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

Why not contact us for more details about our small, mutually supportive monthly meetings? Don't be shy. No need to be brave!

Sheila 01823 67 28 46

Valerie 01884 84 04 22

Tuesday 27 May 2014

The storm

Winds yowled
rains lashed
trees groaned
creeeeeek,  craaaaack, crrrrrrrrunch


Rooty lid, sunken crater, creepy-crawly underworld of
            flat bugs
                        even-flatter squash bugs
                                    eat-em-up assassin bugs
                                                eat-em-bigger-better damsel bugs
                                                            run-away-quick stilt bugs

scurrying hither-thither in search of
another under-tree home.

© Helen McIntosh
All rights reserved

Train Windows

When I stick my head out of the moving window, the dark lets me in, rushing past my head, brushing all my hair right back, smoothing all of me. There is no other way I know of feeling so alive and thrilled so quickly. Head in : normal, machine-world, head out : wild, dark-eyed world.  Heading into stations, the train-chug, minimal train-chew carries me as though I'm young and on my father's shoulders. We swing into the suburbs, Christmas-like lights of red and white lining the way. City smells begin to envelope and we swing about, not steady enough, held by the door. You can't help imagining what would happen if the door swung open, you finger the handle, so close and possible. Unless you look carefully, you could brush your head, or worse, much worse, against the tall poles that parabola towards you. The rails start to slice sound, metallic and smooth, giant dress-making shears. We switch tracks, heading directly into solid walls, veering away at the last minute. All the time, the air is flowing straight through your head. This awakens everything, all thoughts pop open, you are keen-eyed.  Thankful that your lower half is anchored in the warm, electrically-lighted, carpeted, inside world, that you really live in. You swing into the station, swerving to the other tracks. You glide, elegantly and high pitched, up to the stationary platform, your hand reaching for the outer handle, with the window pulled down as far as it can and up to the full length of your arm.  You can right- angle the unwieldy chunk of handle, a smooth, rounded utility handle, still working after decades of hands.

© Isabel Hare
All rights reserved

A Children’s Story

Discombobulated birds screeched across a sunless sky.

“No,” said Red, not looking up from her tablet.  “I’m busy – and anyway the woods are full of weird beards, paedos and doggers.”

“But Granny is hungry, Princess -” said her Mother.

“She can go online.  Supermarkets deliver food and flowers.  End of.”

© Tim Scott
All rights reserved

A Children's Story

'Once upon a time', so the stories go
'A princess lived unhappily': the tale begins with woe.
A prince, the youngest usually, sets out to see what's what.
Chaos comes and darkens life;  so much to fear and slay.
Enlightenment will follow, for the prince will save the day;
He'll also save the princess, and love her quite a lot.
'Happy ever after', so the stories go...

© Isabel Hare
All rights reserved


Once, long ago and far away, eight clouds were drifting along high up in the sky.

The first cloud, which was brand new, was as white and soft as marshmallow, and right in its middle sat a little lost soul. He stood up with a wobble, rubbed his eyes and looked all around. In front of him, stretching away into the blue like an unravelled feather bed, he could see other clouds bustling across the sky as if they knew exactly where they were going. But the little lost soul had no idea where that might be.

© Sheila Rogers
All rights reserved

Saturday 10 May 2014

A Cautionary Tale for Writers of Children’s Stories

Tickle a nascent rebellious streak with magic or confusion,
with stories about running away, joining the circus,
flying an airplane, stealing a car…

But remember to caution;
all choices have consequences.

Fail to ensure your characters always
come back home, before bedtime,
and you may live to write another tale.

© Sophia Roberts
All rights reserved