Challenges
Wufniks had an idea! The idea was this:
Each and very every issue of wufniks should feature a challenge from an author we admire, trust and like the physical look of. So that’s what we have done. It’s like a dialogue or something. It’s cute, a bit.
So far we’ve been lucky enough to have some pretty snazzy guys and girls help us out. Just look at this saucy list. Choose and click a bright orange link below to see into the soul of the author of your choice!
Hoorays!
Write in the first person about hypochondria. Put every word ‘on trial for its life’. Use adjectives and adverbs only in an emergency. Do not exceed 1,000 words. Tell me at least one thing – about being human – it’s likely I don’t already know. Surprise me. Deal in truth (this doesn’t mean autobiographical truth). Say what’s not often said. Say what’s not easy to say. Surprise me.
Maria
Secret black writing
(By the way, look how cheap MJ’s books are when you buy them on the Internets!)
wow
***
wow
A simple challenge.
(you shouldn’t be able to see this)
wow
***
You are going to wish you never asked!
Write a story which features all of the following:
a) a new designer drug
b) sex with a member of another species
c) the faked suicide of a senior Government official.
Secret black writing
You don’t need us to tell you about the books this gentleman has written, but here they are all the same.
wow
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Issue #4: Zadie Smith
On March 26th, 2008, a newspaper website put up 16
photos of random events around the world, accompanied
by subtitles. They do this everyday. It’s my thesis
that if there existed a writer who could write a
story, a piece of prose, for each of these captions,
and write each in its own style, each in its own
voice, from its own perspective and sensibility, a
perfect expression of whatever situation each caption
seems to describe – well, then that writer would be a
kind a genius and the result one of the greatest books
ever written. But that’s by the by. All you have to do
is write one of them.
Here they are:
Mutsamudu, Anjouan: Two men sit on the ground after
being arrested on suspicion of collaborating with the
renegade leader Mohamed Bacar
Jerusalem: The popular head rabbi of Morocco, Shimon
Suissa, is buried
Grozny, Russian Federation: Local residents walk along
a street in the city centre
Kunming, China: Paramilitary police guard the football
teams’ buses after the World Cup qualifying match
between Australia and China
Simonstown, South Africa: Miniature lead soldiers on
display at the Warrior Toy museum
Basel, Germany: German footballers stretch during a
training session
Seewalch, Austria: Up to 100 vehicles were involved in
an autobahn pile-up
Manila, Philippines: Fire victims collect their
belongings. At least 200 families were left homeless
when a fire razed their shanties
Rusape, Zimbabwe: Women collect firewood for cooking
food.
Great Falls, US: A kayaker enjoys the rushing waters
of the Potomac river
Kalapana, Hawaii: Molten lava from an active volcano
oozes from beneath the hardened crust
Cuzco, Peru: Pascuala Quispe, left, serves a customer
with a glass of chicha, an alcoholic drink made from
cocoa leaves. It is known as the beer of the Incas
Mexico: A man covers his face to mask the smell of the
26 bodies of victims of an accident involving a bus on
the route linking San Isidro with Jesus de Oterowhich
Wuzhen, China: A worker collects debris along a canal
Madrid, Spain: Russian dancer Ekatarina Berezina
during the rehearsal of Tchaikovsky’s ballet ‘Swan
Lake’
Carterton, New Zealand: Lift-off on the first day of
the Wairarapa Hot Air Balloon Festival
(Pictures © www.guardian.co.uk)
Wowza! Look how few pounds you have to spend to get your hands on Zadie’s glorious books.
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Issue #5: Martin Amis
Describe in one paragraph an act of sexual congress, from imagination rather than memory, and do the near-impossible: be universal, not personal.
What’s that? You can pre-order Martin’s new book The Pregnant Widow? Lead me there without delay.
September 23, 2008 at 2:02 pm
‘Post coitum omne animal triste est,’ she remarked to the poet, as they unsealed gummed limbs. ‘Why this sadness, d’you suppose?’
‘The definition of joy,’ he cautioned grimly, ‘needs much amendment.’
Then he sighed and quoted from his first extremely thin youthful volume that once, long ago, had been so warmly received …
‘Die Definition der Freude:
Freud said all Love is sublim-
ated sex or some such portentousness;
so forget Ludwig van Beethoven and his hymn
to Joy when what he REALLY meant, of course, was
A Requiem for a Wet Quim.’
November 19, 2008 at 12:33 pm
Cycling
It can be difficult, getting your leg over a bike. I like to go with a certain machine I know. I start with the handlebars, just squeezing the grips lightly, maybe a little nip with the teeth. That usually cranks the pedals a few clicks. Then I palpate the tyres, first the front and then, oh boy, the rear. That’s good, that’s always very good. Now the machinery’s really working, let’s get it on, let’s get on it. If I can just bend a little, yes that’s it I run my nose along the top tube, moving back and further back all the way to the saddle, and there it is—the inexpressible scent of the world, the heart of the matter. For this is her bike and this the seat of power; where alpha meets omega. Leather and sweat and oil and oh just everything in one. Now just move her round, that’s it get the front wheel up the wall like that and now I can get at it. A little spittle, there, and I get my meat in under that hide. I lean forward and grasp the pedals and if I turn at just the right speed and thrust as I turn and turn and thrust and yes we’re travelling now, together riding the cosmos. My arms are out of their sockets on the down stroke, the chain hits my arm and I’m getting covered in oil. My thighs and the rear fork quiver in tune, while my knees keep a grip on the pneumatic tyre. Nothing can stop us now. My cock’s in the saddle and it won’t let up. It knows this might be the last chance to nail it, last chance to transcend, last chance to come good. My world is nothing now but sensation, the whirr of the chain, clicking of cogs and the smell of oil. And then bang, aarghh! Jesus what a mess. But she isn’t finished yet, she needs more. I turn up the speed, the pedals are flying, my wrists are breaking. I’m dying, I’m lost but there, there at last I can hear it—tinkle tinkle, ting-a-ling—we’ve arrived, the journey is over. For now. Perhaps we’ll go round again; but it can be difficult
November 26, 2008 at 11:35 am
This one did it for me, brilliant – ting-a-LING