Hi, I’m Jilly and I’ve had an amazing time since I joined the Pen to Print and Write On! team last year. It’s quite incredible that, one year on, I’m here again in March to present another set of Showcase pages. So hello and welcome!

Back in 2007, I had my first book for children published. It was called Yucketypoo – The Monster That Grew And Grew. The idea was to raise awareness of our environment in children aged from four to nine years old. It was a story told in humorous rhyme about a monster created from all the rubbish people leave lying around and it was simply illustrated with line drawings from talented artist Ashley Stevens. It did rather well. The environment and care of the world in general has always been close to my heart; even when I was young and didn’t really understand it all. So, it’s quite fitting that my first Showcase of the month ties in with, among other things, World Wildlife Day.

There’s a general misconception that World Wildlife Day only highlights the plight of animals. It shames me more than a little that I’ve only recently discovered it also applies to all the flora and fauna across the world. It’s estimated that around a million species of plants and animals are in danger of going extinct. A million species! I find that quite alarming. Our planet is rife with war, famine, displacement and conflict. But for all that, it remains truly beautiful. Even something as simple as the changing seasons is a reminder of our fragility. With that in mind, my first piece for this Showcase is by Amaka Felly Obioji and I’ve chosen it because it highlights how the seasons relate to our lives – and vice versa.

Lessons From Nature

Each season of life calls us to be our best,
With no fear but in peaceful waiting.
There is a lot to learn from nature,
the earth welcomes every season with an open mind.
It does not linger with the past it knows.

It knows that every season
has its lessons in and beauty.

Flowers once scorched by the sun
will blossom with the opening of rain,
puddles will exist in flatlands,
the winds shall settle.

(c) Amaka Felly Obioji, 2025

Connect with Amaka on Instagram: @amaka_felly

Amaka’s poem reflects on the negative and positive sides of nature. Flowers once scorched by the sun, she says, will blossom with the opening of rain. Perhaps the secret for all of us is to find the right balance so that we can protect our planet.

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When I did my first Showcase page last March, Mother’s Day was just a few days away. It actually falls slightly later this year, but is still worth mentioning, because Mums are precious too. And, like the wildlife of the world, they can also be very fragile, particularly in their advancing years. I’ve chosen the following sensitively-written story because it struck a chord with me, since my own mum died ten years ago and spent her last few years fighting dementia.

Mirror

There’s an intruder in my house, staring defiantly at me. I scream with all my might and she apes me in a horrific parody.

My voice quivers and shakes, the “Help!” a meek sliver that trembles and dies on my too-dry lips.

“Mum, what’s the matter?” A middle aged dowdy woman rushes in, looking all flustered.

Who’s she calling Mum?

I look around.

And then it dawns on me, my fear a many headed being that swallows me up in its yawning jowls.

This woman is in cahoots with the intruder.

“What’s upset you?” Her voice is gentle as she approaches but I’m not fooled.

I cower, raise my hands to my face, emitting a strangled whine.

“Go away,” I manage, just as she’s about to touch me, swatting at her hands. “And take the intruder with you.”

She scrunches up her eyes. “What intruder?”

“That ugly old hag who’s mimicking me.” I point and the intruder points right back.

Her accomplice closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as if steadying herself.

What is she planning? What will they do to me?

“That’s your reflection in the mirror.”

What is she saying? How dare she?

“You think I’ll be fooled by your silly…” What’s the word I want? It was there just now, at the tip of my tongue but it’s gone. Poof. I wish the… the… whatsit who’s staring at me and this woman next to me would disappear too. I’m so tired. I want to rest in my own bed without fear of someone getting in, watching and copying my every… whatever it is.

“Look.” The person next to me holds something up.

It’s familiar. Brown and square. I know what it is. I do. But I can’t… I don’t… I…

“Your diary.”

That’s it.

“You started writing it when you were first diagnosed. So you would always remember who you are.”

Of course I remember who I am. I… I…

“Here, I’ll read out the very first sentences you wrote: My name is Margaret. I am seventy-five years old.”

Seventy-five? Me?

“I have two children, a son, Robert who lives in Canada and a daughter, Emily who…”

Something clicks in my brain. Ah.

I look at the woman, her head bent as she reads from the book – book, that was the word I was looking for before. My daughter.

Warmth floods my heart. “Emily. You are Emily, my little girl.”

Emily looks at me. She is smiling but her eyes sparkle emerald bright with unshed tears.

I cup her beloved face, even as I wonder: When did you get so old? “You used to smile just like this, jewels shimmering in your eyes, when you fell down and hurt yourself but were trying so hard to be brave, as you didn’t want your big brother to tease you. Remember?”

Tears fall down her cheeks unchecked as she nods, the shared memory reflected in her eyes.

“I remember,” she says.

We don’t say what we are both thinking, that I will forget this, forget her, forget the past, and even myself  – agitating at my own reflection in the mirror  – very soon. This is the nature of the terrible disease I am cursed with.

But for now, we have this moment.

And it is, it has to be, enough.

(c) Renita D’Silva, 2025

I love the way this story shows the older woman’s terror and her daughter’s initial confusion, both of which grow in pitch until the memories begin to come back, leading to, for an instant at least, a few moments of togetherness. I experienced that during my visits to my mother, who, as her condition became worse, frequently got reality and fantasy mixed up. She once told me that the care home she was living in had been taken over by terrorists, following something she had seen on the television news. Some of the things she said are quite laughable now but that is the way of dementia and our whole family had to learn to accept it.

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I would like to close this Showcase page with a short poem by Carolyn Oulton, for no reason other than the fact I love it!  I’ll use this opportunity to sign off also. Thank you for joining me! I’ll see you next week.

On The Last Night Late

I learned this week that tears
are an exit plan,
throwing cortisol
from the top of the body.

If you laugh while you’re crying,
there’s a risk (presumably)
of stuffing your mouth
with these feather weights of stress.

Eleven p.m  Eyes spiked
like wet umbrellas, suddenly
I’m laughing and
your skin is rough with sobs

(c) Carolyn Oulton, 2025

Connect with Carolyn on Linked in: carolyn-oulton-076261150/

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If you’d like to see your writing appear in the Write On! Showcase, please submit your short stories, poetry or novel extracts to: pentoprint.org/get-involved/submit-to-write-on/

Hear extracts from Showcase in our podcast. Write On! Audio. Find us on all major podcast platforms, including Apple and Google Podcasts and Spotify. Type Pen to Print into your browser and look for our logo or find us on Spotify for Pocasters.

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