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Hello friends, we’re still drawing daily in March 2025!
In this post, we arrive on Carpeton VI with the Fifth Doctor, expecting a quiet mission. Instead we find a planet ruled by an emu, a budgie with an iced-worm tea stand, and a fancy mouse who may or may not be impersonating one of his future selves.
Featuring talking animals, identity confusion, time-travel marketing strategies, and one suspiciously dashing rodent, this is a tale of loyalty, newsletters, and the importance of knowing who’s really in charge. (Spoiler: it’s probably the budgie.)
Let’s keep making art and weird story arcs in 2025!
* All character bios are the property and fever dream of Fishbird Central, except for ones featuring the Doctor who (I’m told) is owned by the BBC. Stay tuned for further adventures from our cast of sketchy characters! Let us know which storyline appeals to you the most!
The Fifth Doctor Arrives:
The Fifth Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS onto a planet that looked suspiciously like a beach in Caloundra, Australia – but with curious cacti waving lazily in the warm wind.
The sky shimmered in shades of lime and lavender. “Curious,” the Doctor murmured, adjusting their questionable suspenders. “Where exactly is everyone?”
At that very prompting, a tall and vaguely disgruntled emu approached.
“I am Tissue Box, ruler of this realm. I assume you’re here to write a feature article on me for the next edition of the free weekly newsletter ‘Between You, Me, and the Gatepost‘?”
Tissue Box the Emu:
The emu squinted one eye and declared, “I’m prepared to offer you unprecedented access into the halls of Carpeton Rollup, but only if you also make me a cover model.”
The Fifth Doctor scratched their head. “A few things. Fishbird Central doesn’t really do covers, I don’t work for them, what’s a Carpeton Rollup and pleased to meet you.”
“I’m not sure you understand the importance of me. I am Tissue Box, Supreme Ruler of Carpeton VI.” He fluffed his feathers importantly. “You may bow.”
The Fifth Doctor blinked. “You’re in charge?”
Tissue Box nodded so hard his neck wobbled. “I have a sash. That proves it.” He gestured to a crinkled ribbon reading ‘Head Emu in Charge, please ask me about it.’
Tissue Box paced importantly. “I’ll settle for a centre spread!” cried Tissue Box. “Feathers. Feature interview. Emu Q&A and all that.”
As the Doctor opened their mouth to respond, a blur of blue and yellow zipped past.
Birdie McGee:
Birdie McGee, the budgie, landed squarely on the Fifth Doctor’s head.
“Tissue Box says he’s in charge, but he can’t even work the microwave.” Birdie chirped in, with the sass of a stage performer.
It was at this point that the Doctor realised they should probably have gone to recalibrate the Quantum Archive on Chronos-Delta-9 instead.
They’d been craving an iced-worm tea after the heady thrill of subscribing to Fishbird Central’s newsie, and had put a pin in the fractured causality loop for now.
These birds were giving them a headache though, and they’d yet to see any promos for the iced tea.
“If you want the real story of this planet for your wonderful newsletter, you’ll need the one they call The Detective.” She flapped dramatically and pointed her wing toward a tiny velvet lounge chair beside a bonsai tree.
Hercule Mouseau:
A fancy mouse with a curly moustache, leapt gracefully from the lounge to stand on a conveniently located soapbox made of cheese wax.
“Ah, bonjour,” he said. “I am Hercule… I mean, The Doctor. The Eighth, of course.”
He twirled his whiskers and arched a brow. “Time travel is very small where I come from. Sign ze petition to make me official Fishbird Editor-in-Chief!”
The Fifth Doctor frowned. “You’re not the Eighth Doctor.”
The mouse gasped. “Mice can’t time-travel now?”
“You are dapper enough,” admitted Birdie. The mouse squeaked triumphantly and handed out pens for potential Fishbird subscribers.
The Sixth Doctor Arrives:
With a swirl of colour and dramatic coat-flaring, the Sixth Doctor stepped from the TARDIS.
“I heard confusion and ridiculous impersonations – ah, must be a normal Tuesday.” He eyed the mouse. “Who let Poirot into the continuity, and where’s our iced-tea?”
Tissue Box tried to intervene but got distracted by his own reflection in the Sixth Doctor’s brooch. “Such plumage,” the emu whispered.
The Sixth Doctor pondered the predicament and whispered back to the too-close Tissue Box …. “Fishbird Central requires gravitas, flair, pizzazz! I shall write a column – ‘Time Travel & Turtlenecks.’ and you can parade my collection.”
Birdie nodded. “That actually could drive engagement.”
Tissue Box wondered how this magician knew he had always wanted to wear a turtleneck, and blushed down to his toenails.
The Seventh Doctor's Trick:
The Seventh Doctor, who had been building sandcastles in the shape of his umbrella, joined the discussion.
“Tissue Box, if you’re looking to make it big in the world of nonsense newsletters, the real market is in 14th-century Florence. Poets! Painters! Pigeons with quills!”
“And plague,” muttered the Fifth Doctor.
“Plague and passion,” corrected the Seventh, spinning their umbrella.
The Seventh Doctor winked and tapped Tissue Box on the beak. “You’re definitely not the leader here. You just think you’re the leader because the real leader told you so.”
The emu gasped. “Then who …”
“Exactly,” the Doctor grinned.
Birdie cackled from above, having no idea what was going on, but wanting to feel part of it all.
The Real Eighth Doctor:
The real Eighth Doctor emerged calmly, looking slightly ruffled and sipping espresso.
They paused at the sight of the mouse still posing in a dramatic monologue – cheese aloft.
“Well,” he said. “I have been impersonated before, but rarely with such panache.”
Hercule Mouseau mouse bowed, unbothered.
Tissue Box pouted. “So I’m not in charge?”
“You can be,” said the Fifth Doctor kindly, “of feathers and enthusiasm.”
They all agreed that the only thing left to do was to hunt down a cool drink to celebrate whatever had just happened.
Birdie McGee re-opened his iced-worm tea stand to great fanfare and all was right with the world … except for a minor issue with three Napoleons in 1812, one pesky Shakespeare who wouldn’t stop breakdancing, and the sudden universal popularity of space-fish/bird romcoms.
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