Tuesday, August the 16th, 2005

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Fan Fiction Fad

The fad for fan fiction shows no sign of abating. The internet is riddled with websites where adherents of, say, Harry Potter or The West Wing or Star Wars pen their own tales about existing fictional creations. That most of the sources are from films and television, rather than books, is I suppose a sign of the times, but at least these keyboard-tapping enthusiasts are writing. I was pleased to note the other day that Hooting Yard has attracted its own fan fiction. Here is a brief story I found about Dobson, written by a certain R Hanrahan:

Once upon a time there was a man called Dobson. He was a pamphleteer and all his pamphlets were out of print. At the time of which I write, Dobson lived in a shack perched on a promontory, from where he could see in the far distance a lighthouse. The incessant flashing of the lights atop the lighthouse disturbed Dobson in the night, for his bedroom was on the side of the shack facing out to sea, and he could not afford curtains. In the town down the hill there was a curtain shop, and one day after yet another virtually sleepless night, Dobson went to the shop and asked if they had any curtains for rental.

“We don't rent out our curtains,” said the proprietor of the curtain shop, curtly. Dobson was disappointed. He left the curtain shop and went across the road to the recently-opened clinic of the brain doctor.

“Excuse me,” said Dobson to the receptionist. His tone was icily calm. “Would it be possible for the brain doctor to align the electrical pulsing of my brain with the rhythm of the flashing lights of the lighthouse over yonder?”

“Yes,” said the receptionist, gaily.

So the brain doctor tweaked Dobson's brain that very afternoon.

“Because you are an out-of-print pamphleteer, you don't have to pay,” said the receptionist as Dobson left the clinic. He marched up the hill to his shack, looking forward to a good night's sleep at last. He was disconcerted, then, to discover that another shack had been erected on the promontory, slap bang next to his, and that it was already occupied by a group of pagan percussionists whose rituals demanded that they pound their drums throughout the night to ward off something or other. Dobson was downcast until he discovered that, miraculously, the rhythms of the lighthouse lights, his pulsing brain, and the drumming were identical.

He slept well that night, and every night he spent in the shack on the promontory thereafter, until the following year, when he moved to a hotel in Winnipeg.