f13.net

So, as should surprise no one, I like me some fanfic.

If any of you have ever read any Warcraft, Dragonlance novels not by Weis/Hickman, or anything by Salvatore - you have in fact read Fanfiction already. You may be reading fanfiction right now.

Also, if you bought our book from blurb, well, you know. But it was worth it, imo.

In order to understand the story, readers need to understand that ‘the Jedi’ in the story are really the Jews in real life, hence, ‘the Messiah’ becomes ‘the Chosen One’. On the other hand, the Sith represent the enemies of the Jewish people (especially the Romans) and the forces of darkness. (http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5121501/1/The_Gospel_of_the_Chosen_One)

fify

Eh? Laura & Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weis are given credit for Dragonlance as we know it. What is it supposed to be fanfiction of, praytell?

The D&D campaign they were in, which is where it all came from?... but that stretches the definition a bit.

Prof. Roy Hinkley’s journal. 10/22/65

Mr. Howell is dead. We were alerted to this by a bloodcurdling shriek of Ginger’s that sent us all bolting into the jungle ‘til we came upon the scene. There, in the boughs of the tree overlooking his wife’s grave, hung the Giant of Industry by an Italian leather belt-made-noose. Ginger had been looking for him since sunset for what purpose I would rather not speculate when she found him there, dead for probably hours, his head bent horribly to a side and his face a grotesque mask of burst capillaries obscuring even the “gin blossoms” he wore cavalierly across his proboscis.

Although I cannot understand what relationship (if that’s even the correct word to use) Howell had begun with Ginger, I believe I can appreciate the emptiness the death of his wife left behind. And although I cannot fathom the life this man once knew, I can relate to the despair that led him to that tree.

Gilligan cut him down and the Skipper and I dug the grave. There were a few tears this time but there was no eulogy. Thurston Howell III had been a difficult acquaintance at best and, though there was sympathy amongst us, there were no kind words.

I am left to wonder if this is how we will each end our time here, as the weeks become months become years, as all hope is quashed by the open sea and endless sky. A resolution here in print: tomorrow I will begin my planning in earnest to see that my fate takes an alternate course – steered by myself towards a more welcome shore.

On the radio today, somewhere amidst the nonstop rotation of Gilligan’s favorite band “The Beetles” (whom he prefers to call “The Mosquitoes” because, he informs us, he thinks beetles are scary), came a news report with the briefest mention that Bob Woodward has won the Nobel prize for organic chemistry. Meanwhile his former pupil is huddled in a corner of a bamboo hut, scratching in this journal by torchlight, ignoring the tentative rapping at my door by Ginger Grant, and it has just begun to rain. Enjoy it, Bob.

Log of the Minnow: Jonas Grumby, Cptn. Oct. 22, 1965

Howell’s dead now. Killed himself. Put him next to his wife. Mary Ann said it must have been a broken heart that did him in. I said it was having to shit in the woods & wipe his ass with leaves that did it. Gilligan laughed.

These discussions always make me think of The Eye of Argon (http://www-users.cs.york.ac.uk/~susan/sf/eyeargon/eyeargon.htm), even though technically it isn't fanfiction I guess.

They still have readings of it at the scifi convention I used to help run; the winner is whomever can read it aloud the longest without pausing, cracking up or fucking up the words.

Trivially easy. Where is this event. I'll even do it in a poorly constructed voice.