There's a saying here on Earth that I find myself amused by on occasion, one of those rare moments where I forget distraction and the colours (for Sometimes even I grow weary of the same thing over and over, and there are always other novelties to puzzle over than a sky full of colours). It's just a little seemingly insignificant phrase to you that sometimes, mulling over it, I can't help but think of you in those times as sweet but ignorant children who still believe in Father Christmas (he doesn't exist. If you're not old enough to realise this, you're not old enough to read this further).

The scene is this, you're walking down a pathway, you might be abroad, you might be up the street from your home, you may even be turning the path onto your house, when lo and behold! A familiar face from long ago makes an abrupt appearance, and suddenly it's on the tip of your tongue, like a flavour bursting onto your senses, and then it's out there, binding you together in pure ignorant bliss.

"It's a small world!"

That your planet is small and therefore completely alone.

I'm being judgmental. Bigoted. Prejudiced. Close-minded. I'm judging you based on thousands' of years worth of seeing the very best and the very worst of humanity, (and believe me, I have seen it) but maybe you don't hold to those traditions and for that I appologise. But I will tell you one thing:

I'm not the only one judging you.

But enough! I've not made my introductions! Maybe you've guessed by now, and if you haven't... well, you'll know me soon enough, depending on a variety of different circumstances and variables. By this time I'm sure you'll have worked out that it's not worth thinking about that moment in your near or distant future when I will undoubtedly come for you. You'll be lying there, caked in your own body, (for I rarely find people standing up) and I'll be leaning over you. I'll be reaching down towards you with my open arms, a colour will be perched on my shoulder, and then I'll take you away. Does this surprise you? Worry you? Frighten you? I wouldn't waste my energy if I were in your shoes. The moment will come whether you want it to or not.

I may not be the most cheerful or charming of visitors, but I think you'll find me quite agreeable in the circumstances.

Why do I find myself dwelling on human expressions and colours in the sky you may ask? Distraction. That is the simple answer, beyond which becomes increasingly complicated. For what do I have to be distracted from?

I'll be frank, it's you. The leftover humans. The survivors. You're the ones I can't stand to look at, although many a time I fail in my attempts to block you all out. All too often it goes like this; there will be a scream, a cry, a wail, a soprano of denial and anguish and grief which would reduce me to tears if I weren't already so weathered down over the years by it all (although I'd be the first to admit it still tugs at my heart strings, why else would I need to be distracted?) and often in those moments I'll forget myself. Maybe I'll reach out a hand, make a sigh, and sometimes you'll ask to take you with them or return your loved ones, and I have to remind myself that it's not in my power to help you.

I don't choose who dies.

So I will come for you as I do everyone, even for those who have long avoided me (and I have in my mind a certain blue military coat telling you this, but he'll make his appearance soon enough), and believe me I will come.


It's when I forget myself, the colours and the useless little novelties that come with life, that sometimes I will take note of things. There will be that moment, when I'm carrying a frail little soul in my arms, that I will look up and something will happen that will stay with me forever, a face, a message, a story... And I don't forget.

I've carried around many stories in my pockets these past years, the Book Thief's was only one (if you haven't read it, I suggest you do). And while I've read many such books of humans who bring to mind the very worst and best of your kind, there are other stories travelling within these ancient pockets. I'm sorry to say that one such article is not among them, but my memory is long, although my time terribly short. If there were time I would write it all down, every single word, although I'm sure his story is written here and there, like crisp leaves on an autumn's day forever scattered and lost. I may be one of only a few who could tell you his entire story, or as near to it as anyone could tell save for himself, and maybe there are still thousand's of leaves out there I haven't yet discovered, each grown from a single, magnificent, ancient Tree.

You may even be clutching one now as I speak, knowing of whose story I am about to tell, and hoping your encounter will be among the few I will account for you here.

Therefore I will try not to go on stalling any longer, although I can make no promises. When you've existed as long as I have (and please note I say existed, I wouldn't want to confuse you) you find you have a lot to say. Here before you henceforth, lies a story. A much abbreviated and shortened story, but his story none the less.

The man in question was a Thief.

He was a TARDIS Thief.

This was an idea that came to me when I was on holiday two weeks ago. My favourite passtime on holiday is to read, so I was making my way through my favourite book for the second time, 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak, and I suddenly remembered a line from the very first episode of the revived Doctor Who series 'Rose':

"Just "the Doctor," always "the Doctor." The Doctor is a legend woven throughout history. When disaster comes, he's there. He brings a storm in his wake and he has one constant companion: death"

Who else would know the Doctor better than Death? (Who is about the most incredible narrator in the world)

I was debating whether or not to put this up now or wait until I've finished, since I hate leaving people in the loop, which I've done with previous stories (I WILL return to them at some point) but I just had to :) I'd love to hear what you think.