New Season, New Perspective

Springs a comin' and with it comes a new poster, Adam, starting soon with Lazy Sunday posts Adam is Hugh's creative partner and copywriter. Surely he'll bring some solid wisdom to make your post Saturday night binge-ridden minds think (but not too hard).

Simply put, man has shit to say, stick with him.

Cheers WANCers.

Fan-fictions and Fur Filled Fish

Make it rain on them hoes.

AUT seems fond of issuing fan-fiction assignments in many of its Creative Writing papers. I think I’ve got three to do this semester, and my well of inspiration seems to be running dry.

For the uninitiated, fan-fiction can be defined as a text, written by fans, that explores the characters, settings and side-plots of an existing, established piece of work. It allows writers to delve into the world of their favourite book/movie/TV show/game and focus on a marginalised aspect of the story.

The stories are generally set in the universe of the original text (without getting into crossover fan-fiction), and, because it is assumed that the readership will largely consist of other fans, fan-fiction stories presuppose the reader’s knowledge of characters and events.

It’s kind of interesting and you can write about some pretty wacky shit.

Ever wondered what would happen when Milhouse experimented with his homosexual tendencies? Right here. I know you’re curious about the contents of R2-D2’s email inbox.

I’ve become something of an insomniac recently due to a haunting question that has invaded my subconscious and refuses to leave. It keeps me awake. Late at night I lie in bed, tossing and turning, longing to feel the arms of sleep’s embrace. But my mind refuses to rest. I can’t get to sleep, I just can’t, without knowing what the dog version of Finding Nemo would be like.

Riveting stuff, I’m sure.

Anyway, here’s an example of a fan-fiction story I wrote a couple of years ago. It’s kind of juvenile and inexcusably overwritten in places. Am I selling it well?


Dopey's Lament *

Dear Brothers, a shaking hand wrote.

By the time you read this I will probably be dead.

Melodramatic? he mused to himself. Definitely. Over the top? Probably. He sighed to himself, and scratched his head. They’d never been his strong points, eloquence and self expression. God, he’d never even bothered to speak aloud. Not one word. To anyone. His brothers assumed him mute, but this wasn’t true. It was a strong indifference, an intense apathy that saw him keep his thoughts to himself.

I wish I’d told you all how much you meant to me, brothers. I regret the silence I kept all those years, through the seasons. I loved each and every one of you, appreciated you all more than you can ever know.

He paused and tapped his teeth with his pen, looking around the room. The only light came from a small oil lamp, the dancing glow trying to escape out through the heavily curtained windows. Small empty plastic bags littered the floor, the ghosts of a thousand highs. A pair of crackling speakers, their wiry insides exposed, begrudgingly pushed out some down tempo number.

After She was brought to life by the Prince, we were lost brothers. Lost. After years of watching over Her body in the forest, suddenly we were without purpose. Our mining jobs gone, our home in ruins. Depression reigned.

Would they judge him? He wondered. Deny that he’d existed at all?

We coped in different ways. Some of you took up sports. Some took up other careers; butchers, bakers, candlestick makers. I envied your strength.

How long had it been? When was the last time he’d seen their faces. He tried to picture them. This room made time stretch and contort until it lost all meaning.

But as for me? I wallowed.

He paused again, collecting his thoughts. There had been a time when he’d considered Her his everything. His refuge. A time when he felt content and his heart still knew of hope.

She found me one day, on the outskirts of the Prince’s castle. She was as beautiful as ever: lips as red as blood, hair as dark as the window frame, and skin as white as snow. I was so happy to see her; overjoyed, ecstatic. She promised me a purpose. She promised me an escape.

The door burst open, purple suit and gold heels swept into the room. A saccharine smile was plastered across her face, the lipstick’s rosy hue foreign on her otherwise pale skin.

“Great work tonight,” She said, flinging a full gram bag of snow-white at his feet. “Enjoy.”

The door closed again.

I should have seen the warning signs. At first She wanted nothing for the snow-white. It was free, as much of it as I wanted. But it wasn’t long before She started wanting small favours, an errand here and there. I obliged, of course, and gratefully too. I was in debt.

That subtle fuzziness that started in one place, and grew and grew until it blossomed and exploded, demanding attention, swimming in the blood and warming the heart.

Big debt. The favours became more brazen, more outrageous. Eventually I would go on to steal for Her, fight on Her behalf. I killed for Her. And still She gave me the bags of snow-white.

That glorious feeling as the senses succumbed. It filled that strange little hole he had inside, that hole where the other six used to be. It satisfied him. It completed him.

I was stupid, brothers, stupid. Thought I was immune to snow-white’s allure. Childish and ignorant, I thought I could use it in moderation. Self medicate.

The next three words took him a long time to write.

I was addicted.

Would this room, this godless place he’d learned to call home, really be the last thing his eyes saw? Surely he should be on a cliff top somewhere, watching the sun dissolve into night’s cold embrace one last time. Surely he should be somewhere absorbing an image encapsulating the very essence of being.

And so I lost my principles, my standards. My self respect. I became drained, empty. A shell without its tortoise. A shadow of myself, committing horrific acts in exchange for more snow-white.

He picked the full bag up off the ground. Mechanically prepared himself a dose. A big dose. He closed his eyes, head pointed towards the window. Shivered a little. Cold? Anticipation was more accurate. Freedom.

I’ve disgraced you all. Embarrassed dwarves everywhere. I beg your forgiveness; for my estrangement; my actions; and my selfishness.

He felt his body surrendering. Imagined his organs waving a white flag as the snow-white swirled through his veins, brushing aside his body’s defences.

A life balled and chained, brothers, is no life at all. Let me be liberated in death.

He was a dove’s reflection in a lake of glass, the moon bigger than he could ever remember.

Yours forever

The dove arced and flew into the night sky. The water rippled where its reflection had been.


*Not to be stolen, reproduced or distributed in any way. Not that you'd bother. Misuse of semicolons? What was I thinking!?


Procrastination Station

Are you fuckin serious! I have more work to do still? Shit.

Ok. So pretty much if you read Mondays post you’ll know what I mean. Currently I am suffering from the same ailment as my dear colleague Ben. Strategic. Advertising. Management. Also known as SAM, this beast is getting me down. I’m soon to be on top of it riding it like it was my bitch but right now I’m not. No no no, right now I’m casually laid back on a semi-hardwood bench at procrastination station.

Procrastination station has a lot of visitors and I will attempt to describe them best I can. To my left is an old man who is hooked up to an i.v. machine. Liver spots can be seen underneath his wispy, white hair and as I journey down his time-weathered face I see he wears a look of wisdom and distinction. But, I can’t help but wonder, a man his age, what is he procrastinating? Surely the only you HAVE to do at that age is die right?

To my right sits my creative partner, my right hand man. He is chilling out, staring distantly into the distance. Who knows what rolls through his head. But I gather he is waiting for the same motivation train as I, he too is gripped by the evils of SAM. Shhhhhhhh. I dare not speak its name too loudly now. It might hear me. That’s right, looming just above Procrastination Station is SAM, an almighty overlord that heralds impending doom for all who miss the motivation train. It calls to me to fail.

Around the station a gentle flow surges back and forth as people arrive and depart, each one fearing their own deadline overlord. I see everyone walk by with a definitive look of ‘I cannot be fucked with this’. Business men, university students, parents, all with something to do. I look down at the readings in front of me as the words jump and dance with each other. They trickle down the page, reset, then trickle down the page again like an endless waterfall of messy information. But then one line sticks, I read it and see a solid idea.

Suddenly in the distance chimes a quiet ‘chooooo’. The ground begins to bounce and shudder. Winds rush around the station. I stand up and step to the edge of the platform. As I do the rails in front of me turn to dust and from below them rises a train. The carriages are scratched and torn, each one showing the wear and tear of numerous trips. A man steps off and asks me for a ticket, but I don’t have one, or do I? I write down the idea that had stuck earlier on a piece of paper. It is after all what will carry me to the end of this essay. I hand it to the man and he lets me on. As I recline into my seat on the motivation train I feel confident in knowing that I have departed Procrastination Stations and will, at some point, finish this essay.




Mid semester break is cusping and I’ve got this mean ass business essay due before it starts. Do not fucking want. 2500 words of bullshit about strategy and whatever, the assignment sheet is still sitting at the bottom of my man sack. After you’ve smashed the keyboard for 6 hours straight focusing on one word at a time, you’ve then gotta write bibliographies and appendixes and reference lists and then have to find someone to bind this shit for you. It is actually going to ruin my whole week thinking about even starting this. Sometimes it makes you question why you even bothered with Uni in the first place.

During the last 2 or so years at school I’ve written dozens of essays. Pretty much all of them have been written the night before, scouring through google books and using the in-built APA reference system on Word ’07, even though pretty much every time I have I’ve been told my referencing is wrong. Fuck you I don’t care. I may have scraped through with a couple ‘low’ C’s but I have never gotten higher than an A miny.

Anyway, I am seriously curious/concerned about those people who actually buy the recommended textbooks and actually spend WEEKS preparing for this shit. What do you DO?! I’ve never believed in ‘studying’ or any of that nonsense but all I know is those people who whore the printers and print out all of the 15 readings provided for you for your assignment (which are free by the way, who needs the book?) are only getting half a mark higher than me. Did you enjoy spending $150 on that textbook? You only read one fucking chapter. I could’ve bought groceries for 3 months with that you selfish dickhead. I’ve copied off some quality essays in my time and I can spot those who’ve actually read the readings but was it really, really worth it? Mr. Employer isn’t going to say “wow, this faggot got an A on his interpersonal communication essay, he needs a job.”

While having a piece of paper saying you did well at school, or rather a reciept for the last 3 years of your life is nice, at the end of the day you’re going to get a job cause your dad is best mates with the head of HR, not because you flagged hooking up with some hoe frothing at the gash for a late night study party... with yourself. To sum it up in one word, ceebs.

Now for a quick school update.

I’m going to be applying for a suiting internship program run by a place called CAANZ. They filter through a couple hundred applications made up of a few questions such as “What is the craziest thing you’ve done in your life?” to “What is your favourite ad?” and churn out 20 or potentials. These potentials need to then give a 10 minute presentation on pretty much… yourself to the CEOs from all of the top agencies in Auckland who then select their favourites to partake in a 9 month, fully paid internship. While this is exciting, it’s fucking scary. I’m going to get onto during the upcoming break.

Also, Charles and I finished our PlanetFM campaign. I wasn’t there to help Charles present it to the IDQ but hopefully we’ve done OK. Once again, we were short on time, but tell us what you think!