Posted on 2nd October, 2016


Very lively responses coming in from the writing prompts on our Facebook page - they may not appear in the order of the prompts - some attract more work than others - but will be lebelled with the prompts they relate to




Woman and Horses : Elizabeth Waugh


Responses to promps


Dancing Prompt : Rationing.


Despite feeling she was being tormented by an army of ants, Mavis was delighted to join an equally ecstatic Barry for the first dance at their impromptu wedding. The thought that she'd managed to obtain a grey serge suit on the black market without parting with her precious clothing coupons fuelled her excitement. She felt the serge slide over her thighs; just knew he'd enjoy peeling off her silk stockings later – well worth a month's ciggy allowance she thought, and he'd thank her when his cough stopped troubling him.


Steph Newham


Dancing Prompt : Bad Dancer



Then stiffer.

Like waltzing with a wheelbarrow.

I was quite the dancer in my youth,

you say,



Seth Crook




Fog Prompt :  Twenty Fourteen Passes


Today I look out through spattered glass

at dark afternoon skies,

fog still masking the far view,

but yesterday’s festive frost all gone,

the garden back to slippy mud

and green grass, hungry blackbirds.


On solstice eve I dreamed

of surprising myself; walking

into warm seas without fear

in a night lit by a huge dark moon

the colour of moonstone or magic.


Tomorrow we’ll call it a new year

the future begun again,

a corner turned not good or bad

but framed as fresh, a chance to change

and shape ourselves, our world, anew.


Katie Ewing



Fog Prompt : Show Me The Way



Paths of Glory, 

                simple cycle paths,



       that seem so disordered.


Pathetic paths

  that barely mark the surface.


"Is this really one?", you ask,

as the outlines              fade,


  leaving only you,     

    two sheep,          the mist.


Seth Crook












                                                                              through mirror

                                                                              of Ionian Sea




                                                                              on blue


                                                                              over silken fish

                                                                              coruscating crystals

                                                                              of sparkling light

                                                                              surfing ripples

                                                                              to sun-baked shore


                                                                              burnt red

                                                                              rock blistered

                                                                              peppered scrub green


                                                                              save for a thousand

                                                                              hidden cicadas



                                                                              on green leaf lounger


                                                                              only by the breeze

                                                                              from a passing 

                                                                              butterfly’s wings


                                                                              Tom Langlands






                                                                                             The Birds      






    I tread through lonely winter’s chill

    to find the river strangely still,

    reflect on how there must be life

    beneath thick fleece of ruffled ice

   On this bleak scape I catch gouged out

   a languid eye of empty black,  

   muse on curious, darkling spout  

   where underlife must weave and lurk.

   Whoosh! Fulgid, cyan rush of spume,

   three startled fishlets to their doom

   flail in vice-trap beak – fisher king,

   his equipoise within fanned wing 

   A glimpse of season’s swingeing bite,  

   frozen image of fauna’s plight,

   his flurry deep inside my head

   the king survives, small fry are dead


  Christine Ashworth




                Dead Tree - Hazel lowther





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