Hello! I’m Danny Baxter, a creative artist living in Barking and Dagenham, east London and I’ve been a regular contributor to Write On! almost since it began. I’d like to welcome you to my second Showcase, continuing with the theme of Mindset, in particular the mindset of those who are meeting challenges.

The first featured poem is one of my own. It’s about how the written word can empower the mind to meet those challenges. Written recently, it’s the latest of several poems I’ve been inspired to write during my daily visit to a bridge; a place I’ve prayed and meditated at for the last ten years. Sharing this poem with you is a way of commemorating this decade of reflection.

No Fuel No Fire

Cut off the fuel,

No fuel, no fire.

An end to the flames rising higher and higher.

No right of way without the licence to move.

No competition from one having nothing to prove.

Negation of purpose collapses goals and agendas.

Exposure of the truth frustrates the pretenders.

I reach into your core and diffuse your reactor,

Dampening your motivation in your role as a bad actor.

The leverage to play weight against me, I disable.

Everything you wish to burn I take off the table.

I leave you in the dust keeping my foot on the pedal.

If I win the race before you start then you can’t get a medal.

The destiny that projects your win I’m sorry I’m gonna wreck it.

Your undefeated strike rate on your prey, I’m gonna check it.

Dissolving your narrative in a vat of defiance.

Removing the advantage on which you had reliance.

Not leaving the outcome of this conflict to chance,

I utilise your entire offensive to aid my advance.

Your power will fall as my deet termination will rise.

My absolute victory will spell your ultimate demise.

© Danny Baxter, 2025

The poem presents the ultimate warrior mindset. It’s the mindset of a victor who gives no mental or emotional ground to their opponent; a counter for every strike, the absolute distilled focus on achieving one’s goal, regardless of obstacles. For me, writing it’s also a way of helping me express my focus in a tangible form, so that it can remotivate me on future reading.

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This next piece sees a man and a woman probing each other’s intentions to gauge their prospects. I’m fascinated by the way Amber lays out the woman’s thought process; it allows us to share in the factors that feed into the impression she is forming of him.

Where Do You Come From?

“Where do you come from?” he asks, looking me up and down. His mouth is upturned, but I can’t work out whether he’s sniggering or smiling. We’re so often the punchline; I’m one step ahead.

“The north. But we moved a lot. I’ve been here for over a decade, though.”

“Yeah, yeah…I can hear it now,” he says. “What’s it like up there? I’ve never been.”

Of course you haven’t been, why would you? They’d spot you a mile off, anyway. And you wouldn’t like it, them knowing you – seeing you – in spite of your strangeness there. Isn’t that why you’re here, in this big, sprawling city? Didn’t you seek refuge in these labyrinthine streets, too?

I wonder what he makes of me, what picture he’s created from the piecemeal scraps of information I’ve given him: writer, reader, graduate, only child, says ‘tea’ not ‘dinner.’ He offers to buy me another drink and I hesitate before answering, “Yes.” It’s stuffy and noisy in here (a ‘proper pub’ – he probably thinks I’m right at home), and I can already feel that last glass of cheap wine. My cheeks are flushed and my hands are clammy, and the more he’s probing me about it all the more I want to leave. Dates are like job interviews, except it’s your personality they’re rating and you’ve got to pay for it. Unless you put out on a first date, of course, but they say you shouldn’t do that.

I’m not sure how much of myself I should reveal so early on. I don’t know what’s palatable, because I’ve been told – by a few fancy city folk, and the papers, and those low-budget documentaries about teen mums – that my ilk are not, in fact, palatable. My dad used to say we’re “nowt but cannon fodder.” No wonder I wanted to leave. But it’s left me in some strange hinterland, belonging neither here nor there. And I’m acutely aware of it, sitting in this ‘authentic’ English boozer (where the cheapest wine costs two hours’ worth of work), next to a stranger who has only a vague notion of what it means to be working-class.

What do I say about it? Should I offset the rural idyll with truths about my dad and the time he spent inside? Can I be both proud and a product of the shame that’s been put upon me? And, should we meet again, maybe spend more time together, will I be able to gather these disparate parts and stitch myself back together? Sometimes I feel like a rudimentary being, half-formed in brooks and lowlands; brought too soon to the city, in the wake of my own destruction. The last ten years feels like a fever dream, but I don’t tell him that, obviously.

He keeps talking. About the news and the weather; about his job in the city that he got through a friend of a friend (“A stopgap; my real passion is wildlife photography, but I also take nudes”); about his weekly shopping habits and preferred playlists. I look into his face and see myself reflected in his eyes, and I think about the version of myself that he’s seeing. We’re just strangers, in the end.

© Amber Hall, 2025

Connect with Amber on Instagram: @amber.marie.123

I selected this piece because it illustrates many of the elements that influence a woman’s opinion of herself. It makes me question whether her holding a higher opinion of herself may have changed her interaction with the man in question. Would she have given him more or less attention as a result?

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This last short story is about how to confront mental limitations when facing a physical challenge. It shows how we can change our way of thinking in order to overcome difficulties, as well as discovering potential for mental growth.

The Final Seven In Texas

My first trip to Texas was to run 100 miles in the Huntsville State Park. It was physically and mentally the most arduous thing I’ve ever done but crossing the finish line was euphoric, and forged a forever bond with Texas.

I ran the race, whimsically named the Rocky Raccoon, with two friends: Jay, who lives in San Antonio and Matt, our de facto leader, a Navy man with whom I’ve trained in Indianapolis. Entering the race, I was concerned whether I’d be able to keep up with them, as they are more experienced ultra marathon runners who have completed 100 mile races before. I had also failed to keep up with them in a race in December, finishing a 100 kilometre run a few hours after they finished.

While the cutoff time for the Rocky Raccoon is 32 hours, Jay and Matt’s goal was to finish the race in under 24. My goal was simply to finish, but I really wanted to remain with them for the duration of the race. I kept up with them through 93 miles, at which point the proverbial wheels started coming off. I slowed considerably, veering off the trail in a diminished mental state.

Jay saw what was happening and stayed back with me, encouraging me by telling me how well I was doing, how proud he was of me for staying with them and inviting me to reflect on the race thus far. He told me to lead for a bit and then, if I veered off the trail, he would lead. His encouragement meant everything in the moment.

Matt, meanwhile, pressed on 150 or so yards ahead out of sight. We heard him shout, “Let’s go,” “What’s going on back there?” and, “Dig deep!” While it was clear Matt was not going to take “No” for an answer at finishing under 24 hours, at about mile 97, it was also clear Jay and Matt’s stated goal of finishing under 24 hours was in jeopardy. It would take a seriously strong push and increased pace to accomplish their objective.

By this point, Jay and I had caught up with Matt but I began falling behind once again by about 40 yards. I thought of telling the guys they should press on for the sub-24 finish and that I’d given it my all and would make it when I made it. Selfishly, though,  I also knew sub-24 was still in reach, albeit not without a strong finish, so I pressed on, remaining 40 or so yards behind. This particular stretch was strewn with exposed roots and swampy ground resulting from heavy rain the previous Thursday.

Jay kept shouting encouragement and noted upcoming roots, while Matt demanded that I “Dig deeper” and increase my pace. I needed both their approaches to finish strong and will be forever grateful to them for them pulling me along. I stared straight ahead and didn’t respond verbally because I wanted to conserve all my energy for the final mile or so: up a sandy hill, across a trail road, around a lodge and through a winding grassy park to the finish line.

When we hit the sandy path, I gave it everything; indeed, even more than I thought I had left. Meanwhile, and I’ve buried the lede here:  my late father’s birthday was February 1, the same day as when the race started. Running the race for Larry Joe Hawkins was on my mind from the moment I landed in Texas.

Accelerating on this final stretch, my face involuntarily gave way to a fierce grimace and, thinking about my dad, I started sobbing audibly. I knew I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t leave it all on the trail during the final stretch. I caught up with Jay and Matt up the sandy path. They reacted by cheering me, telling me how proud they were, and how excited they were that we were all going to finish together.

Nothing could dampen my spirit or pace at this point; I was digging deeper than I thought possible and was riding the high of finishing with my friends. We crossed the road. In my stupor, I took the lead and promptly led us in the wrong direction, which my friends quickly corrected. We ran giddily around the lodge after an onlooker told us we were on pace to finish in under 24 hours and exclaimed we were running like it was our first lap.

We made our way through the winding park and, as we approached the finish line, Matt instructed us to join arm-in-arm and demanded that I take the middle spot. As soon as we crossed the finish line, I felt a vast release and immediately started weeping and pumping my fist triumphantly. I turned to hug Jay and Matt. Jay, tearing up, said, “Mark, now we are brothers.” Matt, for his part, said, “Mark, I didn’t take you for being so dramatic.” We finished the Rocky Raccoon, arm-in-arm, with three minutes and 43 seconds to spare before exceeding what became our shared goal.

It was a remarkable day; one I will treasure forever. I crossed the crucible with Jay and Matt and will always look back fondly upon the Rocky Raccoon.

© Mark Hawkins, 2025

Connect with Mark on Instagram: @selfrefhomage

This piece shows that, where we may reach our limits, we can be motivated to break through them with the care and support of others. As they lend their own energy and resolve to the situation, it has the potential to create a group mindset, enabling us  to achieve together what we could not achieve on our own.

I look forward to sharing more pieces around Mindset and what inspires me next week. Do keep your submission coming in!

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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/

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