybe someone who’s too dense
to know what they’ve done to you is rotten?”
Over cookies and tea among the dried herbs and incense,
Donna told of her life ordinary,
How she’d always tuned out the ‘big picture’ events,
all the world-shakers, brilliant or scary.
But just lately, she’d found many months that were gone,
while the world had spun on, all unheeding.
“And there’s worse yet to come,” Donna added, looking wan,
“I could swear I hear a second heart beating!
“I suddenly know things I shouldn’t, all kinds of weird maths
and stories that have yet to be written.
At work, I’m Ms. Fix-it, and at home I chart paths
for stars not visible from Britain!”
“We need to confer,” said Tara (‘the sane one,’
as Donna had thought all along),
“Your case is . . . unusual. A hard-to-explain one,
but I don’t think this will take us too long.”
In the back of the shop, the partners spoke in a hush,
quietly putting the pieces together.
When they’d agreed on a solution, they came back in a rush,
knowing Donna was at the end of her tether.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” said Tara, “We’ve seen this before -
Well, maybe not this exactly, but nearly!
Your aura’s so dazzling, I should have guessed when you came in the door,
but I guess I wasn’t seeing you clearly.”
“You’re not human,” added Anya, “or you weren’t to start.
You’ve joined this existence as a gift.
That’s why your memories don’t match, and you’re growing a spare heart,
All symptoms of a recent reality shift.
“We’ve had several . . . friends who’ve run the same course --
or something quite like it, I assure you!
Whatever you were until lately - whether demon or green, mystical force -
You’re human now, and no one can cure you!”
“What Anya means,” Tara amended, “is that you’re here to do good
-- I can tell that much just from your spirit.
Your older memories may be fake, so you’d blend in where you could
with humanity, but you shouldn’t fear it.
“The memories you make after this, they’re all up to you,
And don’t let anyone dare tell you otherwise!
You could save the world, Donna, by something brilliant you do.
So heed your gramps, and don’t worry, mother-wise.”
Tara’s words were so firm and her eyes seemed so knowing,
that inevitably Donna’s hope gained re-birth.
As she returned home the next day, Donna knew she was going
to enjoy her new life on this strange planet earth.
[Note: In this bit of doggerel I’m shamelessly ripping off some of the characterization and plot developments in missmurchison’s Tara/Anya stories, Resistance is Useless and Sitting on the Dock of eBay, at the end of which Anya is intrigued at the money to be made in criminal investigations and bounty-hunting. In this alternate universe, Anya and Tara had become a couple shortly after the abortive wedding in season 6, and so this poem is set sometime in what would have been season 7, perhaps.]
'Twas stormy, and the night was dark
in Sunnydale, CA,
When Anya and Tara began a lark,
seldom mentioned to this day.
The Magic Box was quiet and still
after a hard day’s capitalism,
while the money nestled safe in its till,
close to the proprietor’s tender bosom.
Suddenly through the shop’s doorway,
a trenchcoated woman flounced.
Her hair was auburn and her eyes intense,
and, “I need a witch,” she announced.
“My name’s Donna Noble, temp extraordinaire,
And I don’t have time for slacking.
Your internet ad led me here to your lair,
to get back the memories I’m lacking.”
Tara winced just a bit as Donna’s problem was named --
her own sore spot, even now -
but her manner was kind as she firmly declaimed,
“There’s no witch here, only-OW!”
“Sorry I pinched you,” Anya told Tara contritely,
“But Miss Noble is not here by chance.
Our detective business is new, so we can’t turn clients down lightly.
And besides, she paid in advance!
“Now, Donna, tell us what you know, how you first came to sense
all those times you forgot you’d forgotten.
Do you suspect a bad spell? Maybe someone who’s too dense
to know what they’ve done to you is rotten?”
Over cookies and tea among the dried herbs and incense,
Donna told of her life ordinary,
How she’d always tuned out the ‘big picture’ events,
all the world-shakers, brilliant or scary.
But just lately, she’d found many months that were gone,
while the world had spun on, all unheeding.
“And there’s worse yet to come,” Donna added, looking wan,
“I could swear I hear a second heart beating!
“I suddenly know things I shouldn’t, all kinds of weird maths
and stories that have yet to be written.
At work, I’m Ms. Fix-it, and at home I chart paths
for stars not visible from Britain!”
“We need to confer,” said Tara (‘the sane one,’
as Donna had thought all along),
“Your case is . . . unusual. A hard-to-explain one,
but I don’t think this will take us too long.”
In the back of the shop, the partners spoke in a hush,
quietly putting the pieces together.
When they’d agreed on a solution, they came back in a rush,
knowing Donna was at the end of her tether.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” said Tara, “We’ve seen this before -
Well, maybe not this exactly, but nearly!
Your aura’s so dazzling, I should have guessed when you came in the door,
but I guess I wasn’t seeing you clearly.”
“You’re not human,” added Anya, “or you weren’t to start.
You’ve joined this existence as a gift.
That’s why your memories don’t match, and you’re growing a spare heart,
All symptoms of a recent reality shift.
“We’ve had several . . . friends who’ve run the same course --
or something quite like it, I assure you!
Whatever you were until lately - whether demon or green, mystical force -
You’re human now, and no one can cure you!”
“What Anya means,” Tara amended, “is that you’re here to do good
-- I can tell that much just from your spirit.
Your older memories may be fake, so you’d blend in where you could
with humanity, but you shouldn’t fear it.
“The memories you make after this, they’re all up to you,
And don’t let anyone dare tell you otherwise!
You could save the world, Donna, by something brilliant you do.
So heed your gramps, and don’t worry, mother-wise.”
Tara’s words were so firm and her eyes seemed so knowing,
that inevitably Donna’s hope gained re-birth.
As she returned home the next day, Donna knew she was going
to enjoy her new life on this strange planet earth.