We Made a Story!

Very often in this life we find that the mixing of separate and disparate elements leads to unfortunate and unsavoury results: George W. Bush and the leadership of the world's largest economy, Will Ferrell and testicles, and vegemite and milk.

At other times, we are lucky enough to stumble upon a combination that brings peace, love and joy to all humankind: Jean-Luc Piccard and the Enterprise, Mo2(TiPB)4 (TiPB = 2,4,6-triisopropyl benzoate) and 3′,4′-dihexyl-2,2′-:5′,2″-terthiophene-5,5″-dicarboxylic acid; and the mixing of chocolate and milk.

It is into this latter group that four separate and disparate elements, thrown together by chance and online whimsy, came together to create what could potentially be, and I think I am in no way over-selling this, the Great Australian Novel. Sure, we need another 99,383 polished words but I think we all agree the oyster has been seeded.

That's right, over the last 24 hours we have witnessed the miracle birth of one of the world's greatest (only?) online, anonymous, choose-your-own-adventure-esque story-telling collectives.

A big thank you to Anon, Stephen King and ET for contributing to the first ever Kettle Collective Story. I see big things for us: fame, fortune and not a small amount of tall poppy syndrome-itis from other collective writing collectives. I bet they're kicking themselves in their collective arse for not getting on board with our winning effort.*

In case you were busy yesterday negotiating with your agent over the film rights for your latest novel, I have included our story below for your immediate and awe-inspired perusal:

[Kettle] It was a dark and stormy night. Mabel had been watching tv and fallen asleep on the couch when she was awoken by a knock, knock, knocking at the door. [Anon] When she answered the door she found it was the mailman, who pulled out of his bag [Stephen King] a severed head!

"Wait a minute," said Mabel, "something's not right here. If you're a postman why are you making deliveries at night?"

"It's a new service," said the postman. "Mail delivered... to your front door... at night."

"Oh well then," said Mabel, "why don't you come in. You must be tired from lugging that head around."

So they sat down in the loungeroom and had a cup of tea. Then the postman said [ET] "thank you for the cup of tea," passed Mabel the clip-board and a pen and asked her to sign for the head and was on his way, back out into the night, for his next delivery.

The End.

While in some alternate universe it's possible some of you, dear readers, are muttering quietly to yourselves "thank chroist for the two sweetest words in the world of poorly written drivel: 'The End,'" but given the quality of the piece we're unlikely to hear such disgruntings.

I wait in eager anticipation for the next Kettle Collective Story; don't you?

* Please note, we have not, as yet, won anything.