Last week I held a Creative Writing workshop with the kids (no-one else was willing to do it...). One of them wrote about AtmosphereBall, the sport they play on Mars, another wrote an interview with himself as the director of the well-known film Toilet Paper while another complained vociferously about having to write in the first place.

This is what I scribbled down.

THE HUNTER

The grass moved so imperceptibly that it could have been the wind.

The briefest glimpse of pale speckled skin set the hunter's instincts running wild. His shoulders tensed, his eyes narrowed. He readjusted his grip on his weapon, and then relaxed slightly.

A clean shot was absolutely imperative. Anything less would waste already-depleted ammunition and inflict vast amounts of unnecessary pain on his prey. Not that a certain amount of unnecessary pain would make any real difference, he thought grimly, considering how much absolutely necessary pain would be dealt out once things got going.

The hunter barely noticed night falling. He never did. He had been in this position too many times and enjoyed the vegetables of his labours too often to bother with such trivialities. The rustling in the grass had grown more frequent over the last hours, but not enough to make him take any action beyond tense and anticipatory readiness.

After so many hours perceiving the barely perceptible, his quarry's sudden and violent rush out of the undergrowth in his direction seemed like an apocalyptic event. Unfazed, he readjusted his aim minutely and pulled the trigger, catapulting a platoon of tiny blades horizontally from his weapon. As they made contact, shrieks of pain reverberated through the forest, causing a group of colourful birds in the nearby trees to flee with indignant squawks. The hunter had already smoothly switched weapons, and now sent a jet of clear fluid directly at the lacerated creature. The screams of pain increased, anguished and tortured, before dying out completely, leaving only ominous sounds of crackling and sizzling. It had all happened so quickly that a shocked silence was only beginning to emerge from the shadows.

The potato hunter extracted himself from his hiding place, strode forward and picked up an impeccably sliced, deliciously greasy potato chip, popping it into his mouth with a sigh so satisfied that it chilled the other observing potatoes to the depths of their soon-to-be cooked souls.