Writers Group meet at Milligan Community Centre every Tuesday morning at 9.30. The group is made up of people of all ages and backgrounds who share a common interest in writing. Each week a homework topic is set to encourage creativity. These short stories are shared and discussed in class along with any other work participants have been exploring. The convenor will then set a ten minute exercise on any given topic to test skills and challenge the writers. If members want to pursue a different direction encouragement is given and work reviewed. Because of time constraints work read out is preferred to be kept to an A4 page of typing.

Tuesday Writers as a group do not focus solely on getting participants' work published or on only one topic i.e. family biography. Their purpose is to encourage writers and writing of all genres. They encourage members to enter competitions and attend workshops, bringing ideas gleaned back to the group.Writers have been awarded highly recommended awards in numerous short story and poetry competitions. Three members have also had their work performed at Bunbury's Shorelines Writing for Performance festivals.

The last week of term 4, the topic was to "kill off Santa", a somewhat gloomy topic but certainly one to get creativity levels cranking! Following is a short story by Ken Morrell, entitled "Last Christmas"

As kids we always put out a shot of 12 year old malt and a couple of cheese bikkies Christmas eve for Santa to wet his whistle before moving on to the next benevolent child. As a parent I encouraged my offspring to put out a nice cold stubby and a slice of bread and cheese for Santas midnight supper. In my case it was to encourage the exercise of imagination and enhance the mystery and magic of the celebratory season. I was so egotistical to think I was the only one hence my surprise when I caught my neighbour scattering a shovel full of manure on his front lawn. Reindeer droppings. No doubt he encouraged his kids to put out a bit more than a stubby. He was probably a whisky Santa. Black Label Johnny Walker

I realised parents the world over would be doing this. In Japan it would be sake and sushi, Mexico would have tequila and tacos, no doubt the Poms would put out beer and chips, the French red wine and oysters and the Americans could only go for bootleg and hamburgers. All this would result in our jolly red benefactor arriving in Australia three parts schickered with a bad case of indigestion.

This I found out last Christmas to be the case.

We were enjoying a coldy and a fruit mince pie while watching Ray Martin do his thing from the Myer Music Bowl in Melbourne when there was an almighty crash and a lot of thumping on our roof. Ray Martin suddenly morphed into a lot of blurry lines so I figured something was interfering with the signal. Stubby in hand I investigated to find the roof covered with thrashing animals and a wrecked sleigh. We subsequently worked out that he had made his approach too low, too fast and had collected the guttering. A half empty sack of presents throwing things off kilter didn't help. The sleigh had cartwheeled on top of the reindeer and poor old Santa, not wearing a seatbelt of course had been thrown out and impaled on the TV antenna. Hence no reception. He was stuck there like a starfish on a spear. By the time I had got a ladder, propped it on the smashed guttering and clambered up there he had slid off the antenna and been stomped on by the reindeer trying to get to their feet. Presents were all over the roof. Looked like we had installed crazy Christmas lights.

I eventually got it all sorted out, unharnessed the reindeer, chucked the sleigh down onto the back lawn (didn't want the neighbours to know we had all their presents) and turned my attention to Santa. He was in a bad way. In fact he was dead. Speared with the TV and stomped on by his own reindeer. What a way to go. At least he went happy. He smelt like hookers bar and had a smile like he'd won the lottery. We got him down and stuck him in the sleigh. Corralled the reindeer in the back yard and went back to Ray Martin. He was still a bit blurry and kept coming and going but the gaps gave us time to get to the fridge for another coldie and not miss anything.

By the time Ray Martin had finished with the combined choirs and a Santa imposter had made his appearance, we were out of cold ones so we had to restock the fridge in preparation for Xmas day. I checked on the real Santa who was starting to grow stiff along with a couple of reindeer that hadn't made it through the accident. Not wanting anyone to chance upon such a sight without warning I covered the whole lot with the pool blanket. Santa would have felt quite at home I thought as it looked just like a small iceberg sitting there on our patio. The surviving reindeer were having a great time mowing the lawn and nibbling on the hedge. I set up the kids paddle pool and they all gathered round for drink. I figured they were most appreciative having worked so hard that night. I did contemplate adding in a bottle of whiskey but I didn't want to be too generous even if it is Christmas.

Anyway we spent the whole of Christmas day digging a hole big enough to bury the lot in our backyard. The most energetic Christmas day I've ever spent. The surviving reindeer had just disappeared. Flown home to the North Pole I guess. I never heard of them again. Pity, they did a great job on the lawn and the hedge has never looked better.

On the bright side, by the time we flog all the presents we should have enough money to buy foxtel. Those little dishes won't be anywhere near as dangerous as our old TV antenna.

Extract from a short story written by Peter Needham:

Rudolph's nose was going flat, no longer shining bright. This did not slow Santa down at all, he gathered together the last of the presents and hurried towards the chimney. In his haste he tripped on a broken tile and fell head first down the shaft to the fire place far below. Landing on his head breaking his neck the poor bastard was dead.

Ensueing police investigations found that the house belonged to the Grinch. Despite not having found any supporting evidence, police believe it wasnt an accident but a sinister attempt by the Grinch to ensure Christmas would be dead and buried forever..

Extract from a short story written by Ken Morrell:

Sam and I had at last got our week off and were well into the outback in our trusty well beaten Toyota when we came across what could only be called a ‘local identity’. He had the obligatory bushy beard and wild look in his eye but there were no moleskins or elastic sided riding boots and certainly none of the bowyangs of Henry Lawson fame. Instead he was wearing what could only be described as a faded orange SES jumpsuit. He was camped near a small waterhole under the shade of four gnarled weather beaten mallees, although ‘shade’ in that environment was an exaggeration. More like a scattered pattern of leaf shadows but it did break the intense heat of the sun and offered an illusion of relief. It was when he staggered towards us begging for a good hamburger muttering about having run out of reindeer that we knew he had been in the sun too long and lost his mind. Loneliness can do that too. Turns a man’s mind.