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14 June 2007 @ 09:31 pm
[doctor who] an anatomy of the impossible  
Martha-fic, written (mostly by happy accident!) for safebox, on her birthday. (I seem to be eerily catching up on birthdays; I really hope this stroke of luck will continue.) Because Martha is splendid and deserves lots more fic, and also because I have been trying to break into Doctor Who ficdom for some time now. A love this obsessive should be more productive, yes?


An Anatomy of the Impossible

"We are an impossibility in an impossible universe."
   - Ray Bradbury

Secretly, she has always been fond of the impossible.

She remembers being very very young and watching her hand move, wondering why it did and how it did and how it was that a flicker in her mind she barely noticed grew into this circular motion of flesh against carpet, and then she wondered about the carpet, the tingly roughness of it, her palm and the feeling – what was feeling? – of things, and the thoughts spun in her mind like a yo-yo going too fast and the string got all tangled up and all of the thoughts got mixed up in one another and she wanted to cry and laugh because the world was suddenly wide open with things to know and not know and it was terrifying and terribly wonderful and she didn’t know why.

She’d lie awake at night curled like a small wide-eyed comma beside her sister, listening to Tish breathing and her heart beating, and then her own heart beating, thrumming inside of her, and she’d wonder in the way only a small girl could wonder. What would we be like, if we didn’t have hearts, or lungs, or ears? If we heard through our feet like grasshoppers or sucked oxygen from the water like fish, or maybe if we were entirely different, if we had more eyes, or less, or if our blood moved on its own and didn’t need some great machine of flesh encouraging it on its way.

So she asked a lot of questions; she grew up on questions, and when her parents and her teachers couldn’t tell her the answers she’d look in a book, but books didn’t tell her everything she wanted to know either, so she’d wonder, and sometimes she’d make her own answers, because she wanted periods at the ends of sentences, and she wanted things to be firm and solid.

(Once she was in the country visiting relatives and she looked out the window at night and there were stars, stars like every window she’d ever seen wide open in the sky, glittering in their turnings, and she’d never, she’d never seen the sky burning with thousands of eyes like this, and she wanted to touch it, she wanted – and suddenly for an infinite moment, trailing like a comet, she forgot about facts and answers and wanted – And then her mother put her head round the door and told her to switch off the lamp and go to sleep, and then they were only stars, only balls of gas floating in the atmosphere. She went to sleep.)

Ostensibly she wants to be a doctor because she wants to help people, because she wants to do something in this wide universe full of people walking back and forth that is doing something, but there is a part of her, the part that is not quite satisfied with answers and facts, that hopes she is going to do something impossible. Heart transplants were impossible once upon a time. It isn’t the glory she’s interested in (lots of bother, film crews and everything, people asking impertinent questions), it’s the doing, the discovering, that thrills her.

And when she thinks about it, when she really does, thinks about bones moving in their patterns and hearts pumping blood and lungs breathing and hair growing, she knows that everything is impossible, and everything is some kind of miracle, and she likes this. She is blood, bones, cells, organs, life, and she, Martha Jones, is impossible.

She is standing on the moon, breathing oxygen, and something inside of her thrums like an orchestra that has been waiting a very long time.

He says, “I thought you might fancy a trip,” and she steps into his absurd little wooden box and finds a world inside of it and soon she is careening like a misplaced satellite through space and time and breathing air no human’s ever breathed before and sometimes she throws her head back and laughs from the sheer wonder of it. The strings start slow, low inside of her, and then there are horns, and a chorus, and she knows that even when she didn’t know, she was waiting exactly for this.

her mood: relieved
her music: "universe", sarah slean
She went that-a-way...: MARTHA :)jinxed_wood on June 15th, 2007 01:55 am (UTC)
This was absolutely amazing! Thank you for posting this :-)
longtimegonelongtimegone on June 15th, 2007 02:36 am (UTC)
Oh that was lovely. Oh, Martha! <3
untitled - eulalumel on June 15th, 2007 02:48 am (UTC) (Expand)
Token Geek Girl: Happysyreene on June 15th, 2007 03:15 am (UTC)
Impossible Martha
How lovely...very sweet and it delves into the wonderful background character that she deserves. :)
we live rent-free on loyalist land: d ; have you mettwentyfivepast on June 15th, 2007 04:18 am (UTC)
This is so great.
darenothope: Doctor Who. Cheap tricks.darenothope on June 15th, 2007 06:48 am (UTC)
That wasy lovely. I love reading fics about Martha. Great job.
t-bone, the disco spider: who; selective amnesiaprettyquotable on June 15th, 2007 12:24 pm (UTC)
This was FABULOUS. Wonderful characterisation and beautiful prose. And you're totally, totally right; Martha deserves more fic.
thepolygotnerdthepolygotnerd on June 15th, 2007 01:19 pm (UTC)
*thumbs up*
Loved the portrayal of Martha - just perfect.
tree_and_leaf on June 15th, 2007 03:39 pm (UTC)
Lovely - really captures Martha's curiosity, and what it would be like to travel through time and space.
R: who | dark ladywanderlight on June 16th, 2007 06:33 pm (UTC)
This is -- oh, this is amazing. I keep reading it over and over and wondering at how perfectly you've captured it all: that wide-eyed intelligence in Martha's eyes, and the wonder at the universe and at the impossible that's core to Doctor Who itself. This is one of the best descriptions I've seen of anything, ever: like a small wide-eyed comma. ♥ And: the way the sentences pile up upon each other, the whimsical tone, the pitch-perfect scene in parentheses. And oh, the ending: careening like a misplaced satellite.

Banui, dear: you can write. I know you may not believe it, but maybe if I tell you often enough how amazing your writing really is you will believe me? And then we will see much much much more of it? :) ♥ ♥ ♥
Claudia: flawedclaudia_yvr on June 17th, 2007 05:13 am (UTC)
Your characterization rings true -- it's lovely.
nelle (with one hand in a mound of planets): dw | ten & martha | at the mouth of nybuiltofsorrow on September 20th, 2007 03:35 pm (UTC)
I made my way over here this morning for a reread, and am quite horrifed to discover I never commented on this! Really, I meant to. Bah.

This is simply splendid. Your imagery is breathtaking (as ever) (and you know I squeed over the punctuation metaphor, of course?), and this is just... Martha. (I am beginning to wonder if the reason I never commented was because I tried & managed only incoherent babble; it's probable.)

Rita said many things I would like to say in different, more understandable words, so perhaps for now I shall simply second that, and tell you as well that I love this madly. ♥
The Evil Oppressor Persiflage: Ten Martha Persiflagepersiflage_1 on September 20th, 2007 03:36 pm (UTC)
Here, belatedly, via a Life on Martha rec - and wow, thank goodness - this is fab ! I especially like the reference to the orchestra because I adore classical music and it permeates pretty much all of my life !

But it conveys the awesomeness that is Martha Jones beautifully - thanks !
pink for pterodactyl: dw:gallifreyansignificantowl on September 21st, 2007 12:36 am (UTC)
oh, that is quite quite gorgeous. I loved it all, but I have a special love for the 'wide-eyed comma' description. :)
Zulu: house - truth seekerzulu on June 25th, 2008 08:25 pm (UTC)
Here by thedeadparrot's rec
This is full of astonishing, wonderful detail, and I have felt like this. Beautifully done.