Odiham District

Creative Writing Group 1

Status: Active, full but can join waiting list
Group Contact:
When: Fortnightly on Wednesday afternoons
(Dates by mutual agreement) 2 - 4 pm
Venue: Members Home
Cost: 50p

We bring along a piece of our written work, on an agreed subject, and everybody quietly reads everybody else’s ‘homework’. We then discuss the merits thereof and occasionally offer constructive suggestions in a friendly atmosphere.

This is followed by fun literary exercises – we aim to learn something new each session – and a cup of tea.

The subject for the following meeting is decided upon and a pleasant time is had by all!

It is a very happy group with lively discussions.

If you would like to be put on the waitlist, contact the Group Contact above..

Go back to exploring all of our groups here.


The rumour must have spread like wildfire. I could hear the hiss and crack of the voices in the office as I came down the corridor. Another rumour running wild, I thought, not in the least concerned. They always fizzled out in a day or two, extinguished by lack of information and dying interest. They usually concerned the CEO and his latest secretary, or the most recent financial scandal in the city. Once it had even been little green men from outer space on the roof. It turned out that Dave, the maintenance man, had sprayed some of the pigeons that roosted there. I liked that one, it had imagination. And the pigeons hadn’t seemed to mind.

So I wasn’t prepared for the sudden silence as I turned into the office.

‘What?’ I said. ‘What now?’ disconcerted by the look on the faces of my co-workers as they turned to look at me. Silence.

‘What?’ I said again, ‘What have I missed?’

Alan stepped forward, the usual spokesman for the office. And the others followed, clustering around me, uncomfortably close. ‘Where have you been?’ he hissed, ‘We’ve been looking all over for you’.

‘There’s a rumour going round - and it concerns you’ - this last from a new and obnoxious office junior, grinning maliciously in my face. Someone shushed him.

How did they know? I thought. How did the news get out? I found my voice.

‘What rumour?’ pushing past them to my desk and turning to face them.

They looked at me.

And a voice from behind said, ‘It’s your birthday. OK, folks go to it’.

And the faces broke into smiles. Alan came forward. ‘Surprise’, he said. ‘Got you good, didn’t we?’

I sat down weakly. And suddenly there was wine and snacks and party poppers going off. So the news wasn’t out. It would be a very different reception when it broke. If it broke. Oh well, I thought, enjoy it while you may, and I drank the wine someone had put in my hand and popped a party popper. It wasn’t even my real birthday.

(Pam Forey)


After endless snow showers,

In short daylight hours,

On banks and in woodlands,

Are tiny white flowers.

Their down-hanging bells,

With scalloped green edges,

And their long, spiky leaves,

Making sprawls under hedges

And along the path edges,

Bringing freshness and hope.

(Patricia Saunders)