Committed writers dedicated to working together to produce excellent poems, short stories, drama, life writing, and creative non-fiction

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Sheila 01823 67 28 46

Valerie 01884 84 04 22

Tuesday 11 December 2012


The clock struck ten.
Shadows flickered like memories on the wall.
She downed her glass, then poured another;
gazed mutely at the fire, the shards of glass,
the spilled wine darkening the carpet by the chair,
his chair, still dented by his warmth.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to no-one.

© Sheila Rogers
All rights reserved

Monday 10 December 2012


Mysterious signs requiring
sharp perception of senses.
Transient shifts open for
interpretation - though elusive.
Light – air pressure – sound –
gentle smell – colour - movement -

a soul’s breath, the sigh of a tree,
papery kiss of a leaf falling-
harvested for memory,
transcendent as a moment
passes, fleeing capture.

© Valerie Taylor
All rights reserved

Create an (atmosphere) ...

5.00pm: Las Canteras Beach – Isleta – Las Palmas

Carlos scooped up the change from the cuenta of the last of the late lunchtime diners.  It would be quiet now until nine o’clock.  This was the part of the day he liked best.  A little cooler, it was when the half- board tourists would stroll along the paseo before having their hotel suppers at an hour unthinkable to the Spanish. 

He looked beyond the stone benches - where a guitarist had played softly for the last half hour - along the curve of the bay towards the volcanic hills behind.  The sun would set soon.

His attention, though, was drawn to a man and a woman leaning against the railings above the beach.  They were kissing with the intensity of new lovers, cleaving to each other, oblivious of a girl who skimmed past them on roller blades, swerving to avoid a bronzed, silver haired couple in matching white trousers and t-shirts.

The lovers were in their late thirties, he judged - his age.  She was a little plump in tight pink tracksuit trousers and her blond hair revealed dark roots; his hair was thinning from the front and he wore sunglasses which reflected the determination in her face.  Their kissing and clutching and stroking had a desperate quality to it – as if by holding each other so closely love would not slip this time.  Little lower than angels, mused Carlos.

He waved to a fellow camarero, turned towards the kitchen and once again thought of his wife in Cuba.

© Tim Scott
All rights reserved


Oh tribal African; is this your face
Strong and powerful
Does it depict your Race
This special image to portray
A stern & knowing expression
Below hair that is lately grey

© Kenneth Campbell
All rights reserved


Rail pumping stations were constructed every three miles from Exeter to Starcross. Beneath the leading piston carriage hung a 15ft long piston, with small wheels outside the pipe that opened and closed an iron and leather-flap valve. The piston entered the end of the pipe and pressure from the atmosphere pushed the piston up the pipe.

© Kenneth Campbell
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This Place Has No Atmosphere

God was bored.
He’d left nothing
to His imagination.

He’d created himself out a job;
when the serpent saved the day,
(which God - being God - didn’t admit).

Now, Adam had someone to blame for everything;
Eve had someone who’d always need her.

So, God declared, “Let History begin.”

© Sophia Roberts
All rights reserved

Friday 7 December 2012


I'm always watching
on the web
for shoes,
small and attractive
but I have to have
four pairs the same
because I'm
an arachnid      

© William Botley
All rights reserved 

The Shoes

Her Cinderella shoes,
had tiny, black suede straps.
Her dress, full-skirted, midnight-blue, set off
the marquisate which sparkled at her neck.
Fragrant in Soir de Paris,
she seemed an angel to my childish eyes.

After her death, I wore her French lace stole
and glassy shoes.  Gained compliments.
It was never the same.

© Gill Dunstan
All rights reserved