Examples of our stories

January 2026

Liz set us a challenge to use more dialogue. Here is Jean's story:

Nan and Margery

BY JEAN ELLIS

‘A cup of tea Margery?’

‘Oh, yes please Nan, that would be lovely.’ Margery took in the salubrious surroundings of the Ritz Carlton’s Rivoli Bar. Nan looked so at home here, she was so smart in her suit, her hair perfectly coiffured. Margery had done her best, a summer dress, sandals and her hair in a sloppy top knot. She took a furtive sweeping glance around the room as her Nan beckoned the specialist tea waiter.

‘So, Margery, tell me all about your fabulous cosmopolitan life, what have you been up to?’

‘Working mostly, but I have managed to see the sites, and I have been to a few museums and a couple of shows.’

‘No wild parties?’

Majorie blushed a little.

‘Sadly not Nan. I don’t really mix with the wild bunch. I’ve been for drinks a couple of times with my colleagues on pay day. They’re a good bunch.’

‘No-one special?’

‘No Nan. Well, there’s a guy I like but I am not sure he’s even noticed me and he’s very posh; probably out of my league.’

Alice focused on selecting her sandwich, she sipped her tea. She smiled at her grand-daughter and spoke with warmth and authority.

‘Margery, my darling girl. No-one is “out of your league”. How could he possibly be “out of your league”. You are charming, kind, pretty, intelligent and hard-working. He would be lucky to have you. What makes you think that way?’

‘Oh Nan! He’s gorgeous and he’s loaded. He drives a BMW, wears designer gear, his parents are in really high-powered jobs and they all go on loads of incredible holidays.’

Alice took a deep breath, she loved her granddaughter’s humility, but this was so upsetting,

‘None of that makes him “out of your league”. A car, money, clothes they’re just things. He landed with good parents but so did you, maybe not rich but I know you are as loved as anyone could be. Now I will concede on the travel, if it interests you, I believe you should immerse yourself in as many different countries and cultures as you possibly can, as soon as you possibly can. Travel broadens your mind and will give you so much experience to help find your joy and purpose in life. But please understand your worth, don’t ever think anyone is better than you, never think there is anything in this world that you are not good enough for.’

Margery giggled her pretty laugh and nodded

‘I agree on the travel Nan, but as for the rest you’re biased.’

‘I am, but I am also right. The most powerful decision you can make is to appreciate your own worth. You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need money. You need to understand who you are and value it. Now, what about these travel plans, where would you want to go?’

November 2025

Mike set us a challenge to write about an emotional reunion. Here is his story:

An Emotional Reunion

BY MICHAEL J HOWARD

December 14th 1917: Miriam Gillespie sat upright on the hard backed chair in the hospital waiting room and reflected on the past few days.

They had been a kaleidoscope of different emotions. First, despair; the telegram from the Admiralty stating that Roger's ship had been torpedoed and sunk with no known survivors. Then, five days later, hope; the telephone call from Roger's 'boss', Captain James, informing her that Roger was alive but had been injured and was recovering in hospital in Haverfordwest.

Without hesitation, she had hurriedly packed an overnight bag and caught the first available train westwards. She had endured hours of waiting in the cold for connections. Twenty hours of travel had left her feeling both mentally and physically drained.

"Mrs Miriam Gillespie?" the nurse asked.

Miriam looked up, startled by the voice and for a moment, confused by the name she had been addressed by. It felt unfamiliar. For twenty five years she had been known as Miriam Flowers and less than two weeks ago she had been married, taking her husband's surname.

"Mrs Miriam Gillespie?" the nurse asked again, her tone a little impatient as if Miriam was an unwelcome distraction from her duties.

"Oh! Sorry! Yes! I'm Mrs Gillespie," Miriam said, her words coming out in short gasps as she jumped to her feet.

She followed the nurse along a wide corridor until she stopped at Ward Six. She quietly opened the door and ushered Miriam inside. There were a dozen or so beds in the ward, some having the privacy screens drawn around them. Miriam was led to one of them.

The nurse took hold of Miriam's arm as she said, "Brace yourself Mrs Gillespie. Your husband has been severely injured and he is still very weak."

The nurse moved the screen and Miriam approached the bed. The man was lying on his back with both of his arms stretched out on the bedsheets. A drip was attached to his right wrist. But it was his head that had caused Miriam to gasp. It was swathed in bandages: Only his eyes and lips were exposed. Miriam's could feel her heart beating in her chest. She attempted to control the panic she was experiencing before it overwhelmed her. An acidic taste rose up into her throat and she gulped fresh air, hyperventilating.

Subconsciously, she pulled off the black leather glove from her right hand and wrapped her delicate fingers around his warm hand.

"Roger, Roger darling, it's Miriam." Her voice came out as a whisper.

The man's eyes flickered. She repeated the phrase, a little louder this time.

The man's eyes opened and his head turned slowly in her direction. Miriam's mouth fell open. She was staring into those dense brown eyes she had instantly fallen in love with over four years ago. Beneath the bandages it was her Roger! She saw the recognition in Roger's eyes and a half smile formed on his blistered lips. She bent down and kissed him, allowing her lips to brush softly against his. She kissed him a dozen times. Salty tears of joy formed in her eyes, temporarily blinding her, and then the tears rolled down her rosy cheeks, falling silently onto Roger's white bandages.

"Mrs Gillespie, You need to let your husband rest now." It was the nurse again.

Miriam reluctantly let go of Roger's hand and walked backwards out of the cubicle, not wanting to lose sight of him. Roger was alive and he had recognised her! A feeling of relief washed over her and she began to sob uncontrollably. Her sobbing echoed loudly in the silent ward. She obediently followed the nurse, leaving behind her a trail of tears on the polished linoleum floor.

March 2024

In March we wrote two short stories. The challenge was to have something happen in the second story that was a consequence of something that happened in the first. The time lag between the two stories could be minutes, millennia or anything in between. Sarah is one of the group’s newest members. Here are her stories:

Family History

BY SARAH GREENWOOD

10 Sept 1996

Rearly wierd tonight. We’ve got this new projekt at scool. Mr Harris said for the first few weeks of year 4 we’d be talking about Family and we could write what we wanted. So I toled Mum and Nan at teetime and I thort Mum looked a bit upset and gave Nan a funy look. So then I looked at Nan and asked if she could help me do a Family Tree because Tim and Jake are doing 1. Well, youd think I’d called her a rude name, the way Nan shouted at me. Ruth was nearly crying. I dont know What I did wrong but thats the last time I talk about Dad or family. I’ll make up a family tree – Mr Harris wont know any different and he did say we could write whatEver we wanted

10 Feb 2023

Ruth’s got it into her head she wants to do our family tree. After all the kerfuffle at home when I mentioned it years back, it’s a closed subject as far as I’m concerned. But Ruth doesn’t remember.  She loves “Who do you think you are?” and has always wondered whether we have royalty or scoundrels in our past. Nan’s gone now and it’s probably too late to ask Mum as she’s so wrapped up in her own little world.

Ruth’s found Mum and Dad’s birth certificates and their wedding certificate but she can’t find Dad’s death certificate, so she rang me for more information. She’s 18 months younger than me and seems to think I must remember a lot more than she can. How old were you when Dad died, she asked.

It’s all a bit hazy in my mind but I remember coming home from school one day to find the house really cold because Mum hadn’t lit a fire as she always did. She and Nan were sitting at the kitchen table and stopped talking as soon as I walked in. Mum’s eyes were red and puffy and Nan’s lips were set. I looked from one to the other and eventually Nan said “it’s your dad. He’s been in a serious accident. He…” Her voice tailed off and Mum’s shoulders shook. After that, they never really liked talking about Dad or how he died and eventually, I learnt not to mention him, what with  the awkward silence that would follow and then the quick change of topic. I must have been 5 or 6 then. Ruth had our Dad’s full name and said she couldn’t understand why no death certificate was coming up for those 2 years.

                       * * *

The doorbell rings. It’s Ruth, breathless. “I know I should’ve rung Paul, but I had to come straight away.” She pushes past me into the kitchen. “Dad’s not dead! Never was.”

“That’s not true” I stammer. “He died in an accident. Nan said”

“No!! He’s alive, down south. I’ve spoken to him.” I stare at Ruth open-mouthed. My mind is reeling. “But Mum…. Nan said….”

January 2024

We were set the challenge of writing about new year resolutions. Here are a couple of the submissions.

New Year’s Resolution

BY MICHAEL J HOWARD

My New Year’s Resolution was to be a more courteous driver. It was the 3rd January and I had reluctantly driven my wife to our local retail park for some ‘bargain hunting’. The car park was packed. I patiently drove round and round until I spotted a vacant space. I drove past it and began to reverse. A large BMW suddenly appeared in my rear view mirror and drove straight into MY SPACE! I felt my anger rising; I shouted abuse at the driver. He ignored me. My wife looked at me and tutted. Oh well! There’s always next year!

New Year Resolution

BY SUE WATKINSON

Preparing our New Year’s Day supper I listen with half an ear to Radio 4. Chatter, chatter ….Conflict resolution, chatter, chatter … We’ll finish with advice from our professional negotiator. What would you suggest listeners take away from this programme? A female voice replies and compels me to stop chopping.

‘Listening’, she says, ‘is the most important’,

Well that’s what I’m doing now.

‘Remember it’s not all about you.’ OK, that seems reasonable.

‘Wait your turn in the conversation.’ Well, that’s polite but is it so important?

I pause to write these down. The party, as well as being a ritual get-together for our group of friends, includes the setting of new year resolutions, not by the individual, but by the group. We’ve known each other so long and so well that we feel confident that we can predict an improvement for each other.

Much later the table is set, the food is ready. Just six of us will be eating together this year. We’ve done this for some twenty years. With some changes of course, that’s our modern world for you. We started with eight friends, all newly married couples. One couple emigrated and made a new home in Canada. A divorce took out one and brought a new partner in, that’s Rob and Emma. Changing jobs took two out and only one returned. Steve’s still single but is bringing a friend to meet us, all we know is the name – Sam. But is it a Samantha or a Samuel? More importantly, will he or she eat the beef casserole or not? And then there’s me, Mel, and husband Richard of course ready to celebrate our 25th anniversary this spring. If he stays sober, we’ll work as a team this evening, pouring, serving, clearing away then, with a plate of cheese in front of us, we’ll settle down to the Resolutions.

The guests arrive, hands full of gifts. I’m occupied with coats and welcoming drinks. Richard is full of bonhomie and greetings, complimenting the ladies on their dresses, hair, perfume, flirting with each of them in his familiar way, settling everyone down while I finish off the meal.

Sam is a pretty little woman, with curly hair and bright blue eyes. So unlike Steve’s tall, elegant first wife. Now it’s introductions all round for her benefit. Rob and Emma have been together for ages now and seem rock solid.

The meal is consumed with much enjoyment and lots of good conversation. No dissent over the beef – a relief, but my creme brûlée causes some concern over the creme content. Fortunately, there is a portion of trifle left, accepted as an alternative. Trifle, with cream and custard – I ask you!

Then we settle down with the cheese, more drinks and a big sheet of paper. This is the moment when I realise that Steve hasn’t mentioned our ritual to Sam and the explanation takes a few minutes. Her reaction is hostile. How, she says, can she join in when she’s only just met most of us: we don’t know her and she doesn’t know anything at all about us? She has a point so we give her a bye for this year and hope she enjoys the discussion.

Straws are drawn and Richard is first. His face by now is flushed and speech slurred. I know his drinking has increased but he usually knows his limits. I’m more than a little anxious.

The person on his left is Emma, who knows us all really well. ‘My resolution for you, my friend, is to cut down on your drinking. It’s getting out of hand.’ Richard looks annoyed but says nothing. Steve is in next. ‘I’m suggesting you take more exercise, join the gym, go swimming, ease up on the alcohol.’ Richard looks hostile now. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m perfectly fit, there’s no problem with my drinking.’

Rob offers his suggestion. ‘I’m concerned about your drinking too mate, you’re getting so dogmatic and offensive after a few drinks, we’ve all noticed it. Sometimes you give Mel a really hard time.’ My husband looks round at me with pleading eyes, shall I put the dagger in as well? It was my turn in the conversation and I’d listened really carefully. He wouldn’t take it well but honesty was suddenly the most important thing.

‘It’s true, they are all right, you’ve crossed a line with your drinking and I’m worried about the way it’s affecting your health.’ He swears horribly and pours himself another large glass of port. His fingers are clumsy, the glass tips over, port trickling down towards Sam’s chair. Richard stumbles from the room as she snatches up two napkins and mops the flood. ‘May I say something?’ she says and her voice is low. ‘This is developing into a conflict. You all have the best intentions but the conversation must be managed. You must listen to what Richard says. Remember that it’s not about you.’

‘And we must wait our turn in the conversation – I heard you on the radio this morning.’ I say, ‘I recognise your voice now. Will you help us to get the message across?’

‘He needs professional support and I’m going to give you a contact number for Alcoholics Anonymous. He must accept that he has a problem, then he must say it aloud in front of a group who will understand and guide him.’ Silence – as we take in the implications of her words. Then she says quietly, ‘I know what I’m talking about, I’m not just the driver this evening, or a Conflict Resolution expert, I’m also a recovering alcoholic.’ 

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