It’s crystal clear
Then all her pain is inside of you
Not even a fraction
You dare not move aside out of fear she’ll reject you
But was she ever yours is the question you’ll ask few
Those who have witnessed your last testimony
And know you’re sincere in your tall told stories
They’ll look to the sky and grace god with a wink
And pray the realisation occurs in the second reserved for a blink
Because you need to realise that while it’s not fair
You’re leading her through a storm that’s not there
And she’s about to provide you with her fair share
Did you ever stop to think of that cross to bear?]
Or was this when you woke up from the nightmare?
She starts to speak and ignores those behind you
The ones that stand their ground and pull through
They’re all smiles and it hurts to laugh
Now that you’re prepared for the aftermath
You’re right there in front and she starts to cry
And you’re left locked in the shell of an appropriate lie.
When circumstances, opinions and preferences force us to give certain passion projects up, one is left with the inevitable feeling we’ve left some work half-done. I’ve felt that way about Doctor Who series 11, opting to only edit a handful of episodes because I feel there’s not much creative avenues required for the rather unremarkable slew of stories, but then there’s the likes of Whoflix, who’d much rather not attempt edits of the Whitaker-not named-David era at all. At least if you want someone to feel you’re missed at work you could show up every now and then.
Ah, but we love Whoflix here at Zaredit, that guy has taught me a lot about perfecting editing and thinking more outside the box, so I’m fine with him letting the Doctor go and finishing all that is left to be salvaged from the ashes of his personal Pompei. As for us? C’mon Ace, we’ve got work to do.
Where was I? What was the subject we were on? Ah, yes, incompleteness, and that brings back around to Whoflix. When all is said and compiled, there may still be one gap in the man’s collection of edits, and that is the Night of the Doctor.
One might think there’s not much you can get out of a six minute short, and you’d be right. It’s hard to subtract even more from it…so why not instead ADD to it?
By adding “The Last Day” as a timey whimey prologue, you can build the escalation of events in the time war up a little more, giving us a taste of just how merciless the Daleks are en route to the Eighth Doctor’s fateful meeting with Cass aboard her spaceship.
How to extend it past even the original running time? Simply rely on the creativity of others and steal from the best! (just remember to give them the proper credit for being immensely more talented than you)
The works of Youtuber Oliver Comet provided the Doctor’s transformation and gradual acceptance of his War Doctor form, Comet even snuck in a brief cameo from Dalton as Rassilon. It’s enough to genuinely frustrate a fellow at the squandered opportunities they had with the realisation of the late John Hurt’s character. If only Big Finish could have spent some money on nabbing Dalton for some stories before Hurt passed on…and we never did get to see a Molloy/Hurt face off at the gates of Elysium either. Perhaps the Nightmare Child still awaits for McGann?
Due to Comet putting his edit together in 4/3, the DVD rips had to be set to that ratio to match, which means FE.org aren’t likely to take it when I write up the IFDB article, which means this is the “renegade edition”, the official version which will listed on the IFDB will not include Comet’s footage.
TWENTY-SIX SECOND SOLDIER
Within the window of a crucial hour, Cruz felt compelled to waste precious minutes taking in the cancerous stench surrounding the planet he had just touched down on.
To a non-smoker, it was an odious, intimidating aroma. A result of negligent beings and an environment being just as dismissive of itself as they were to it. An environment that had long given up believing in its own beauty and sense of worth.
It cut itself loose, it gave in, and the smoke from a thousand factories on its service filled its lungs.
A cancerous habitat and one which Cruz, for now, relished.
It had been seventeen months since he had a cigar locked firmly within his lips; he likened it to a star-crossed love affair. Interplanetary restrictions had banned the practice of smoking across much of the inhabited quadrants. There was not one colony he could go to that would permit a cigar, or a pipe, or a lighter. The very sight of them would see you given a cushy few days in an isolated cell. Away from more than just that one unhealthy method of occupying your time.
On the plus side however, you wouldn’t see much of the war. And you wouldn’t have to make sacrifices quite like the one Cruz was going to make.
Maybe that’s why he wasting his time, for there was none to lose. These seconds, as abundant in number as they were for the time being would still prove ultimately finite. These were his judgment calls, and he was off to a poor start.
As he looked up at the burning skies above him, and looked west towards the fortified structure ahead, he knew taking in these moments, these pleasures, was the right course of action. It was these moments, this embrace of the corrupted air that ignited the inner fire necessary to storm the fortress and test his race.
Yes, he was looking to label an opportunity to inhale second-hand smoke as a benchmark moment for humanity.
Anything to fashion his ego into a crucial portrait. After all, it had taken a bruising in the last day or so.
But he needn’t think about that now, not when the next judgement call had to be more serious.
He examined his inventory with precision. He was somewhat disappointed in the overall simplistic approach. It was something of a school lunch than a main course.
Your basics were there. Ray gun with seven or so recharger packs, a jet pack, grappling hook, headphones, and a stop watch.
And there was even a note from your mother, telling you to utilize all of it, and to omit nothing.
Those that had assigned him this task had given him precious amounts to work with, and that was just not the kind of world that easily overwhelmed a man of Cruz’s calibre who had been in the heat of a harsher time, and where the colonial military had once taken so many precautions that it felt like they were overcompensating. That they had overdid it for the wars they were involved in.
Probably why they won those wars so easily, and why Cruz was so easy-going about any that came long after the military had been downsized and all manners of deterrents blocked from importing.
To be so easy going about war meant you could face death in the eye and shrug your shoulders at what it meant, even if the notion still terrified you at heart.
Cruz realized just why he was chosen, why he was expendable. The time he lived in had long passed, there were no easy solutions to win this war any longer, these were the hard choices, and people of his kind were being gradually phased out in a manner that would make them folklore no matter which way the outcome went.
To bestow a heavenly legacy on to a hero with a noble pathway to hell.
Alright then. Cruz would accept.
He took the gun, fastened the jet pack to his back, slipped the grappling hook into his side pocket, put on the headphones, and disembarked from his ship, and relished the continuous cancer inviting cauldron of smoke surrounding the planet.
He switched on the rocket pack’s thrusters, which catapulted him across whole craters and long abandoned cities. Before long, he was listening to the ‘music’ on the headphones.
In reality, they were instructions, no music, telling the good little soldier what to do when he got to the fortress, but Cruz, in his head, chose to fashion the instructions as if they were a kind of jingle, like an old fashioned commercial one would hear on the radio back in the wartime of yesteryear, back on the parent planet.
The soothing sounds of his own head merged seamlessly into the cold, commanding, logical tone of the instructor, telling Cruz his goal was to penetrate the fortress, and from there, he would have a twenty-six second window or thereabouts to do whatever he needed to do to strike deep at the heart of the enemy, and then make a scramble for freedom.
He could win the war in twenty-six seconds if he knew precisely what to hit.
See, the creature’s humanity was war with, the Sha’Doza, had a reputation for being quite timely, they could respond to an emergency situation before a minute was barely up, but there was always this moment in time where they would hold back. Nobody knew why.
Not knowing was probably Cruz’s sole disadvantage. He wasn’t the kind to let things like that slip his mind, it nagged at him. Persistently. He couldn’t escape it.
Even as the more urgent matter of evading his enemies came up as he approached their gates.
The Sha’Doza, terrifying six-armed green toad-like critters with lethally diamond-tipped teeth and large tongues, also had wings, they could fly, and they were coming at him from all sides.
He charged up his ray gun, and took three or four of the swarm surrounding him, before they began levelling him with blow after blow from their six arms; they pummelled his jet pack with ease.
They could have watched him fall into one of their homeworld’s many craters or bottomless pits, they chose to spare him and hoist him up high.
Cruz smiled, their obnoxious gloating, their mistimed mercy, had given him the ideal window.
As one of the Sha’Doza lifted him high above its head, his ray gun still in hand, he aimed it just above the temple of the creature and pulled the trigger.
The lighting fast laser shot pierced the creature’s temple and splintered it in two, it fell, and its grip lessened, Cruz somersaulted through the air and clutched the back of another, threatening to do the same to it if it didn’t carry him the rest of the way to the fortress.
Easier said than done, for Cruz then realized there was no reason for the remainder of the swarm not to have their brother’s backs.
So Cruz went with a wild notion, and disembarked from the back of the Sha’Doza, he cut himself loose from the swarm, and left himself open to the brightly lit sky.
He descended. Nobody followed him down; they assumed he would be a goner.
Cruz counted the seconds as he rapidly approached the craters below, he thought about the window of opportunity, he thought about his judgement calls. He thought back to what had bruised his ego earlier in the week.
He set his eyes sharply on a large mountain just to the right of him, he took his grappling hook out of his side pocket and aimed it carefully, before pulling the trigger, the hook snagged on to a piece of the mountain and he was able to halt his momentum.
Now he was a sitting duck. All he had was his ray gun to fend off the equivalent of extraterrestrial vultures that could approach him at any moment to finish what they had began, he was nowhere near the top of the mountain either.
Fortunately, the mountain had some steep ledges to the right of him that he could find firm footing on. He steadily put one foot forward on the ledges, holding on as best he could with his hands, and took in big intakes of breath, trying not to make too gentle or loud a sound in case he tipped off the Sha’Doza, who were circling overhead.
Making his way around the mountain took close to an hour, but Cruz was able to hold his nerve, as well as his breath, and impressed even himself with how much distance he was able to make across the ledges.
Finally, he reached a clear path and set about on his way again. His mind paced itself like clockwork, wise to the seconds and hours ticking away, he knew he did not have much longer. His body was failing him as the pollutants and fumes that littered the atmosphere seized being a privilege to the desperate aspiring smoker and became an albatross that was dragging down a weary and tired human being.
He found himself on the outskirts of a heavily fortified structure. His destination reached at last.
He shrugged his shoulders. There was no way he could get in to that. He knew it deep down.
It dawned on him that no one was ever sent here by the colonies to do any sort of damage, to put up any sort of fight against these forces.
He’d suspected for some time that the old ways weren’t working, and that the colonists had not really put much into the war effort these last few years. In many ways, things had been quite peaceful on their end, but there was always the voice that protested loudly, Cruz having such a voice, that minimal was being done, and that they would step up and be the ones that made things happen.
So it was just that those voices be sent into the wilderness, to try and make some noise.
And, always, it would fall silent, until the next voice got a little louder.
The gates to the fortress opened and Sha’Doza in their millions came out, charging their ways, sharpening their teeth on electrical cattle prods. All manners of torture, all designed with single outcome. That of a swift fatality.
Cruz, bold colonist warrior, had about twenty six seconds to think of something. He chose what to make of those twenty six seconds.
One great notion he had other than being a warrior was to be a writer, to be a capable one. Not to seek it as a means to get fleeting fame, just to prove to a cantankerous mentor in his school that he could do it.
One time he had watched a video interview with a great writer whose name time had neglected to mention consistently over the generations. What mattered was the message he had conveyed to the interviewer. That in your mind, you can recite dance steps time and time again when writing, but all you have to do is watch the story sort itself out, that there no other high you could muster than to watch what the story does and write it out in your head.
He loved that interview so much, he wove it into the framework of a short story he wrote and published online.
Then he did research on the writer, and found he had already used his own advice in a story of his own.
He had unwittingly plagiarized.
Cruz had twenty six seconds to say he was sorry.
And that he did.
As he fell to his foes, he thought, as long as he could, more confidently about things.
This was his story.
And he had sorted it out.
Snakes can harm us tender souls
Their bite is fierce and all seems grim
We question where their poison comes from
What keeps their venom in
For those who trust more in God’s nature, science just won’t do
They seek answers within their souls, and what thier words say to you
So if you believe in a mighty hand, reaching down with blessing
Trust in that hand to keep you close, and the serpent’s bite will lessen
A DAY RESERVED FOR MAGIC
WRITTEN BY ZARIUS
Disclaimer: Dangemouse (2015) and all trademarked characters are property of Fremantle Media and CBBC
Christmas Day. London.
In the wake of a dicey dance with the cold colossus The Snowman, Penfold and Dangermouse have settled down in their may fare mailbox to share with one another the gift of giving. DM had been a generous spirit all day, being mindful of both the poor and the privileged.
He’d even given Tiny Tim an armed defence crutch. Armed with high explosives to fend off any foreboding foe that attempts to take advantage of a spy when injured.
He just forgot to tell Tim how to disarm the explosives.
Then again, the gift was’nt intended for Tim, but for Penfold.
Penfold, who was all a glow at the realization he had not gotten anything that could bring his enjoyment of Christmas down with a bang and then a bit of whimpering from him as he suffered the aftershock of dealing with a dangerous gift.
As he tried his warm, woollen cotton socks on, Penfold noticed poor Father Christmas struggling with the list of demands given to him by Professor Squawkencluck.
“Say, Santa, don’t be glum, I’ll take that list off your hands and help pay it off if you want” Penfold suggested.
“Ho ho ho, you are a helpful little Elf” said Santa, “If you can pull this off, you may be in line for chief aid”
Penfold clapped his hands wildly at that, only to be kicked in the shin by Santa’s cheif aid.
“Hey, cut that out, the crisis is over” said Penfold.
“You’re not nicking my job in a hurry you merrily mole” replied the irritated elf.
“Hamster” said Penfold, “I’m a hamster”
“Mess with me, and you’ll find I’m no spring chick” she said, nipping at Penfold’s toes with her beak.
Penfold scrambled behind Professor Squawkencluck out of concern for her safety.
“What are you doing behind me you big Jessie?” said Squawkencluck as the elf converged on Penfold
“‘Sick ’em, attack, defend” commanded Penfold.
“What do you think I am? A henpecker?” she said
“Well you’ve got the beak for it” said Penfold
“Oh you know me so well” sarcastically replied Squawkencluck.
“Look are you going to rise to my defence or not?” asked Penfold.
“Well, it is Christmas after all” she said, and began circling the elf, pecking holes in the floor. Swiftly and suddenly, the floor gave way, the elf remained suspended in the air for a fraction of a second for the type of comical effect found abundant in animation, before being pulled down by the laws of gravity.
The Professor dusted off both her hands and gently rubbed her beak.
“Whew, chipping away at the that floor can leave a beak feeling pretty bleak” said Squawkencluck.
Santa handed Penfold her list and then dived down the gaping hole in the floor to collect his elf before she hit the floor.
“Penfold, you’re going to take care of my list?” The Professor observed
“I’m not so secret a Santa am I?” replied Penfold.
“I don’t know…you make yourself to be a lot of things…” the Professor continued
“Really?” asked Penfold
“Sure…a spectacle of yourself, a target of yourself…” she began, until she noticed Penfold’s head, his expression highlighting a look of sure sadness about it.
“Hey, hey don’t be glum, despite making yourself look all those things, you always have the strength to face up to them as well, you’re honest about yourself, even to a frank degree, I’m like that too, though I come across as more cross than you are about those things. I envy how you can bottle that in at the best of times” the Professor continued, her compliments raising a tender smile out of the little agent.
“You’re a real champ Professor”
“Just tell me one thing though…why do you always get me a hair-dryer?” Squawkencluck asked
“Well, I…oh it’s nothing…it’s just…” Penfold began, but nerves began to overtake him.
“It’s got something to do with my appearance. A girl can afford to be flattered you know” the Professor said, urging him on
“It’s…well, yeah it’s kind of that. I always like to picture you with your hair down and you using something we’ve given you to make you look better and brighter every morning, no matter what mood you’re in, which is normally all feisty and ferocious, it’s nice to know that while you’re projecting fear into us, you spend those first few hours every morning bringing out the best in yourself…gives us something to think about”
Sqawkencluck gave Penfold a nod and a reassuring smile, placing one hand over his forehead and stroking cit, losing her eyes briefly as she took all those words in.
“Pr-Professor? You ok?” said Penfold as her hands slowly ruffled through him.
“You know…forget that list Penfold, you can get me the same thing every year” she said.
“Cor, thanks Professor, say, why did you reckon Santa wasn’t real?” asked Penfold.
“I didn’t want to think there was magic in the world…I’m a scientist, I always have to rationalize everything, to let logic take hold over ludicrous realization of fantasy…guess it’s a silly thing to think, especially around a day reserved for magic”
“I’m glad you’ve realized that” Penfold, clutching her hand, “You shouldn’t deprive yourself of the magic, in order for that to come, you have to make time for those moments”
The two stood where they were, transfixed in a precious moment of time, staring lovingly into one another’s gaze, each hoping one would make the move on the other without having to wait for the descent of mistletoe.
The alarms suddenly went off, DM sprang forward to answer the call as Col. K and his brightly lit Christmas jumper disrupted the moment.
“Penfold, Dangermouse, you must scramble immediately, those rouges Greenback, Loocifer, Duckula and the rest are threatening to tarnish the next 24 hours by staging a real boxing match between all of them on Boxing Day, get that group separated ASAP” the Colonel commanded.
“On our way Col.K, come along Penfold, and don’t stop for Christmas punch, we have to halt the literal kind from coming to pass” ordered Dangermouse.
“Heh, don’t want to get punch drunk then” Penfold said nervously to Squwakencluck.
“Another time?” said Squawkencluck
“Another moment in time…I’ll be ready” said Penfold.
“…Ready…to believe” replied Squawkencluck.
Disengaging from their grip on one another’s hands, Penfold and Dangermouse dashed into certain danger.
“Be safe” said Squawkencluck, waving to them as they darted into the Mark IV hovering outside and speeding off into the snowy skyline.
DIMENSIONS IN TIME–Rematerialized Change/Cut List
-Pre-credits sequence now starts with The Rani throwing the TARDIS off course.
-Moved Rani gloating over the floating heads of Hartnell and Troughton to mid-way through the story
-Cut “you’re all going on a long journey, a very long journey” line from The Rani
-Cut The Fifth Doctor talking to The Rani
-Placed a slightly shortened variation of The Fourth Doctor addressing The Doctors to mid-way through the story, just as The Rani confronts Five, Peri and Nyssa
-Cut Third Doctor meeting Brigadier and Sixth Doctor meeting Brigadier
-Removed Frank Butcher’s “I’ve seen people dragged out of the vic, but never dragged in” line
-Removed Seventh Doctor’s overdubbed line “it’ll overload”