Bedtime Story #3

Once upon a time, in a swamp polluted with radioactive matter, lived a bunyip. The bunyip, due to this environment, sustained a few developmental deformities. Because of his odd appearance, he could never get a date with any girl bunyips, and all the boy bunyips mocked him and chose him last to be on their sports teams.

The bunyip had another, not as immediately identifiable, deformity. Instead of the nasty behaviours normally indulged in by other bunyips, such as eating children, scaring old people, and generally wreaking havoc among the human population, this bunyip preferred to be gentle and kind. For this reason, primarily, he was a pariah.

One day, as the bunyip was strolling along in the public gardens, picking flowers, he met a beautiful girl with long black hair. She was so pretty, he tried to talk to her, and give her the flowers he had picked. But because he was a scary-looking bunyip, she freaked out, and ran away. He threw the flowers to the ground and walked home despondently.

The following day, he was picking flowers as usual. The pretty girl with black hair came strolling along the path. This time, he gave the flowers to her first, then proceeded to strike up a conversation.

As the two of them talked, they realised they had very much in common. The girl realised that her preconceptions about bunyips were false generalisations. She would have liked to stay longer to talk to him, but she was meeting a few friends for coffee. She asked if the bunyip would like to join them, and he nervously agreed.

As her friends approached, his heart beat faster and faster. The humans immediately assumed the bunyip was attacking the girl, and converged upon him, bashing him relentlessly.

"Stop! STOP!" screamed the girl. "He's nice! He's a nice bunyip!"

The humans did not believe that a bunyip could be nice, so they continued to beat the crap out of him. The girl ran into the fray and pulled the humans off her new friend. She explained that the bunyip was kind and gentle, and her friends came to believe this.

As they were walking towards the cafe, a group of nasty bunyips confronted them. The nasty bunyips taunted the kind and gentle bunyip for associating with human beings. The nasty bunyips gave the kind and gentle bunyip a further beating.

The bunyip, fortunately, survived the beatings with very few lasting injuries. Over coffee, the bunyip told his new human friends about how he could never ask a lady bunyip out on a date, because he was too kind and gentle, and never did things like scaring old people and eating babies.

One of the pretty girl's friends informed the bunyip that he had recently met a kind and gentle lady bunyip, who was not nasty because she had been dropped on her head as a baby. The friend introduced the two kind and gentle bunyips to each other.

After a series of dates, the two bunyips realised that they were really rather fond of each other. They moved into a non-radioactive swamp so their babies would not have developmental disorders. They had twelve babies, and raised them all to be kind and gentle.

Bedtime Story #2

Once upon a time there lived a half-man, half bull. Some people called him a Minotaur, other's just called him by his name, which was Larry.

Larry was madly in love with his wife, who was a fairy. But fairies do not have very long life spans. In fact, they live for about as long as a common housefly. Larry was mad with grief when his fairy wife passed away.

Just before his fairy wife left this earth, she made him promise to never remarry. To enforce this, she made him live in the middle of a maze, so no other fairy could find their way to him, and he, in turn, would never be tempted.

As Larry set out for work one Tuesday morning, he stumbled across the lair of a very beautiful, young fairy. The young fairy was very clearly interested in Larry, and suggested that Larry come into her nest "for a harmless drink".

Larry, remembering the promise he made to his wife before she died, told the fairy that he was running late for his train, and made a hasty escape. But not before telling her that he might drop in for a visit on his way home, later in the day.

Throughout the day, Larry could not stop thinking about the beautiful young fairy he had met that morning. He could not concentrate on his work. He was called out several times by co-workers and his boss, but as he was one of the better employees, nobody made too big a fuss.

When Larry was walking home, he went to the lair of the young fairy. The door was open, so he invited himself in. However, a shocking sight met his eyes. The young fairy, in bed, with another half-man, half-bull creature. She had decided not to wait for him (which, given her short life-span, is fairly understandable).

Larry walked back to his maze-home, despondent. He was, in fact, so distressed, that he completely forgot which path would lead him to his chamber in the middle of the labyrinth. He made several wrong turns, before stumbling upon an elf, who was also lost in the hallways.

Larry and the elf sat down and started chatting. Larry quite liked this elf fellow, but had missed dinner that night, as he had been in no mood to eat. He was quite hungry, and after considering his options, decided to eat his newfound elf friend.

After this meal, he remembered the way back to his chambers. He settled into bed, with a novel he was halfway through reading. After reading a few more chapters of riveting prose, he turned off the bedside lamp, and went to sleep for the night.

Bedtime Story #1

Once upon a time there lived a man who could turn into a panther. A were-panther. He enjoyed going for long walks in the Sahara Desert in Africa, whilst in his panther form.

One day, as he was rambling along, not hurting a fly, minding his own business, he spotted a Jeep full of humans on the horizon. He ignored this and continued strolling along, revelling in the feeling of sand under his furry black paws.

Three men disembarked from the Jeep. The were-panther noticed the guns, and realised, too late, that these men were poachers. He turned to make a hasty retreat, before he felt a sharp, stinging pain in his left hind leg.

Three drops of blood stained the sand. The were-panther was felled.

As he lay writhing in agony, the poachers descended upon him. The pain in his leg distracted him from registering that one poacher carried a long, sharp blade. The poacher ran the blade across the were-panther's throat, slicing his jugular, and silencing him forever.

The poachers then proceeded to skin the were-panther, as his shiny black coat could fetch around $10,000 on the black market. Little did they know that the creature they had slain was a human in panther guise.

As the last vestiges of life left the were-panther's dying body, he reverted back to human form. The poachers, upon driving away in their Jeep, discovered that the shiny black coat they had just procured, had transformed into a large sheet of human skin.

Realising that they had murdered a fellow human being, they turned themselves in at the nearest police station. They were charged with murder, but pleaded manslaughter. The prosecution would not have any of it, so a trial was arranged, and the poachers set off to prepare their case with a team of experienced lawyers.

A witness for the prosecution, was a long-time friend of the were-panther's. She was, in fact, a were-leopard, although when testifying in court, she obviously did not assume the leopard's form, and appeared as a normal-enough human being.

Testifying in a court of law was a very stressful experience for this were-leopard, who was, at that time, studying for her HSC examinations (for you non-Australian readers out there, she was sitting for her A-levels) and was aiming to get into an undergraduate law degree at a prestigious university.

However, she was unable to concentrate on her studies, due to the loss of her dear friend, and the added trauma of having to relive the experience of witnessing his slaughter. She did not do very well, and was not able to attend university at all. She decided to join the workforce as a waitress in an ice-cream parlour.

When she was nineteen, she married a rockstar. The rockstar had previously been involved in a criminal trial where he had been charged with assaulting his ex-wife, causing her grievous bodily harm.

The were-leopard was aware of her rockstar-husband's past, but chose to overlook this, as she was in love.

As of today, we are still uncertain as to whether the were-leopard is still with the rockstar, whether they parted amiably, or whether she too became victim to his abusive ways.

A picture of a troll

Mmm tasty.

A Discourse on the Identification and Capturing of Trolls- Guest Blog by David Turner

Though these days I am but a university student, in the days of my youth I was, in fact, a troll hunter. Katrina has asked me to outline a few important facts about trolls, in her award-winning and critically-acclaimed blog.


Trolls, often thought to be the stuff of legend, live surprisingly close to home. Indeed, it is most likely that if you have crossed a fair few bridges in your lifetime, you have probably unwittingly wandered over the lair of one of these nasty but secretive creatures.


Katrina: "Misunderstood?"
David: "They're not misunderstood, they're just evil."


Of course, not all bridges conceal trolls. There are certain qualities that a bridge must have to make it suitable for troll habitation:

• Location: The bridge must be over water. At least a babbling brook, but a shallow river is simply perfect. Trolls love the damp conditions that come with living in such a place, and the necessity of the bridge makes it a perfect place to catch easy prey.

Katrina: "What about the bridges that go over train lines?"

Dave: "Trolls don't live in such noisy and well-visited locations. Those bridges are home to Ghouls."

Katrina: "And what is the difference between a Troll and a Ghoul?"

Dave: "Ghouls are more wiry, and..."

Katrina: "Trolls are fat, and they carry clubs?"

Dave: "Mmm. Ghouls carry no arms."

• Construction: The bridge will preferably be wooden (so as to create that eerie creaking sound) but it is essential that the bridge is made of slats, with little gaps in between each one. Trolls love to reconnoitre their prey.

Katrina: "And look up girls' skirts."

• Frequency of prey: Trolls are hunting creatures, and they need to eat, and that means clubbing an unsuspecting goat or child and eating them. A bridge that carries too much foot traffic will make hunting and remaining hidden quite difficult, while a bridge that is too secluded could result in long periods without sustenance. A balance must be found.

You know now where to find a troll, but how will you know one when you see one?


Katrina: "You would not want to mistake a large person carrying a baseball bat with a troll."


Trolls vary greatly in size, from your mischievous 4' trolls, to the legendary 9 and a half foot behemoth One-Tooth, who was rumoured to dwell in the pylons beneath the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Most trolls are between 6 and 7 feet tall however, and are quite rotund.


Katrina: "They mostly have beer guts and man-boobs. Are there female ones? There have to be female ones."
Dave: "No, they just spawn out of the mud."
Katrina: "What colour are trolls?"


Trolls are usually of a blue or green hue, a clever camouflage mechanism for the partially-aquatic beasts. Their big wooden clubs however, are not camouflaged, and stick out like a sore thumb. They are thus concealed until needed.


You now know where to find them, and how to identify them. So how does one hunt a troll? Here's a list of some necessary equipment, and what you'll be using it for:


A Net: And a big one at that. There is so much we don't yet know about trolls, and cryptozoologists need healthy specimens to observe in captivity.


Cupcakes: Yes, cupcakes. These delicious treats have a hypnotic effect on trolls, not only for their wonderful taste, but also because of their brightly-coloured decorations, the hues of which are a truly rare sight for these denizens of the dark.


Helmet: Those clubs aren't for show. They will swing them, and they will swing them at your melon. I suggest using an American football helmet, but a motorcycle helmet will work in a pinch, as long as you don't mind the weight and reduced visibility.


Katrina: "Can't you tase them?"
Dave: "Tase them?! Please dear, be humane."


The most important thing to bring with you however, is your wits. Trolls are surprisingly wily, and will try to deceive and trick you at every turn. They'll say there's something on your shirt, when there's not. They'll point at something behind you to try and make you look at it. Do not fall for these. You will get bopped on the noggin with a club.


One final question remains however; why do we hunt trolls? The answer is twofold. As mentioned above, there is a certain quest for knowledge associated with all cryptozoological pursuits, and there is so much we as a society have to learn about these magical creatures. Far more pressing now, however, are the safety concerns associated with trolls. Free-roaming goats are becoming rarer and rarer, leading trolls to snack more on the human population, and if these trolls aren't relocated to safer areas, it is society at large that will suffer.