Writer's club

On Thursday night at 8.43pm half way through Mrs.Blinkingdale's
evening class something awful happened. Bernie read his poem.

Before he'd even completed the last couplet the class was awash with
silence. Bernie raised his eyes from the page, and surveying the group
he realised his writing was total shit.

The class were caught in the path of Bernie's forlorn stares and
struggled to mask their feeling of horror. Some opted to stare with
deep interest at the mock wood effect on their desks, others chose to
wear a muted smile that betrayed itself at the corners. But, not even
the most socially adept members of the class could disguise the look of
wide eyed distress. Had Bernie been able to describe the scene, he
would not have written such a shit poem. As it was, when he later
recounted the tale he depicted the atmosphere as 'pretty bad'.

Back at the evening class, the mishmash of students were experiencing
difficulty sustaining polite reaction. One by one faces twisted with
desperation turned toward Mrs. Blinkingdale for support.

Marjorie Blinkingdale was a highly sensitive lady, a reformed bed
wetter who still slept with the light on. Never watched a horror film
and locked herself in her bedroom on Haloween. She had lived with her
parents till the age of forty then after failed attempts at publishing
her work decided to take up the often vacant post of creative writing
tutor at the local college. Ironically her mission to share her
narrative voice was cut short by one of her own pupils.
Mrs.Blinkingdale was dead.