brandietarvin (brandietarvin) wrote in doctorwho,

Doctor Who Fanfic: And They Called It

Sometimes when I get stuck on a writing project, I write a little fanfic to keep my instrument in practice and to get my inner editor to shut up. As I set up to work on Shadowrun, a little Doctor Who flash fiction bit hit me upside the head. I don't own Doctor Who. I have no claim on any of its trademarks. As a tie-in writer, I shouldn't even be publishing this. But it is short and cute and hopefully the Beeb will take it in the spirit it was intended (light-hearted fun not meant to violate any copyrights).

It was, the Doctor decided, quite the conundrum.

On one hand was the ultimate metaphysical problem which, if resolved the wrong way, would destroy the entire planet and quite possibly all of Time and Space with it.

On the other hand, he was very, very, very hungry.

The workroom wall shuddered, punctuated by the explosion of glass and mistreated pottery. "Damnation!" A male voice shouted.

Upon the kitchen table lay a sharp knife, its red-tinged serrated teeth glimmering in the candlelight. Nearby sat a still-steaming loaf of freshly-baked bread and a large, opened jar of homemade strawberry jam. There, right in front of him, lay the solution to all of his problems.

Well, the solution to the current problem.

Actually, if he were being honest, it was only part of the solution to the current problem. Something important was missing. Something he could fix, if he really wanted to muck about with history and risk a paradox worth shattering half the known universe.

Curse after curse filled the air from the adjoining workshop, punctuated by the screams of shattered ceramics. The Doctor's stomach growled. He glanced skyward for no particulary reason. "Better to ask for forgiveness later than permission now, yes?"

The night sky remained quiescient. If the Time Lords watched, they gave no sign.

Licking his lips, the Doctor sauntered over to the workshop's doorway. Hands stuck in his pants pockets, chin elevated to a suitably wise position, he announced with all the gravity he could muster, "Butter."

Surrounded by the detritus of gears, machines, and plant materials, the working scientist and teacher—George by name—looked up from his ceramic-laden temper tantrum and blinked owlishly at his visitor. "Pardon?"

The Doctor inhaled deeply, absorbing the bread's sweet aroma through his nostrils and letting it work its healing magic. "Think butter, Mr. Carver."

"Do you really think that will work?"

"It had better," the Doctor replied. "I still have 37 galaxies to save tonight and I'm famished."

George Carver frowned as calculations danced in his head. "That... might work. Though, maybe as a lubricant..."

The Doctor stamped his right foot impatiently. "Well, hurry up, man! The bread's getting cold and a PBJ on cold bread is utterly inedible."

And so, inspired to great heights by another man's hunger, George Washington Carver invented the greatest foodstuff in the world that would spawn health myths of epic proportions, inspire childhood allergies, and plague denture wearers of all ages.

And they called it "Peanut butter."
Tags: stories
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