Drabble: Monologue (Doctor Who)
Jul. 25th, 2008 09:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anactoriaTitle: Monologue
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anactoria
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Ten, implied Donna.
Rating: G
Word Count: 190
Magpie crabs! Half the cities on this planet flooded a century or two back, and they live in the ruins. Pick up bits of glass, plastic, mirror – anything shiny. Like hermit crabs only bling…
Careful getting out of the TARDIS. Can’t land on the ground, you see. So much water circulating down there, it’s quicksand. We’d sink right away. They all live in trees, instead. Trees!
He’s alone, mostly, now, but he can’t switch it off. The voice inside his head that won’t stop explaining, expanding, sharing his universe at a hundred words a minute. Of course, he doesn’t do it out loud, usually, though sometimes he catches himself waving his hands around to illustrate a point and feels silly when he remembers there’s no-one there to see.
He doesn’t know who he thinks he’s talking to.
No, that’s not true. He’s just careful not to think about it. Instead he keeps moving, keeps up his inner monologue, keeps on rattling off the facts, a bubbling stream of consciousness that never leads him anywhere at all.
What he really needs, he thinks, is someone to tell him to shut up.
Author:
anactoriaFandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Ten, implied Donna.
Rating: G
Word Count: 190
Magpie crabs! Half the cities on this planet flooded a century or two back, and they live in the ruins. Pick up bits of glass, plastic, mirror – anything shiny. Like hermit crabs only bling…
Careful getting out of the TARDIS. Can’t land on the ground, you see. So much water circulating down there, it’s quicksand. We’d sink right away. They all live in trees, instead. Trees!
He’s alone, mostly, now, but he can’t switch it off. The voice inside his head that won’t stop explaining, expanding, sharing his universe at a hundred words a minute. Of course, he doesn’t do it out loud, usually, though sometimes he catches himself waving his hands around to illustrate a point and feels silly when he remembers there’s no-one there to see.
He doesn’t know who he thinks he’s talking to.
No, that’s not true. He’s just careful not to think about it. Instead he keeps moving, keeps up his inner monologue, keeps on rattling off the facts, a bubbling stream of consciousness that never leads him anywhere at all.
What he really needs, he thinks, is someone to tell him to shut up.
