THE WRITER

A horror writer creates monsters and mayhem, without knowing they happen in real life!

The Airbus A380 was departing from runway 16 at Melbourne Airport at Tullamarine, that Wednesday afternoon, in June 2025. Not quite three hundred people sat in comfort as the plane taxied to take off.

Most of the passengers sat in comfort! One man, Gordon Lewis, a tall, thin thirty-something man with curly black hair, stared in terror, his fingers gripping the seats like claws, almost ripping the seat covers open.

"Excuse me?" asked a brunette, who looked like a twenty-something Sigourney Weaver. "But is this your first flight?"

"Uh-uh!" said Gordon, nodding, without being able to look around toward the young woman.

"My name is Josee Waters," said the brunette, holding out her hand to the terrified man.

Without daring to look around, he reluctantly let go of the seats with one hand, then had to fumble around blindly to find Josee's right hand to shake. Then immediately grabbed the seat in a claw-like grip again.

"There's no need to be scared," insisted Josee, "planes rarely crash. Air travel is easily the safest means of travel. With motorbikes being by far the most dangerous." Smiling at the terrified man, she asked, "Can you guess what the second most dangerous means of travel is?"

"Uh-uh," said Gordon, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

"Walking!" said Josee, laughing.

"Walking?" asked Gordon, finally forcing himself to look around at the pretty brunette. "How come?"

"Because of all the morons on motorbikes forever wiping out innocent pedestrians," said Josee, before laughing.

Gordon thought about that for a moment, then turned to stare back toward the front of the plane.

"Really, there's no need to worry ..." began Josee.

Just before the lights flashed off, then on again, and the emergency oxygen masks fell out of the ceiling, just before the plane finally took off.

"Uh-uh!" said Gordon, staring at the oxygen masks, but too terrified to let go of the seat long enough to reach for his mask.

"That's nothing," insisted Josee. Probably just a minor electrical malfunction."

"An electrical malfunction while we're in the air?" asked an even more terrified Gordon Lewis.


Over at 32 Lawson Street, Glen Hartwell, in the Victorian countryside, up-and-coming author, Howard Mailer, was struggling with the plane crash scene as he worked on his second novel. His first novel, Flight of Fancy, about aliens who take over an airliner mid-flight, had sold well in Australasia and South Africa, and he hoped his second novel would be a million seller. But he was struggling with the air crash scene in Flight To Hell!

"Gordon Lewis started to scream hysterically after being told of the minor electrical malfunction in the plane's lighting systems on takeoff, despite Josee Waters' best efforts to calm him down," wrote the twenty-eight-year-old brown-haired, tall but chubby man, Mailer.

He stopped writing to look around his book-lined work room. Eight tall bookcases lined the walls of his study. The only thing Howard liked as much as writing was reading: George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, H.G. Wells, H.P. Lovecraft, Steven King, Robert Bloch, Dean Koontz, Anne Rice, and Mary Shelley were all favourites of his.


Aboard the Airbus A380, a tall, attractive Aboriginal stewardess, in a dark blue uniform, raced down the aisle to try to calm the hysterical man.

"Sir, sir, calm down, everything is all right," said the stewardess, Agnes.

"But the electrical malfunction!" Gordon screamed.

"It was only a blown fuse," said Agnes, holding up a one-centimetre long electrical fuse. "It's already been replaced."

"Pilots replaced it while taking off!" asked Gordon without calming down.

"No, no, the navigator took twenty seconds to replace it after we were in the air."

"Twenty seconds?"

"Yes, it was only a very minor thing."

"I told him that already," said Josee.


Over at the Mitchell Street Police Station in Glen Hartwell, the five cops were sitting down enjoying tea or coffee and homemade Madeira cake, served to them by the owner of the Yellow House, Deidre Morton.

"Mmmm, Mrs. M., this Madeira cake is delish," enthused Suzette Cummings, a short, eighteen-year-old trainee, still having to do her final testing.

"Thank you, dear," said Deidre, smiling. A short, chubby, sixty-something brunette, Deidre was Terri, Colin, and Sheila's landlady.

"Yes, it's to die for," said Sheila Bennett. At thirty-six, Sheila was Chief Constable of the local police, a Goth chick with black-and-orange-striped hair.

"Marvellous," agreed Terri Scott. The same age as Sheila, Terri was an ash blonde, and the Senior Sergeant of the BeauLarkin to Willamby area. She was also engaged to Colin.

"Magnifique," said Colin Klein, a tall redheaded Englishman. At forty-nine, Colin had been a top crime reporter for thirty years before retiring to become a constable for the Glen Hartwell Police Force.

"The best I've ever tasted," agreed Paul Bell, A tall, thin, dark-haired man. Paul was retiring in December. "Three cheers for Mrs. M.!"

"Hip hip ..." began Sheila.


Over at his book-lined typing room at 32 Lawson Street, Howard Mailer wrote: The beautiful Native Australian Stewardess distracted the hysterical man, while a dentist travelling on the Airbus gave him a strong sedative....


"What was that?" asked Gordon Lewis drowsily.

"Just something to calm you down," said the dentist, Stewart James.

"Calm me ...?" asked Gordon, before collapsing forward and starting to snore.

Fortunately, he was still buckled in, having not removed his seat belt.


Howard Mailer was staring, lost, at his PC screen when an epiphany struck him: "I know, I won't have it crash in Melbourne," he said to himself. "I'll have it crash right here in Glen Hartwell! In the forest just outside town."

He started typing furiously at his usual six hundred words an hour.

Yes, that's the answer! he thought as he typed....


Agnes Mopoko eased back Gordon Lewis' seat so that he would not be lying forward. In the process, she accidentally looked out the porthole of the Airbus.

"Where the Hell are we?" asked the stewardess. "We're not over Tullamarine or Melbourne." She raced down the aisle to the cockpit, ran inside, and demanded, "Where the Hell are we?"

"The Twilight Zone for all I know," said the fifty-something pilot, Harold Jenkins, "one minute we were over a big city, then, in the blink of an eye, we're flying over a bloody forest."

"We could be in bloody Africa for all we can tell," said the navigator, Alisha Allen, a forty-something blonde.

"Africa? How the Hell could we have gotten there?" asked Agnes.

"Your guess is as good as mine," said the pilot.

"Did we fly through a rift in time and space?" asked a wide-eyed Agnes.

"I'm fairly certain that outside of Torchwood and Doctor Who, rifts in time and space don't exist!" insisted Alisha.

"Then how the Hell did we get here?" demanded Agnes.

"Damned if I know," admitted the blonde.


Terri, Colin, and Sheila were just getting up to return to work when the roaring of engines started just overhead.

"What the Hell?" demanded Terri.

The whole police station started to quake, and pieces started falling off the ceiling, including a large slab of plasterboard, which crashed down onto the blackwood table, smashing Deidre Morton's cups and saucers, along with the remains of the not-quite-finished Madeira cake.

"The cake!" cried Sheila Bennett.

"Our lives!" cried Terri, and everybody ran out into the street.

Squealing in terror, Suzette Cummings led the charge out of the police station. Seconds before the roof lifted off the whole station, then it crashed back down, falling into the police station in large chunks.

Pieces of the roof flew off and soared out into the street, just missing the five cowering cops.

As the Airbus A380 flew less than a hundred metres above Mitchell Street, houses and shops shook like the San Andreas Fault in California.

"Earthquake!" shouted a fair-haired man running out into the street.

Then, as the plane seemed to whoosh overhead close enough to touch, he looked up and read out the plane's call signal.

"Are planes allowed to fly this low over Glen Hartwell?" asked the man, shouting to make himself heard.

Almost killed as the roof flew off his barber's shop, landing a couple of metres away from him.

"Planes don't usually fly over Glen Hartwell!" shouted back Terri. "Since the nearest airport is over three hundred kilometres away at Tullamarine."

As roofs continued to lift off houses and shops, some of the residents raced back inside. Only to have the roofs crash down into their buildings, crushing them to death.

"It's an Trans Air Australia Airbus!" shouted Colin. "Way, way off course."

"Hours off course!" shouted Sheila.

After a large section of a roof crashed into the streets, metres away from her police-blue Lexus, Terri shouted to Sheila, "Get the car to safety."

"What about us?" asked a terrified Suzette, as roofs and even walls from buildings continued to fly into Mitchell Street, killing people, and crushing cars and lorries.

"She's right!" shouted Colin. "We can't help anyone until the debris stops crashing down."

After a second's consideration, reluctantly, Terrie said, "Okay, everybody into my car."

The five cops ran to the Lexus, then Sheila started the car and they raced down Mitchell Street, away from the flying debris, not toward the way the plummeting plane was heading.


Inside the plane was total panic; people were crying or fainting. Lifelong friends were hurling insults at eat other, and a shocked Josee Waters thought, This can't be happening. Air transport is the safest means of travelling, we can't be about to crash! I can't be about to die! I'm in a plane, not on a motorbike dammit! We can't be about to crash!


In his book-lined writing room, Howard Mailer stopped typing and wondered if he had made it dramatic enough. The roofs lifting off and crashing down into the streets is good, he thought. Likewise, people racing back inside, only to have their shops collapse in upon them! But is there something still missing?

He sat, pondering for a couple of minutes, then started typing furiously again.


I can't be going to die! thought Josee Waters one last time, before the Airbus crashed outside Glen Hartwell, in the sweet-smelling wattle, pine and eucalyptus forest just beyond the town.


As the plane passed Glen Hartwell, if just, the roofs settled back into place upon the shops and houses, although a few structurally damaged buildings would collapse over the next few hours.

People stopped racing around like chooks when a fox had got into their coop, and the Lexus stopped racing away from the crisis.

"Back we go," ordered Terri, and Sheila drove them back to the disaster site.

They had just arrived back to the ruins of the police station when the Airbus crashed just outside town and exploded.

"Holy shit!" said Sheila, looking about, not sure which was worse, the devastation in the street, or the plane crash outside town.

"Start ..." began Terri, for once stuck for ideas.

"Perhaps we'd better ring the Australian Transport Safety Bureau first," advised Colin.

"Then the hospital," said Terri, finding her voice at last. "You ring the hospital, I'll ring the ATSB."

"Will do, babe," said Colin as they both took out their phones.

While they were talking, Sheila, Paul, and Suzette did whatever they could to help the stupefied, and in many cases badly hurt people who wandered the streets, looking like a crowd scene from a full-colour zombie movie.

After he had reached the hospital, Colin then rang the Air Ambulance, who were as gob-smacked as the hospital at what he had to tell them. Although the Glen Hartwell Hospital had felt the shockwaves, like everyone in Glen Hartwell, they had assumed that it was an earthquake.

"Well, they're on the way," Terri told Sheila, Paul, and Suzette.

"So what do we do?" asked Sheila.

"They said to keep helping the people in town, and leave the plane to them," said Colin.

"But people could die before they get there?" said Suzette.

Another explosion rang out as the Airbus's second fuel tank exploded, and Colin said, "I doubt there's anyone left alive out there."

They heard helicopters overhead as an air ambulance roared past the town toward the burning plane and forest beyond.

"Poor bastards," said Sheila, as they started helping the injured in town.

"Thank God!" said Suzette, as Glen Hartwell's six ambulances raced down the street and stopped before them.

"Holy shit!" said Cheryl Pritchard. An Amazonian brunette a few years short of retirement, Cheryl was the most senior paramedic in the area. "What the fuck happened here?"

"It looks pretty much how I picture Hiroshima and Nagasaki as looking straight after they were nuked," said Derek Armstrong. A fifty-year-old black American who had spent the second half of his life at Glen Hartwell, and was currently dating Sheila.

"It was a plane almost landing on the Police Station roof," explained Sheila.

"Stop nattering, start helping people!" instructed Tilly Lombstrom. A tall, attractive, fifty-something brunette surgeon.

"Yes, Tils," said Topaz Moseley, a gorgeous platinum blonde nurse in her early thirties, before racing across to where a man had had both legs crushed.

"Coming," called Leo Laxman, a tall, thin, Jamaican-born nurse, who was dating Topaz. He raced after Topaz to see if he could help her.

Not long after, they heard the sound of more helicopters as the Australian Transport Safety Bureau (ATSB) finally arrived. Around the same time, Eunice Grayson, George DuBois, and Archie Neumann arrived, driving Department of Buildings and Works cranes, to try lifting rubble off people trapped inside collapsed buildings.

"Let's get this show on the road," said George, a tall, strong, brown-haired man with more than twenty years of experience driving cranes and heavy machinery.

He moved his crane toward the barber shop next to the police station and started carefully lifting away large chunks of rubble. Finally finding the barber, Elroy Norman and his assistant and eldest son, Jefferson, both under rubble.

"Two over here," George called to the already overworked medics and paramedics.

"Coming," cried Derek Armstrong, racing across with Sheila Bennett in tow.

Eunice Grayson, an Amazonian brunette with a long ponytail, was having less success.

"Having trouble, babe?" asked George, who was engaged to the brunette.

"Yes, whenever I try lifting the rubble, it keeps threatening to collapse further. And I don't know if there's anyone in there."

"Maybe, if we work together," suggested George.

While Eunice grabbed the top rubble with her crane, George reversed his vehicle to use a digging shovel attachment to place under the rubble, so that his fiancée could lift away the top level, without it collapsing back down.

By this means, the couple managed to make fast work of lifting the rubble along Mitchell Street, only grateful that none of the buildings on the other side of the street had collapsed.


Over at 32 Lawson Street, Glen Hartwell, Howard Mailer, was just finishing the plane crash scene in Flight To Hell! However, he had started to wonder whether the novel should finish with the air crash disaster, not start with it.

Either way, I might as well finish it! thought Howard, going on to make Josee Waters the only survivor of the horrific crash....


I knew I couldn't die in an aeroplane crash, thought the attractive brunette as she was placed aboard an air ambulance helicopter. Nobody dies in aeroplane crashes! she thought, before passing out from the agony of two broken legs and blissfully ignoring the fact that almost three hundred people had died in the Airbus crash.


By midnight, everyone was almost collapsing from fatigue, and Hermione Meldon, another tall Amazonian brunette, the local fire chief, had her trucks out trying to put out the forest fires around the burning plane.

"Trees are burning like Chinese fireworks," protested the brunette as they fought against it becoming a full-blown bush fire. "And the bloody Australian Transport Safety Bureau are being a major pain in the arse!"

"So what do we use as a police station till Mitchell Street is rebuilt?" asked Suzette Cummings as they were preparing to knock off for the night.

Terri thought for a moment, then said, "Now I come to think of it, after I was transferred from Lenoak to Mitchell Street, no one took over my old station in Morcambe Street, Lenoak. It'll be a little cramped, being much smaller than Mitchell Street, but it'd be better than nothing."

"I'm guessing that it hasn't been dusted in over eighteen months?" asked Sheila.

"Umm, no, I just moved out and abandoned it."

"Then let's see if Mrs. M. will help us clean it up," suggested Colin.

"I'm sure she will if I ask her," boasted Sheila, "I'm her fave out of all of her extended family members."


"Certainly not!" said Deidre Morton the next morning, sounding shocked at the suggestion. "A building that has been untenanted for eighteen months."

"It's only got two small rooms, plus a loo," pointed out Terri.

"Please! Please! Please! Do it for me!" begged Sheila, hugging the short, chubby brunette. "You've always been like the mother I never had."

"Sheila! Your mother is alive and well, living at Allambie Road in Sale."

"Yes, but Mum, Dad, and my brothers all moved to Sale to get away from me ten years ago. And I've been a motherless child ever since."

Looking unconvinced, Deidre said, "All right, I will help you, Colin, Terri, Paul, and Suzette to clean up the Morcambe Street Police Station."

"You want us to help?" asked Sheila, sounding shocked.

"Sheils, don't blow it now!" warned Terri.

"Yes, I expect you five to do most of the work with me helping out and acting as the forewoman, giving the orders."

"You expect us to take orders from you?"

"Sheila!" warned Terri and Colin.

"I meant, of course, we'll take orders from you."

"Good," said Deidre Morton, smiling smugly.


Having finished the plane crash scene, Howard Mailer decided to put aside Flight To Hell!, while he finished a couple of short stories. The first was an adventure-cum-horror story: Monster From the Deep.

The twenty-metre maxi yacht Jayne's Lover was sailing upon the choppy waters in Port Phillip Bay, he wrote: They had started from Dandenong and were heading toward Queenscliff first, then on to Torquay.

"Brr," shivered the gorgeous blonde, Jayne Kingford....


"Why did we have to go in the middle of winter. It would have been lovely in December?" asked Jayne, a tall, gorgeous, thirty-something, platinum blonde with a figure not unlike that of her namesake, Jayne Mansfield.

"Because I just got the boat and named if after you, honey," said Josh Lancaster, a tall, dark-haired man of nearly forty. "I couldn't wait to take her out on Port Phillip."

"You know boys and their toys," teased Jayne's best friend, Cally Wallers, a tall, thirty-eight-year-old chestalicious beauty with long raven coloured hair.

"That's true," admitted Jayne, who was dressed in tight blue-striped white shorts and a pink T-Shirt reading in white letters, 'Ladies Don't Spit ... They Swallow!' a gift from Josh.

"I think they're slandering us," said Jackson Wallers, a tall, dark-haired, muscular man of forty, and Cally's husband.

"Well, you know women."

"Frankly, no! I'm a man, I don't understand women at all."

"Well, our two. They know they're hotties, so they can get away with anything, so long as they're friendly with us at night."

"Frankly, I don't care how much Cally slanders me, as long as I get plenty of the good stuff at night."

"I think we've just become their latest toys," said Jayne.

"Men!" said Cally. "We'll never be able to understand them!"

"It's like they're from another planet."

"That's right, honey. Remember, 'Women are From Venus and Men are From Mars'!"

"Really? I didn't know that?" said Jayne, not as savvy as Cally.

"Actually," said Josh, "I've always had my own theory: That men come from Earth, but women come from Mars."

"That sounds more like it," agreed Jackson. "They may be beautiful, soft, and curvy, but they really can't be human."

"Well, in that case, Viva Les Martienne!" said Josh, reaching for another bottle of Boag's Lager.

"Actually, I think you two have had enough to drink," said Cally.

She swayed across to take the bottle from Josh, plus a second bottle, then swayed her way back to her deck chair. Sitting, she gave one Boag's to Jayne and kept the other for herself.

"I think the girls have just reintroduced prohibition," complained Josh.

"Well, as long as they don't have any inhibitions," teased Jackson.

"Definitely, they've had enough!" agreed Jayne.

The two women had just started drinking the lager when two massive suckered tentacles reached over the side of the yacht, grabbed the two women around their generous chests, and then pulled them screaming overboard.

"Cally!" shrieked Jackson, drunk enough to leap overboard to try to save his beautiful wife.


Over at Morcambe Street, Lenoak, the six people were crowded into the tiny police station, wearing Covid masks against the dirt and cobwebs, while doing their best to dust, then mop the police station. Suzette and Sheila screamed occasionally when they saw a spider, but Colin, or Deidre Morton, picked the spiders up and carried them outside, with Sheila and Suzette chanting:

"Kill it! Kill it! Kill it! Don't put it outside!"

"They're God's creatures, the same as us," insisted Deidre.

"No, they're Satan's creations," insisted the Goth chick.

"A big, tough, bodybuilding, Goth policewoman like you afraid of spiders?" asked Deidre, shaking her head and tsk-tsk-tsking.

"Eight legs! They've got eight legs!" shouted Sheila, as though that explained everything.

"Yes, definitely, eight legs!" agreed Suzette.


Jayne! thought Josh, too cowardly to jump into Kraken-infested waters, wrote Howard Mailer.

He started to turn Jayne's Lover in toward where the three had vanished overboard, when a giant suckered tentacle reached over the side of the yacht, grabbed Josh, and pulled him overboard.

For just a moment, he came face to face with a giant black eye the size of a gladiator's shield, then as the Goliath Squid lowered the drowning man toward its underside, he saw the hellish beak on the monster, just before it started to devour him.

Yes, perfect! thought Howard....


Later that day, American tourists, unaware that June would be winter in Australia, since it was summertime in New York, were wandering along the banks of the smelly Yannan River outside Glen Hartwell.

"What is that smell?" demanded Gladys Loftus.

"Sort of makes me homesick for New York," said her husband, Morty, a short, dumpy, balding, fifty-something man.

"New York don't smell quite this bad!"

"Not quite," agreed her younger sister, Shelley, "but not much better."

"New York smells like a sewerage farm that exploded!" insisted Gladys and Shelley's older brother, Tyrone Seville, a tall, lanky, dark-haired man of nearly fifty.

"New York does not smell like a sewerage farm that exploded!" started Gladys. "New York smells fine."

"As long as you're standing upwind of it," teased Tyrone.

"Yeah, if you're standing downwind of New York, LOOK OUT!" said Morty.

"How dare you?" demanded Gladys Loftus as the other three laughed.

The argument might have continued forever if the four Americans hadn't stumbled across the maxi yacht, Jayne's Lover, standing high out of the heavily polluted Yannan River.

"What the heck is a maxi yacht doing in a bloody creek?" demanded Gladys.

"Strangely enough, Professor Know-It-All isn't here to tell us," said Morty.

"Don't be sarcastic!" said Gladys, taking out her mobile phone. "I hope this thing works in Orstralia," she said before ringing 911, only to be told that no such number existed." "It can't reach 911!"

"'Course not, dopey!" said Tyrone. "911 is America, Orstralia is triple-zero."

"Well, how was I to know that?" demanded Gladys, dialling. "Why don't they use 911, like the rest of the world?"

"The rest of the world does not use 911," protested Morty, "the U.K. has 999."

"Don't be a smartass!" said Gladys. Then to the operator, "No, no, not you."


Over at Morcambe Street, Lenoak, Deidre, and the five cops were getting the dirty police station back in order when the black landline phone rang on the tiny grey vinyl-topped desk.

"Hello?" said Terri. "You want to report what? No, no, I'm not suggesting you're drunk!"

After a moment, she hung up and said, "That was some American woman, wanting to report her family had found a maxi yacht in the Yannan River!"

"A maxi yacht," asked Sheila, "don't tell me it fell off the Airbus yesterday?"

"Sheils!" said everyone else in the police station.

"What?" demanded the Goth chick. "I can't see any other way a lifeboat could get into the Yannan River, let alone a maxi yacht. Did she say what it was called?"

"Jayne's Lover. Spelt with a J, like Jayne Mansfield."

"Ooh, I grew up lusting after Jayne Mansfield," said Paul Bell.

"Me too," admitted Colin Klein.

"Down, boys, there are ladies present," said Suzette Cummings.

"So, Colin, Sheils, you're with me?"

"What about us?" asked Suzette.

"You've still got a police station to clean up," teased Sheila as they headed out into Morcambe Street, which like a lot of streets in the local towns, had had wattles and lemon-scented gum trees planted in the verges recently.


An hour later, Terri and the others were at the Yannan River, along with Tilly, Jesus, and Elvis, plus three ambulances and sundry nurses and paramedics.

"So what's the verdict, Tils?" asked Terri, as the surgeon examined the chestalicious, Jayne Kingford's corpse.

"Based upon her pale complexion and water leaking from her mouth, I'd say she drowned."

"Same with this one," agreed Elvis Green, examining busty Cally Wallers. Elvis was nicknamed for his adoration of the late King of Rock and Roll.

"And this bloke," said Jesus Costello, the administrator and chief surgeon at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital, as he examined the final corpse, Jackson Waller.


When they arrived back at the Morcambe Street, Lenoak Police Station, Terri, Colin, and Sheila were pleased to find that Suzette, Paul, and Deidre Morton had finished cleaning up the recently dirty station.

"Excellent work, everybody," said Terri.

Looking less than happy, Suzette said, "Why couldn't I have gone with you instead of staying here mopping?"

"Trust me, you need experience in all aspects of police work," teased Sheila.

"Very funny, marm!" grizzled Suzette.


Later that night, Terri, Colin, and Sheila drove around to the hospital to see how the autopsies were proceeding.

"Almost finished," said Tilly, as they stood in the freezing morgue in the basement of the hospital.

"As we suspected, they all drowned," confirmed Jesus.

"But in clean salt water," said Elvis, "not the noxious much in the Yannan."

"They drowned in seawater in a yacht found in the noxious waters of the Yannan?" asked Terri Scott.

"Just another day in the life of Glen Hartwell," said Tilly Lombstrom.

"So what's happening to the yacht?" asked Elvis.

"Eunice and George will lift it from the Yannan with their cranes," said Sheila. "Then they're hoping to claim it as salvage if no one else comes forward. They're planning to go on their honeymoon on it after marrying later this year."

"Well good luck to them," said Tilly.

"If you two convince them to get married the same day as you," said Sheila, "they might let you go along on their cruise."

"Ooh, that's worth considering," admitted Terri.


The next morning, having already sent off Monster From the Deep to his publisher the night before, Howard Mailer started to write a horror story, She-Medusa, a partial rip-off from Marvel's She-Hulk character:

The brunette came out of the shower, naked, with a white towel tied around her hair, proud of her curvy figure, wrote Howard. She unashamedly walked into the lime-walled lounge room at the front of the house, not caring if anyone out in the street saw her through the window.

Then the front door was suddenly torn away from its hinges, and hurled into Wrenkyn Street, crashing through the windscreen of a passing lorry, killing the driver, so that the lorry crashed through the front window of a house across the road.

Then something midway between Medusa and She-Hulk stormed into the room. A huge, muscle-bound emerald green woman, with snakes for hair and breasts that made Dolly Parton look flat-chested. Dressed only in a yellow stringkini.

"You are going to die, worthless woman human!" cried She-Medusa, charging the naked brunette....


Over at 88 Wrenkyn Street, Glen Hartwell, Lucy Large, a tall leggy brunette, was walking naked through her house, when She-Medusa smashed her way into her house, then raced into the lounge room after the brunette.

Shrieking like a Banshee, Lucy slipped under She-Medusa's guard, then ran naked, apart from fluffy slippers and a white towel tied around her hair, out into Wrenkyn Street. Shrilling continuously, the brunette raced as fast as she could down the street, with an angry She-Medusa charging after her.

"Come back, human female!" cried the huge-chested, green, muscle-bound female racing after her.

In a panic, Lucy raced out into the middle of the road, just being missed by a bread van. Then she stopped at the satisfying sound of a crunch. Looking back, she saw She-Medusa lying on the road under the van.

"How do you like them apples!" cried Lucy as a crowd began to gather. Some, mainly women, came due to the crash. Men, mainly because the shapely brunette had forgotten that she was naked, as she stood around taunting the fallen creature.

Then, to Lucy's horror, and everybody else's amazement, She-Medusa opened her eyes, and stood up, lifting the front of the bread van up as she stood. Finally, roaring her rage at Lucy, She-Medusa flipped the van over backwards with one hand, so that it rolled upside down.

"Now I kill you, Lucy Large!" shouted the huge-chested, green Amazon, charging across the road.

Shrieking again in terror, Lucy took off again, down Wrenkyn Street, heading toward the southern end of Glen Hartwell.


Hmmm, I'm not sure, thought Howard Mailer. I don't want it to seem too cartoonish!

Saving, then closing the file on his PC, he opened another story, Man-Ape-Wolf!

Deciding he could save much of the last story, he started again: The brunette came out of the shower, naked, with a white towel wrapped around her hair, proud of her curvy figure, wrote Howard. She unashamedly walked into the lime-walled lounge room at the front of the house, not caring if anyone out in the street saw her through the window.

Then the front door was suddenly torn away from its hinges, and hurled into Wrenkyn Street, crashing through the windscreen of a passing lorry, killing the driver, so that the lorry crashed through the front window of a house across the road.

Then a huge, monstrous ape-man-like creature, standing two metres tall, with a face and sharp fangs like a timber wolf, raced into the lounge room and growled at the terrified brunette....


Tall, chestalicious Lucy Large was charging naked down Wrenkyn Street, Glen Hartwell, with She-Medusa in hot pursuit. Then suddenly, the huge-chested green she monster vanished.

And the shapely brunette was back in her house at 88 Wrenkyn Street, just stepping out of her shower, with a white towel wrapped around her hair.

She unashamedly walked into the lime-walled lounge room at the front of the house, not caring if anyone out in the street saw her through the window.

Then the front door was suddenly torn away from its hinges, and hurled into Wrenkyn Street, crashing through the windscreen of a passing lorry, killing the driver, then the lorry crashed through the front window of a house across the road.

"What the fuck?" asked Lucy.

Just before the huge, slobbering man-ape-wolf crashed into the lounge room, snarling at her and advancing slowly toward her.

"Down boy!" said Lucy, only hoping that she wasn't going to get raped by the monster before being eaten alive.

Snarling again, the slobbering beast leapt at her.

Lucy leapt aside, fell over onto her backside, but was soon back on her feet and racing out into Wrenkyn Street, again having forgotten in her terror that she was stark naked, apart from the towel around her hair, and fluffy slippers upon her feet.

"Get away from me!" shrieked the brunette, as she heard the man-ape-wolf charging upon all fours after her.

"Look at the arse on that naked brunette!" cried an old man, almost being knocked over as the man-ape-wolf raced past him. "What the Hell is that?"

"I don't know," said his wife, Mavis O'Leary, "but I think it's planning to rape, then eat that poor young woman."

"What a waste of a hot brunette," said the old man, Timmie, getting elbowed in the ribs by Mavis. "I can understand it wanting to rape her, but why eat her? It could just keep her and rape her day and night for the next forty years or so."

Mavis elbowed him in the ribs again, and the old man fell to the concrete footpath.

"Serves you right, you old pervert!" said the old woman.


Typing furiously upon his PC, Howard Mailer wrote: the enraged man-ape-wolf loped after the terrified brunette, finally catching her at the corner of Wrenkyn Street and Robinson's Drive....


"No!" screamed Lucy Large as the hairy creature grabbed her.

It threw her face up onto the bonnet of a pink Cortina. Then looking her up and down, in obvious arousal, the man-ape-wolf, grabbed the brunette by the knees, spread her legs widely and mounted her, with its enormous hairy penis.

"Oh God, you're killing me!" shrieked the brunette as the two-metre tall creature started rutting, enjoying the tightness of her vagina and womb beyond.


Howard Mailer stopped for a moment, not certain about letting the man-ape-wolf rape the brunette before killing her. Then, shrugging, he started typing again....


Lucy Large could not believe the level of agony as the creature continued raping her at a frantic pace, as though it were in a race, rather than raping a human woman.

It finally ejaculated what felt like acid straight into her womb, making the brunette scream, "Oh, God! Please just kill me now!"

The man-ape-wolf snarled at the brunette again, then raised its hands to her throat as though to oblige.


Howard Mailer sat back in his PC chair and sighed.

Why would a red-blooded, horny male creature strangled a beautiful, curvacious woman after fucking her only once? thought the writer. Surely he would carry her back to his lair and keep her as his unwilling sex slave for years ... or even decades.

After a moment, he started writing again....


"Yes! Yes! Yes, kill me!" shrieked Lucy Large.

Then the man-ape-wolf stopped, leaning back to have a good look at the beautiful, curvy woman. It gave a lascivious smirk, and instead of strangling her, picked up the sexy woman, threw her head first across his left shoulder and started carrying her off down Wrenkyn Street and into the forest outside Glen Hartwell.

"No! No! No, kill me! Don't carry me off!" cried Lucy, whose insides still ached from the penetration, and who was leaking semen like a sieve from her vagina.


Yes! thought the writer. That makes much more sense. If she turns him on enough so that he would fuck the shit out of her, he would keep her, and carry her off to his lair.

Then he stopped for a moment and thought, His lair? But where the Hell is his lair? They can't just live outside in the open, or the brunette would freeze to death! She's naked, for God's sake!

He thought for more than five minutes before starting to type again....


In the forest, the man-ape-wolf was still racing along carrying the sexy brunette across his left shoulder, when it suddenly came to an abandoned farmhouse, where Lucy Large was certain that there had never been a farmhouse before. Barely fitting through the back door of the white, weatherboard house, the creature carried her through the bland yellow-walled kitchen, down the lilac-walled corridor, to the master bedroom, which was lined in pink, with what looked like white four-leaf clovers painted upon the wall.

It was only as the creature placed her upon the king-sized bed that Lucy noticed the iron bars on the windows.

Oh no! she thought. It looks like I'm its uncommon law wife from now on!

Smiling, almost lovingly at the brunette, the creature kissed her on the lips, forcing its oversized tongue into her unprepared mouth, almost choking her.

Oh God, gross! thought the brunette. She had never tasted anything so rancid.

Then the man-ape-wolf started to lick her body all over from her neck to her breasts, where he lingered for a fair while, before continuing down her stomach to her navel, then licking down to her vagina, where it lingered long enough to bring her to a screaming orgasm, before continuing down first one leg, then the other.

Then, highly aroused again, the creature climbed on top of the brunette and started raping her frantically again.

Is this my life from now on? wondered Lucy Large.


Hmm, thought Howard Mailer, they can't live on lust alone.

So he continued writing, giving them a power supply, plus a five-hundred-litre freezer stocked full of meat and frozen vegetables, plus he filled the kitchen cabinets with pots, pans, and mountains of fresh food....


Lucy Large was lying upon the bed, eyes closed tight as the hairy monster raped her for the second time ... when suddenly, to her surprise the bedroom light came on. And she started to hear the humming of the fridge in the kitchen, and the oversized freezer in the lounge room.


"Yes, that's good," said Howard Mailer aloud.

He started to write, 'And they both lived happily ever after', as a tease to the magazine editor. Then he thought, No, the old scrote would never go for that!

He considered for a moment, then started to type: Over at her temporary accommodation at Morcambe Street in Lenoak, Terri Scott received a phone call from hysterical Mavis O'Leary, the old lady....


Over at the Morcambe Street Police Station in Lenoak, the black desk phone rang. Sheila raced across to answer it. She listened for a moment, then hung up and said:

"That was Mavis O'Leary over at Wrenkyn Street. She says that a huge, hairy man-ape-wolf creature just savagely raped Lucy Large, then carried her off into the forest."

The five people all looked stunned by the comment. Finally, Paul Bell said, "Anywhere except Glen Hartwell, I'd suggest you send for the people in the white coats to come and lock the old lady up."

"But in the Glen, it's a case of grab the shotguns and go hunting for the man-ape thingy!" said Sheila.

"What shotguns?" asked Colin. "They're buried under a tonne of concrete, bricks, and timber at Mitchell Street."

"Oh, yeah," said the dismayed Goth chick.

"Actually we do have a couple of shotguns n the back room here," said Terri.

She disappeared into the second room, then returned less than a minute later with two shotguns and two boxes of shells.

"I did say, a couple," said Terri.

She handed the shotguns to Sheila and Colin.

"We'd better ring Stanlee, Jessie, and Don Esk as well," suggested Colin.

"Don't Stanlee and Jessie have their own shotguns?" asked Suzette.

"Yes," said Terri, starting to dial on the landline. "And I'd better tell Don to bring along Slap, Tickle, and Rub."


An hour later, they had followed the prints of the fleeing man-ape-wolf down Wrenkyn Street, then into the forest beyond Glen Hartwell. Stanlee, Jessie, and Don were each trailing behind one of Don's three Alsatian crosses.

"Slow down, Tickle," ordered Jessie, a redhead ox of a man in his late thirties.

The dog ahead of Don woofed at the name Tickle.

"I've got Tickle," said Don, a tall forty-year-old man, built like a wrestler.

"Then which one have I got?" asked Stanlee, a huge raven-haired forty-something man.

"You've got Rub."

"So, I'm stuck with Slap," guessed Jessie.

"Don't say that's they're very self-conscious."

"They're barely conscious, let alone self-conscious," corrected Stanlee.

"How dare you?" said Don as they suddenly came to the large white weatherboard house.

"What the Hell is a farmhouse doing in the middle of the forest surrounded by old-growth trees?" asked Colin.

"It certainly wasn't there a week ago, when I passed here," said Stanlee.

"As the saying goes, only in Glen Hartwell," reminded Jessie.

"And why does it have iron bars on all of the windows?" asked Sheila as they approached. "Even near doom-cursed Glen Hartwell, people don't usually have barred windows on their farmhouses."

"Well, anyway, this is where the dumb mutts seem to think our captive lady is," said Terri, as the Alsatian crosses led them right up to the porch outside the farmhouse.

"Maybe we should release the dogs and let them charge in after it?" suggested Jessie Baker.

"And get my dumb mutt ... my dogs ripped apart by the man-ape-wolf thingy?" demanded Donald Esk. "No bloody way!"

"Agreed," said Terri. "We'll tie them up outside. Then we go in, with the five with shotguns leading the way."

"Gotcha, Chief," said Sheila, happy to take on a man-ape-wolf thingy, now that she had a shotgun and plenty of shells.

After tying up the dogs, Sheila and Stanlee led the charge into the farmhouse, followed by Colin, Jessie, Don, and then Terri. They checked the bland yellow-walled kitchen, then a small TV room to the right of the kitchen, and the laundry and bathroom to the left. Then they started down the pink-walled corridor, checking rooms on the left and the right, trying not to make too much noise.

Finally, they reached the master bedroom at the top of the house.

"We started at the wrong end," whispered Sheila, as they readied themselves to burst into the room....


Where they saw the man-ape-wolf ruthlessly fucking poor Lucy Large, who had passed out from fatigue and terror, upon the king-sized bed, wrote Howard Mailer.

The six cops spread out around the room, then Terri Scott fired a single shot from her handgun into the ceiling to get the monster's attention.

Roaring in rage, the monster climbed off the bed, taking poor Lucy with it, since its huge cock was stuck inside her tiny vaginal opening. Roaring again, this time from frustration, the man-ape-wolf struggled to pull the unconscious brunette off itself. Finally succeeding, the monster roared at the cops as it started to advance upon them....


"Open fire!" ordered Terri Scott!

The four men and Sheila Bennett all began firing their shotguns into the beast, which crashed backwards into the plaster walls, still roaring in anger and pain. Until finally, its eyes went dim and it slid down the wall, dead.

Racing across to the bed, Stanlee Dempsey took off his long police overcoat and covered up Lucy Large with it.

After checking that the monster was dead, Terri rang through to the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital to get ambulances out to pick up Lucy and the dead man-ape-monster thingy.


Half an hour later, Cheryl Pritchard and Derek Armstrong lifted still unconscious Lucy upon a stretcher to take her to the waiting ambulance.

"What a weird couple of days!" said Cheryl as they stretchered her down the corridor. "What's next?"


"Yes!" said Howard Mailer. "Now that zings!"

He proofread the story three times, then printed it out, packaged it up, and addressed the story to an editor at Springer's Publishing House in Tantamount Road, Brooklyn. Retaining the name Springer's despite Donny and Rosie Springer having been killed some time ago.

"Yes, they're going to love it!" said Howard with confidence, as he took the package out to post immediately.


Back at the Lenoak Police Station, Suzette complained, "Why couldn't I go with you on this rescue mission?"

Remembering the sight of the man-ape-wolf creature raping an unconscious Lucy Large, Colin said, "Trust me, you were better of here, than seeing what we had to see."

He then went on to tell them everything that had happened.

"Yeech!" said Suzette. "What was I complaining about?"

"We're better off hanging out here for a while," said Paul Bell. "The media jackals have invaded Glen Hartwell, due to the Airbus crash."

"Well, let's hope that they don't hear about what happened to poor Lucy Large," said Sheila. "That would really set them off."


The next morning at breakfast, Deidre Morton dropped the Glen Hartwell Reporter onto the dining table in front of Terri Scott.

"Not while I'm eating, please, Mrs. M."

"I think you should stop eating long enough to read that," insisted Deidre.

Opening up the paper, Terri was horrified to see a picture of the farmhouse where the rape of Lucy Large had occurred, and the title: MONSTER APE-MAN-THING RAPES LOCAL BEAUTY by Lisa Nowland.

"Lisa Nowland!" cried Terri Scott, making the others all stare at her.

"Did I hear you correctly, honey?" asked Colin Klein.

"Yes, a certain sexy-genarian blonde, who has eyes for you, is in Glen Hartwell, stirring up trouble, not for the first time."

"Well, if you stay well clear of Glen Hartwell, sticking to Lenoak, you should be able to avoid her," suggested Leo Laxman foolishly.

"You haven't met Lisa Nowland," said Colin. "She is a bloodhound's bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out news, gossip, or tracking down police officers who are hiding from her."

"Yes," agreed Sheila, "I wouldn't be surprised if she's waiting outside the Yellow House right now."

"I'll go and check," said Deidre Morton. She walked out toward the front of the building, then returned a little over a minute later.

"Well, is she out there?" asked Terri.

"Her, and about a hundred other reporters and camera people," said Deidre.

"Told you!" said Sheila.

"So, how do we get out unobserved?" asked Colin.

"Easy peasy for Terri and me," said Sheila. "Lisa never notices women. But for you, there's a problem."

"And she has offered in the past to let me screw her in exchange for an exclusive," said Colin. He regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

"What!" demanded Terri, standing. "I'll kill that platinum blonde nympho."

"She's not a nympho!" protested Sheila. "She's just a news hound who will use any tool at her disposal to get a story. Hell, she'd probably lez it up with us if we offered her an exclusive."

"Ooh," said Terri, "I can't get that image out of my head now."

"So, how do I get out of here, unseen by the blonde piranha?" asked Colin.

"Well, she doesn't notice chicks, so if we got you in drag," suggested Sheila.

"None of my dresses, Natasha's dresses, or Mrs. M's would fit him," pointed out Terri. "What about your dresses, Sheila?"

"I don't have any dresses. I stopped wearing dresses or skirts when I turned twelve. That's around when I first went Goth."

"Anyway, I am not camping it up to avoid getting Shanghaied by the human piranha," insisted Colin.

After finishing their breakfast, reluctantly, Terri, Colin, and Sheila went out the front door of the Yellow House, having to push their way through a crowd of journalists and camera crews.

"Mr. Klein! Mr. Klein! Do you remember me?" called Lisa Nowland, a still very sexy and curvaceous sixty-two-year-old platinum blonde. "I need to talk to you urgently." She stressed 'urgently', throwing out her large chest as much as she could without going topless.

Ignoring her, the three cops pushed their way across to the police-blue Lexus, then Sheila started it in first gear, forcing the crowd to part or be run over.

"Mr. Klein! Mr. Klein!" shouted Lisa, jumping up and down, until her breasts almost popped out of her low-cut white midi dress.

As the police car eventually managed to accelerate, Lisa looked around for her cameraman and driver, cursing as she realised that she had sent him around to the rear of the boarding house, in case they tried to sneak out that way. Abandoning him, Lisa raced across to their news van, climbed in and started the engine ....

Only to be caught in a massive bottleneck, as everyone else tried to follow the Lexus.

"Aaaaaaaaaah!" screamed the platinum blonde.


That afternoon, Springer's Publishing House in Tantamount Road, Brooklyn, received the story Monster From the Deep from Howard Mailer. Then the next day, they received Man-Ape-Wolf.

After reading both stories, their secretary-cum-stenographer-cum-gopher Cherie Black, a forty-old brunette who looked about twenty, decided to go around to the Mitchell Street Police Station. Only to be redirected by George and Eunice to the Morecambe Street Station in Lenoak.

Staring down at the two typed stories, Terri Scott asked, "With all that's been going on in Glen Hartwell over the last few days, you want me to take time out to read two stories?"

"I really think you should," insisted Cherie.

"What are they called?" asked Sheila.

"Monster From the Deep and Man-Ape-Wolf."

"What?" demanded Terri. She snatched up Man-Ape-Wolf to read, while Sheila read Monster From the Deep.

"How the Hell ...?" began Terri.

"Strange as it seems," said Cherie, "I think he is creating what is going on in Glen Hartwell lately by writing his stories."

"What about the Airbus crash?" asked Colin.

"We don't have a story about that from him," said Cherie, "but he is writing a novel for us, called Flight To Hell!"

"Uh-oh!" said Colin, Terri, and Sheila.

"Something tells me, we need to go around and see Mr ..." said Terri, snatching up the story again to read the copyright details, "Howard Mailer."

"32 Lawson Street, G.H.," finished Sheila.


Forty minutes later, they were at 32 Lawson Street explaining their crazy idea to Howard Mailer.

"But that's ridiculous," insisted the young man. "For one thing I've been writing stories for ten years now, and have never caused disasters or monster rapes before."

"Maybe, but both of your stories contain details of true occurrences," insisted Colin Klein.

"And based on when they arrived at my office," said Cherie, "you had to have written both stories before they happened in real life."

"Yes, but ..." began Howard, stumped for an answer.

"Perhaps we need to read the Airbus crash scene in Flight To Hell!" suggested Terri.

"How did you know I had written an Airbus crash scene in Flight To Hell!" asked Howard.

"Because one happened in Glen Hartwell a few days ago," said Colin

"So, you have to stop writing short stories and novels," insisted Sheila, "forever!"

"Well," said Howard, considering for a few moments. "Okay, I'll only write scripts from now on. Actually, I've had this idea for a while about a script where Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield never died young. Instead they kept making films, but by their early forties they had gravitated to making Triple-X porn films, some of them lesbian films together, and some of them bestiality films where they let dogs, ponies, and even bulls fuck them."

When the others stared at him in shock, he said, "Hey, I am a bloke."

"That's true," said Sheila. "A bloke who is going to bring back Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield and give them forty extra years of life ... as porn stars."

"Well, as he said, he is a bloke!" said Colin, making everyone laugh.

THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia