There were more than 50 entries to last year's Creative Writing competition, run by the Medway Messenger and the University of Kent.

Terry John Ward of Weller Avenue, Rochester was named the overall winner. His fictional tale of Henry Gumble's Garden, based in the fictional Australian town of Coonabarramunga, had the audience chortling as loudly as the kookaburras in his story.

Read the story below or click the link above to hear it read by KMFM newsreader Rhona Pinkerton.

The Gumbles' bungalow stood in the shade of a group of giant eucalyptus trees, way beyond anywhere except the little town of Coonabarramunga.

Their land, being as dry as a dead dingo’s donger, would have made a beaut lizard farm, if there had been a demand for them.

Henry Gumble, finding little joy in his home, especially the bedroom, concentrated his spare time trying to create a garden on his arid two acres.

One day having accumulated a substantial number of tools, he had a brief altercation with his wife Martha, who informed him that the second bedroom was not a rotten shed. Any half decent bloke would stop scratching himself and build one. Having been thus encouraged Henry decided to do so.

The rear boundary of the property ended in a soaring cliff. If he could set his shed into it, it would make an ideal cold store.

“The idea came to me in a dream,” he told Martha.

Her response to that set every Kookaburra in the neighbourhood laughing hard enough to fall from their perches.

Despite Martha’s jaundiced opinion Henry proceeded to carefully hack his way into the cliff face, shoring it up as he went. It was hard, dirty work.

He had only progressed 10 feet before he encountered a solid wall of rock and was paddling about in his own sweat by the time he broke through it - into the store.

The purpose built chamber was piled high with what looked like sand. Upon closer examination the grains proved to be curiously flat in shape.

He placed a handful of the stuff under his nose and sniffed. No odour. Consumed by curiosity he stuck out his tongue and tasted it, “YUCCCCK!”

Henry was still spitting when a small screen lit up on the back wall.

He stood transfixed as a wierd, triangular-shaped head appeared upon it. Whatever it was seemed to have a nice tan; he’d say that for it, but the third eye was a bit unnerving and where were its ears - and its hair?

The thing’s pursed and blubbery lips parted. G’day, cobber, you got my dream-message then,” it said in friendly tones. In the blink of a Skink’s eye Henry’s life was transformed.

****

“Your dinner’s cold,” Martha bluntly informed her husband when he drifted into the kitchen in a semi trance.

“Are you dear?” Henry was rather preoccupied as he hugged his secret to himself with a kind of delicious glee. “I’m going to need a lot of bags.”

“What are you talking about now?”Martha asked. “What do you need bags for?”

“The soil I’m excavating is very rich. I’m going to bag it up and put it on the garden. You’d better not go near that cliff, Martha. It might be a bit dangerous. I don’t want you getting hurt, my love.”

Of course she went berko at that. “I’m not interested in your hole in the ground! A bunch of Brumbies wouldn’t drag me up there.”

Henry bailed out and took the Ute to go and buy some bags.

****

Working flat out like a snake, he shovelled up his discovery, stacking the bags well clear of the excavation.

Next, he tied one end of a rope to the pit props supporting its roof, attaching the other to the tow-bar of the Ute. Then having made sure the coast was clear, he let her rip.

If he had not been made scared stiff by what the earless, hairless bloke on the wierd transmitter had told him, Henry Gumble’s name would have gone down in history.

“Long, long ago, even before ‘Neighbours” was thought of, the alien had been a ‘Planet Greener Operative’ out of the constellation, Kingsplat. His job had been to poke about the universe with loads of Bula bird dung, charitably using it to ‘Green-up’ deserts on any likely looking planet that he came across.

Henry was quite welcome to use the dung that he had left behind when he was sent for in a hurry, to sort out a bit of blue at home. Henry was also informed that he would be, “Melted to the size of that drop of sweat on the end of your nose if you tell anybody about this.

“Kingsplat doesn’t want a bunch of raw prawns from Earth contacting them. You’re an ugly lot and can’t be trusted.”

****

Our hero was covered in dust after destroying the store room, so Martha would not let him into the kitchen. He had to strip to his grundies and wait until she brought out a bowl of soap and water. “If I had my way I’d turn a hose on you, you big Galah,” she said. “I told you that cliff would fall down. What ya going to do next? Mine for Gold?

“No, I’m going to build my shed and store those sacks of dirt into it,” Henry said through the lather.

****

And he did. When it was finished he filled it with upmpteen sacks of Bula dung and secured it with a padlock the size of Tasmania.

The following year, Henry had a bumper crop of just about everything. It was incredible the way his flowers and veggies grew. Just two bags of Bula dung had achieved amazing results.

He opened a greengrocer’s shop in town and did a roaring trade. As for Martha, well, the more of Henry’s veg she ate the sweeter her disposition became and lo and behold, there she was washing the nappies of a little ankle biter, singing away as she did so. Coonabarramunga soon became the happiest little, off the map, place you could wish for.

Henry was often tempted to reveal the secret of his success but it was as hot as Hades up there so, as a mnemonic, he always had a drop of sweat at the end of his nose.

• For details on how to enter this year's Creative Writing Awardsclick here