Introduced By Amber Hall

Our theme this month continues to be ‘Mindset’, and I wanted to reflect on the ways life can force us to change our way of thinking.

Life throws curveballs at us all the time and, when the unexpected happens, we usually have to adapt in some way. It may be that we need to change something quite fundamental about ourselves or shift our outlook in ways we never thought we would. We might have to make significant changes to our day-to-day lives or find ourselves in totally different spaces (figurative or literal).

Circumstance, time or experience might alter our thinking, and this is no bad thing. Our mindsets are not fixed. We tend to think of ourselves as ‘finished products’ once we reach adulthood; in reality, we’re all a work in progress, and no one has all the answers. I think it’s important for us to remember that most things contain nuance. Life isn’t black and white; it’s mostly shades of grey.

The pieces I’ve chosen for my page this month explore the notion of mindset shifts in relation to our lifestyles and unique journeys.

In this poem, Afsana Elanko writes about a journey of change, and touches on cosmic influences outside of our control.

A Journey That Changed Everything

The lines of the road were endless,
The trees passed me by,
Trunk by trunk they were vertical lines.

The rainstorm was in full force,
The rain came belting down at an angle,
The angled lines of rain hit my windscreen.

The weather was not supposed to be this bad,
The report said there would be light showers,
I remember the report line by line.

I was barely able to see the road ahead,
The wipers were on full,
I squinted to see the road.

The road lines could not be seen,
The weather was really bad,
The lines were merging together by the rain.

There were lines on my right, the central reservation,
Bang, the lights went out.
Was this the end of the line for me?

I can barely remember the journey,
It must have happened,
Everything has changed for me now.

© Dr Afsana Elanko, 2025

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Next, we have a prose piece by Cee Cee (Celestine), who reflects on how physical changes to a space can inspire creativity.

Giving Yourself Permission To Change Your Writing Habits

After participating in a writer’s craft lecture that focused on creating the right space and mindset for accomplishing goals, I gave myself permission to shake up my entire writing process. The realisation that editing book manuscripts requires a different kind of energy was liberating and frustrating at the same time. Of course, revamping this problem area was a great place to start.

Finding a solution for this requirement or, at the very least, to trick my brain into a neutral opinion about the routine, required an alternative approach. So recently, I purchased a rolling cart for my laptop and accoutrements as a possible remedy. The intentions for the new setup were to make it easier to write or edit in any part of my home, while hopefully allowing other productivity modifications to occur.

The beginning stages of the transformation have already given this storyteller the perspective that changing for the better can be wonderful. It’s OK to let go of habits and viewpoints that no longer work or serve a positive purpose. Maybe, the act of letting go can also be called continued growth.

Every writer and creative needs a place or space that works for them, so they can experience improvement. The inspiration and motivation to shift from daily routines to a frame of mind resulting in progress and project completion are not always easy or successful. Whether you are planning your first writing space or your next writing space, you can take full advantage of the opportunity to discover what works, what doesn’t work and what might work. I hope this article encourages everyone to keep customising and updating all of their writing practices, objectives and overall ways of thinking.

© Cee Cee (Celestine), 2025

Connect with Cee Cee on Bluesky: CleverContent@bsky.social.

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Finally, we have a prose piece by Nicholas Vaughan. Weaving together mystery and magic, we’re reminded of life’s uncertainties and our capacity to find strength in the darkest moments.

The Blanket Of Memory 

A few days before the inquiry, I had another appointment at LGI. It was early Saturday morning, the streets were quiet, my footsteps echoing against the cold paving stones. I arrived at the department on time, but there was no doctor in sight. The nurse and receptionist exchanged uncertain glances when I asked about him.

“Take a seat,” the nurse said. After a pause, she added, “Would you like a drink?”

Her tone felt too chirpy, like someone trying to fill an awkward silence. I nodded slightly. “Just a glass of water, please.”

She returned, holding the cup just out of reach. “Before I give this to you… what are you suffering from?”

“Huntington’s disease,” I muttered

She blinked. “Are you all right swallowing?”

The question hit like a slap. I nodded again, tighter this time. “Yes, I can swallow fine.”

She seemed satisfied and handed me the water. But her question lingered, like a shadow across my chest. That she could so casually reference the gradual unravelling of a life struck me like a dagger and twisted it. I left soon after, unsettled.

A couple of days later, I had a doctor’s appointment arranged by the school. I left work at lunch, got into a taxi, and was dropped at the clinic. A man with thinning grey hair and a firm handshake greeted me. “I’m Frank.” He led me up one flight of stairs to his office. The walls were lined with paper and stillness. He motioned for me to sit.

“We’ll chat, then do some tests,” he said.

Tests. Wonderful.

I told him about my aunt, how HD had taken her inch by inch, and how the fear of the same fate haunted me at night. Frank’s eyes softened. He didn’t speak, but I felt his understanding.

He moved through the tests briskly: balance, coordination, memory. I scored lower than average, but not worryingly so, he reassured me calmly and thoroughly.

“I’ll send my notes to the school,” he said. “You’re fit for work.”

Relief washed over me. We shook hands again and I made my way out, the building feeling lighter as I left.

Back at school, I dropped by the DT department to grab my bag and bike. That’s when I bumped into Grace.

“Come see what I’ve been making,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

In her classroom, she unfurled a vast blanket. Rich red wool woven into something that shimmered with possibility.

“It’s magical.” She grinned. “It’s for Leonara. She’s hoping to meet a new man using it.”

“Can it help other people too?” I asked, half-joking.

“It depends on what you’re willing to give in return.”

“I need help. The inquiry’s been tearing me apart.”

“I was there,” she reminded me gently.

“Then you know.”

She nodded. “I’ll make one for you too. But think about what you can offer in return.”

That evening, at home, Maria was in the kitchen.

“It’s been a while.” She smiled.

“It feels like the longest day of my life,” I replied.

I told her about Frank, about the tests and the strange sense of relief. She listened, patient and quiet, then offered the ultimate comfort.

“Shall we get a takeaway?”

“Indian, please,” I said without hesitation. She chose Japanese. As we waited, I dozed on the sofa.

The dream came like a storm. The nurse from LGI had returned. She pinned me down, a giant syringe filled with Tetrabenazine gleaming in the air. My limbs flailed in protest, but she struck, and I went limp.

She strapped me into a wooden contraption; locks on every joint. Electrodes were attached to my chest and bolts of blue lightning shot from a machine. My body convulsed. The nurse cackled.

“Maria!” I screamed. “Help me!”

I awoke drenched in sweat, Maria holding me gently. “You were dreaming,” she said softly.

“I knew she was bad news,” I muttered, trembling.

“You’re safe now.”

I told her about the horror movie in my head: the job, the disease, the fear of being alone, forgotten.

“You need positivity,” Maria said. “You need perspective.”

“I’m trying,” I whispered. “I need something to help me remember who I am.”

Later that night, there was a knock at the door. It was Grace.

“I’ve brought something,” she said, stepping in with a swirl of red wool.

Maria fetched crochet needles and thread and Grace began working, fast and precise, until the blanket seemed to grow a life of its own.

Then, suddenly, she stopped. “I’m going to catch some evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“For your case.”

She threw the blanket onto the floor and tugged it, like a fisherman with a net. When she pulled it up again, something was wrapped inside.

“It looks like…an old browser history?” she said.

I stared. “That’s mine. It disappeared after the inquiry began. I thought the school deleted it.”

“Now it’s yours again.”

“I can use this,” I said. “Grace, thank you.”

Before she left, I gave her a bundle of embroidery patterns and thread. Later, I wrapped the blanket around my head and waited. An hour passed.

“Has it worked?” Maria asked.

“I don’t know. My head’s foggy.”

“Try to remember the day of the incident,” she prompted. “Right back to the beginning.”

I closed my eyes. Then the words came fast, clear. “I went to fix the circular saw – Jeffrey told me to. I emailed the department. I put up a warning sign. I told Jeffrey again by message.”

Maria jumped up. “Your memory, it’s come back! And you’ll never get HD!”

I laughed, tears brimming. “That’s a bold claim.”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Fair,” I said, and we both leaned back into the couch, the red blanket pooled between us like a beating heart, holding memory, hope, and perhaps a little magic.

© Nicholas Vaughan, 2025

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Issue 24, featuring John Marrs, is out now. You will find it in libraries and other outlets. Alternatively, all current and previous editions can be found on our magazines page here.

You can hear great new ideas, creative work and writing tips on 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 Podcasters.Spotify.com.

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