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These are the round robin stories that we wrote


It was like nothing they had seen. The handwriting was absolutely atrocious. It meant long hours and hard-work if they were ever to expect such a poor pupil to amount to anything. No spell would ever function properly if its runes were illegible; even a minor grammatical error could render a lethal curse into a love potion.

Things were looking grim for the unnaturally low IQ pupil, measures had to be taken to ensure success. A complete insertion of the philosophers stone was needed to be driven straight into his brain.

We strapped the ignoramus down onto the table.

“Stop screaming,” I chided, thwacking my gloves. I then pulled out a needle, its point several inches long with a chamber full of pulsing green fluid. All good magic fluid was green... and glowed.

I rammed the needle into his whinging neck and pushed down hard on the plunger. The twit screamed in pain. Excellent!

Focusing on what was to be done, blood flew and saws cut.”I don’t know what you are complaining about. This is hard-work you know,” but the ungrateful wretch thrashed and screamed.

Then he got really pathetic. Apparently the use of wild cannibalistic badgers was too painful. The creaming got louder and more blood-curdling.

“We might need to buy some earmuffs,” I yelled over the tortured cries.

Then he dropped dead.


Its not every day your own father joins the realm of the walking dead, then rocks up at your house determined to eat you. And today was not that day, because he was still out in the fields, bumping into the old tractor and groaning with frustration his green-veined eye trained on our door. The cows edged away, though a calf had tugged his arm off.

Several hours passed, and we found that he had yet to move any closer after being knocked down by stepping on a rake. Without his arm he could not get up from the lawn. Fear inevitable faded to ideas of ingenuity and he was propped up onto an electric treadmill attacked to the generator.

My father's plodding, lurching steps moved the treadmill with deceptive speed. It had dropped out electricity bill to almost nothing, but then the trouble started. The Zombie Workers Union found us.

How were we meant to know we needed a permit to exploit a member of the walking dead. Apparently there was a form that needed to be filled in, in triplicate.

So we decided it was too much trouble. So we turned him loose, but two days later we received a ticked. For littering! To wit one zombie. I knew we shouldn’t have stencilled out address on him.

Now we had to hand over $500 all because we didn't think to remove the line '13 Rivertrout Road, Cantra Feilds' from the back of my father's bald head. Unbelievable! And look, now he just stepped in dog poo. This day just gets better each moment. What is going to happen next? He might as well just drop dead... again.

As I stood, glaring at him through the glass window, my mother brought over a tray of freshly baked cookies. I eyed her off thoughtfully, perhaps she would have made a better zombie slave


Jean saw the red robin sitting on the window still, singing sweetly to the dawn. As the melody danced through the glass pane one couldn’t help but notice how positively annoying the repetitive sound was. It was then that she decided that she hated dawn. Hated it, hated it she did – almost as much as she hated being deaf. Although, she mused, not having to listen to her little sister screeching like a banshee at 2am in the morning was a sure improvement. But there were drawbacks as well. Like not being able to tell if someone was yawning or screaming.

Still the best part of being deaf was that she didn’t fall victim to the sound plague that ate away at the sanity of anyone in the southern hemisphere with full hearing. The sound plague got the robin too. She saw its head turn, its ears bleed and its claws lose their grip on the branch. Her sister went next.

It was probably for the best, now she had complete access to her extensive collection of Braille orchestral pieces by Bach. So as civilisation collapsed around, plaster periodically falling in puffs of dust as the sound plague hit in waves, Jean could enjoy her soundless music, ignoring the screaming mass outside her window, except for occasional pot shots at the sound maddened mob.

At least she could until the walls started to collapse around her. Bugger. She forgot how much power sound waves have. She looked back at the window just as it exploded. And so passed the world, without a bang or a whimper. Just a gurgle.


It all started in the least exciting and dramatic way possible. Yes, the apocalypse happened whilst my friends and I were having a Disney movie marathon. We were just getting to the part where Aslan was going to devour the white witch, but then the room blacked out. A Black Out! I’ve never been so frightened since that time I watch Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

I held perfectly still, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Around me, my friends giggled, oblivious to the danger that lurked in the room with us. The white witch was here. She stepped into the room, a massive imposing figure seven feet of tall malevolent graces. She was beautiful, she was deadly, she was a... transvestite?

TV static still dripped from her fingers and hair. I tried to remember when she turned good at the end of the story or not. I feared not. She reached back into the still rippling screen and pulled out a box of Turkish delights filled instead with hand grenades.

She threw the grenades across the room towards us. Finally my quick thinking paid off as I raced to the kitchen. I squeezed into the fridge, closing the door just as the explosion rocked the house. I held on tightly as the fridge took off through the roof, into the night sky.

Like Wolverine, and Indiana Jones, I was a fast healing mutant with an adamantium skeleton which saved my life. However, I was shocked to the find the White Bit... I mean Witch right in front of me. There truly was no justice in the universe.

The White Witch smiled as she juggled one last hand grenade. I could tell I was a goner. There was just nowhere to hide. She reached to throw... and slipped on the gooey remains of my best friend. I pulled out my vorpal blade and snickety snack, slicked off her legs. Then I poured a bucket of water over her, because as everyone knows, water is acid to aliens and witches.

She screamed, twisting around in pain. Like a legless person shaped ice-cube she melted, becoming nothing but a puddle on the ground. I sighed looking around at the destruction around me. I knew we should have watched The Lion King.


A fierce growl emanated from behind the wine cellar door. The bartender raised his bat and said,

“Free drinks for any volunteers.”

Gunhilda, a Viking from across the Iron Sea, pulled her knife out of an inebriated farmhand's hand and raised her own hand. She hadn't killed anything in three days and needed to keep in shape. The farmhand fainted.

Unfortunately, the bartender never specified that the drinks would only be available afterwards. Gunhilda drover her knife into the nearest ale barrel, drinking its entire contents. After a, ladylike, belch she turned to the protesting bartender and her glazed, drunken... psychotic eyes had him fall silent. This is when the table was smashed over poor Gunhilda's head.

The bartender looked at the pale grey eyes of the thing holding the table. It looked sort of human, but way bigger and lumpier. It smiled at him with a toothy grin, drool dribbling down its massive chin. The bartender gulped. Tentacles emerged and the horror from a time that man knew not of stood tall, slime dripping to the ground. The bartender bad barely time to scream before he was ripped in two.

Which was rather gruesome. Like seriously some poor individual was now going to have to clean the bloody mess up. There usually aren't many volunteers for those kind of jobs. But when you need a tough job like this done right you need MR. Maxwell's cleaning aid.

Hi I'm Ben Harris and I'm here to tell your about a new miracle product that will help you turn a mess like this (camera pans over dismembered bar patrons) into a room like this
(camera pans to pure white Valhallan halls).


Geoff rose gingerly, every bone in his body aching. He had no idea why he was in such pain. Last night was a complete blank. Geoff looked around where he was, seeing a grimy room, a single bed with water stains on it and a broken window, through which a cold wind blew.

What the... a distant knocking broke his like of thought. Shivering he walked to the plain metal door. Locked. He placed his ear on its cold surface hoping to hear the source of the knock. No, seriously. There is nothing more ominous and suspicious than the random knocking of a door.

“ Oh, coming?” he called, hesitant.

A gaunt pan in a suit stepped through the door and headed straight to the living room. Geoff had no choice but to follows this strange intruder. The man was sitting on the couch and gestured for Geoff to sit next to him. As soon as Geoff was seated the man said

“Mr. Steel are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to accept Jesus as your lord and saviour.”

The man open a silver attache case and removed a large syringe with a plunger shaped like a crucifix. Inside Geoff could see a mixture of red wine and bread crumbs. He was about to get very close to Jesus indeed.

The wall shattered as Jesus rode in on his chariot, pulled by two majestic badgers. Jesus raised his aviator glasses.

“Are you ready Geoff?” he said in a smooth baritone voice.

Geoff looked around in nonplussed silence for a moment before turning to the man on the couch.

“I don't need to,” he said, “ as you can see... I've already found Jesus.”

He woke up heart pounding, sweat covering his body. Thank god, it was only a dream. Then he saw the badgers at the foot of his bead.


Atticus pulled the lever and the air-lock doors opened, sucking the oxygen out into space, but the egg remained where it was. He shouted in frustration, banging several more times on the airlock button as the blast door behind him shook apart, his last like of defence.

The chittering of the pursuing creatures grew closer as Atticus glared in impotent rage at the egg and then the beasts behind the thrice-damned blast doors. There was little choice now, maybe just maybe he had enough time. He gently placed his backpack on the deck and slowly opened it. Time was short, but he mustn't rush. He had to move slowly and very, very carefully.

He set the timer carefully, setting the nuclear device up. The tell tales showed it was functional. Beep. Beep. Beep. It began to slowly count down one integer at a time. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep... Beep......Beep......Beeep. Each beep seemed to get long as it went. So he stopped, sat down and replied to all these text messages. Never mind, it was only his mum.

Once again, he focused on the beeps. It started to speed up, the beeps pumping out a familiar rhythm. It sounded familiar. He checked the device, damn he picked up the stereo instead of the nuke. But he knew what he must do. As the chittering hoard rounded the corner his focus gathered. He started to move. He started to DANCE!

For the creatures were in fact the physical manifestation of those pop-star arcade games where you have to follow dance moves, and when they emerged they immediately paused to rate his performance in terms of timing, accuracy and general panache. He danced for them like a monkey for an organ grinder as the device silently went nuclear in the airlock.


He took the leap of faith, drawing his blade with a shout. His first thrust caused sparks to fly as it met its blocking opponent. He smashed forward with his shield, knocking his opponent off balance, breaking a nail in the process.

Staggering back the enemy desperately tried to block with his shield, but Gral the mighty, slayer of the dragon Acid-breath, seducer of women, once read a book, smashed at him again. His foe was stated to falter, to panic. You could tell by the look of sheer 'omg-this-bloody-idiot-is-about-to-win' painted upon the opponent’s face. He lunged again like a sword-wielding ballerina.

Okay that’s enough, he thought, its time to show off this devastating move I've been saving. With an all mighty battle cry he pivoted on his heel, sword swinging, and promptly crash landed on he face. Standing over him, Gral gave a toothy grin.

“Better luck next time aye, Barry?”

“No no no no. Just let me get up and then you stand there. Right. And I'll do my thing again. Ok?” said Barry. Gral nodded and went and stood in his position, sword at the ready. Barry got to his feet and drew his second sword from his back, and then said to himself, right don't cock it up this time.

What he was trying to do was set his sword on fire with his mind, but a certain amount of concentration was needed. At the moment all he could summon was a couple of LEDs in the hilt, and frankly they weren't adding to his attack damage.

He began to concentrate with all his might, bringing the power of the sun into his blade, destroying the dragon. The excess sun powered the near by town for a decade and he became like a god. Gral was very impressed.


Blood pooled in gory puddles on the marble floor, slowly drying around the fallen bodies and staining skin, clothes and wings red. It was a pity really. The angels were beautiful when they were alive. Now they just looked...well, dead. Not to mention to red. Red didn't suit them at all.

“Oh well, off to work,” I said, picking up my shovel. I started to dig a grave for the angels. Dig, dig, dig. After much effort a hole was made, into which went the angels. One by one I rolled them in, folding the wings in every which way to create the perfect fit. A bit like Tetris really only with more blood and feathers.

When his job was done, he took out his knife and killed himself, just as all the other angels did. Or attempted to anyway. Stabbing himself in the heart was no easy task apparently. First, he had to muster the willpower. Which was no easy matter. An angels free will was like a heard of drunken Glaswegians after a football match. Erratic, violent and hard to muster is what I am trying to get at really.

He pulled his halo off and tried to sharpen the edge of the knife on it, but the blade just melted. He frisbeed the halo into the hole with the angels, and its golden light went out. Suddenly he was feeling a whole lot less virtuous.

Suddenly, with little warming, the angels rose from the grave.

“You gave up your halo for us, we are in your debt.” And everyone began to dance.

Thus the age old question of how many angels can dance on the head of a pin was answered.