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Bad Poets Society, couplets, triplets and short stories. If you failed your 11 + , welcome.

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Bad Poets Society, couplets, triplets and short stories. If you failed your 11 + , welcome.

This the place to scribble your thoughts unleash that creative tension.  Poems any form you like, no one running around with a red marker pen, couplets triplets any way any how. Short stories and ramblings. 


As Halloween is coming

The black clouds assembled above the harbour before infiltrating the sky above the beach. A sense of oppression grew with every second. Jenny looked back at the beach. pausing and wondering why she felt afraid. She stood barefoot in the warm sand and sighed. She had been here many times but this time was different. something was wrong . She looked back at the empty beach aghast. Her footprints were gone she had left no tracks. Looking down at her feet she started to panic, the warm dry sand was sticking to her feet and her ankles slowl,y creeping up her legs as though she pulled her socks up. She felt it move between her toes and ran in panic into the sea using the waves to wash it off.As she steps into the water fish start to writhe within it creating a furious turmoil aroumd her legs wrapping themselves around her its cold making her shiver. She looks to the heavens but there is no answer as she screams. Her terror prompting her to attack the sea creatures ripping some off, hurling them away, stunned to find it appears to be highly animated seaweed. She struggles to the beach breathing ragged but sweat drenching her for the sheer effort of escape. The beach now covered in the sea weed but there seems to be a path through the middle. Jennifer emerges running following the path towards the cliff. An opening ahead of her, a cave she has never seen before .

She hesitates but the seaweed rises and charges toward her from all but one direction. Against her better judgement she enters the cave and keeps running along a tunnel that goes down into the dark. The last vestiges of light left behind she slows to a walk approaching a chamber relieved as sees another human. A man but as she approaches he smiles and it stops her in her tracks. The smile hangs from its face as though a broken mask. An expression worn but as makeup. A facisimile of a man. Standing frozen in the darkness too terrified to run. Starring at the impossibility in front of her she screwed her eyes shut and felt its amused smile in her head mocking her..She stands frozen as it examines her from the inside her arteries, veins flesh even her sinews provide no barrier.She feels heat and cold simultaneously before pain wracks her body every nerve ending screams and then every muscle twitches as her mind can only watch the puppet show even though she can't see the strings.There is no malice just invasion. Examination but no consideration. Haunted, possessed,trapped. It is in her mind and she tells it everything and hides nothing as she remembers her birth seeing what it sees. Learning what she doesn't want to know, feeling humiliations she has ignored, her essence of self unravelling. Jennifer or the woman who was formerly Jennifer has if nothing else, retained her own scream.





Hi all,

I wrote this story about a year ago. It is a true story. Hope you like it.


The sweet music of time.


Whilst holidaying in the New Forest  and on merely a whim borne on a fleeting memory of an event some forty years ago, my wife and I visited a small inn for lunch.

Sitting near the bar area we ordered a light meal and coffee and  chatted, I listened, half-heartedly  and looked around the smart well kept room; there, barely changed, stood the upright piano. Sweet memories flooded my mind…

The Bournemouth conference over and a long drive home in front of me, I fumed inwardly as the traffic jam became a gridlock. Natures call and the need for some refreshment forced me to stop in a small town, where I pulled into the carpark of a rather run down inn.

The bar area could be described as “traditional” but there were visible signs of a lack of care or concern. Only three people were in the room.

Ordering a pint of bitter and some ham sandwiches (Hobson’s choice) from a rather surly landlord. I placed the beer on a table near to a rather dusty upright piano and made my way to the toilet. Back in the bar the landlord placed, the less than appetising sandwiches on my table. My aim now, to leave as quickly as possible.

As I sipped a very acceptable pint, an elderly man with the demeanour and appearance of a vagrant walked into the bar area. Through the shabbiness and the wearisome look, I sensed a fierce intelligence, a strong intellect.

Walking up to my table, with a distinguished voice he asked politely if he could join me. At this point the landlord came up to us and asked the man to leave. My pity and curiosity mingled to plead  that he should stay. The landlord accepted my request reluctantly. I ordered the man a pint and sensing his hunger, a sandwich.

We sat talking quietly, his knowledge and command of any subject impressed me significantly. I enquired into his background  but he merely smiled and changed the subject. Looking across at the piano I suggested that it was past its best. He smiled, shuffled across and sat at the instrument, hesitated, then played impressively, a few chords and scales.

Now Apollo visited the shabby room. The man shuffled his position on the stool , leant forward and started to play. After three or four bars I recognised the piece as Franz Listz’s Liebestraum. The rendition was simply exquisite. The crescendo and emphasis on melody after two minutes of play was divine. It tore at my heart and emotions with pure intensity.  After some five minutes with the last few bars played so delicately; silence. He stood up, smiled, said goodbye then departed hurriedly.

I moved to chase after him but the landlord quickly reminded me that I had a bill to pay. I fumbled for cash, pushed two pound notes into his hand and dashed outside. The man had gone.

My journey home was filled with joy mingled with intense sadness.




0changed my mind

Island Mike

This also is a true story. Every word.

One Sunday, home from Uni for a dry weekend, my parents asked if I was going to church. So I dragged myself up for evening mass, and while I was there I noticed a guy called Cyril H sitting in his usual position, but not looking at all well. I thought it was a bit odd, because his wife wasn’t there.

When I went home, I said to my dad “I saw Cyril H and he doesn’t look very well at all”

To which dad replied “Well he wouldn’t would he? We buried him last week”


Loving the short stories and recollections.  Thank you.   will write one too xx


In the Garden


I like it here in the ivy. It's cool, a touch moist but not damp. It's shaded by a large bush which keeps off any showers, and not far from the composter. Now the composter is plastic and warms up a little even in chilly weather, so I can take my pick. Whatever the weather there is a spot here to alleviate any discomfort. Plus, it is more than half way down the garden. She can see me in here from the windows, but generally she seems not to notice.

That suits me fine. When I first started visiting I left little gifts for her under the table on the patio. They kept disappearing and I thought she was pleased with them but she never reciprocated. the only thing I've ever had is some of the beer she left out for those gross slugs. That hurt a little I must say, the way she kept tempting them. It was milk after the beer and then halves of oranges!



I left her another gift to remind her I was here -- and this time I saw her.She was poking at it with a stick until she managed to negotiate it into an old Sainsburys bag and then she knotted it and dropped it in the bin. So now I avoid going in the house, but I do like my little bed in the ivy.

Oh here she comes. No good you stroking me, I saw what you did. I.m going to ignore her, keep my eyes shut. Well thankfully that didn't last long -- she's gone. I might be able to sleep now, not much chance of that at my place, not since they brought that little yappy thing home.



I hear voices now, better take a peek. She's coming back with one of the young ones from my place. What are they saying?

"He doesn't seem able to stand" Well why would I stand, I want to stay here dear.

"We've been expecting it ever since our old dog........"     What??? He is picking me up -- oh so gently, oh so kindly --he and I have grown up together and now the fool thinks he is taking me on my last trip to the vets!!


I wrote the garden story after finding next door's   cat rather poorly in my garden. The vet's bill was £850, but he is leaving presents on the patio again.


Cute cat story,  made me smile.