Hello readers and welcome to our first 2025 Showcase! I’m Holly, a former Monday Moments editor, tentative writer and cat-fosterer living in Kent.

Most importantly, though, I’m the editor for January’s Showcases. Our theme is around Misunderstandings and I imagine there must have been a lot of them over the past month: what with Secret Santas, gift giving, food prepping and general mass gatherings, it’s bound to happen. I’m fascinated by communication: between individuals, cultures, ages, professions, mediums, and how each person will interpret what you say differently. We can all do or say something we believe is so clear, and yet on reflection it may have been completely misinterpreted.

This happens in writing all the time, including intentional misinterpretations. Yes, we writers have taken a folly and turned it into a technique (many, many years ago). Today, I’ve gathered submissions where the writer cultivates a misunderstanding and then pulls the rug from under us at the last moment.

First up is Sebastian Elanko with One-Way Ticket. This is a thought-provoking story that takes us on a journey in more than one way. I was caught assuming that Yesudas, the narrator, was talking about one thing, before realising at the end they were in fact talking about something else. Reflecting back on the story after realising the misunderstanding, it gave me a new appreciation and outlook for the journey Yesudas took.

One-Way Ticket

Current day

I am Yesudas. The magic door was not opened when I arrived in my best attire. My parents, siblings, relations and close friends were there before I arrived. I looked around: none of them were happy. I understand that I’m travelling and they all came to send me off. I can remember many years ago a similar atmosphere, when I left home for London for my higher studies at 18. That time around the airport, some were in tears sending off their loved ones and some were happy to go on holiday. The airport lobby was in a kind of mixed commotion. My mum was crying and my dad was struggling to hold his tears.

I was leaving for four years. It was hard, leaving family behind at 18. I was in tears. I knew I wouldn’t be able to come home for holidays because of the expense. The local catholic mission paid my tuition fee and accommodation but not for any holidays. The parish priest told me not to come home until I’d finished my degree. I was in tears even on the plane. That was another story.

Today, it was completely different and the journey was a different one too. I’m not in tears. No commotion, no noise. It was kind of silent and peaceful. I was here when I was four years old with my dad to send off my uncle. When I asked my dad, pointing to the door, he said, “It’s a magical door and it’s not open for everyone.” It’s like a winning a lottery ticket to go to a magical place where everybody is equal and happy and can get anything they want. When the question was asked by me: Is it like London or Paris? I was told that the place is far better than London and Paris but I have to be very good to win it. Also, I was told I can’t choose and if I choose, I won’t be able to go to that happy place.

I was told that if you enter through the magic door, it will lead you to a different place, but I have to be a very good person to get the benefit of the facilities. My dad told me all this when I was four. I was here when my uncle was going through that door. He was a good man. The only thing that bothered me was when I was told if anyone goes through the door to the magical happy place, they can’t come back. No return. That’s the rule. This rule made people unhappy, and many didn’t want to go. On my way back home, I asked my dad could I go too? I was told that I can but there are two rules: I have to be good and I have to win the ticket. Being good is my choice but winning the ticket is not. I asked can I buy or get a ticket? Again, I was told that if I get the ticket by a short cut before I win, then I can’t go to the happy place. I couldn’t understand. I was only four. It confused me completely. My father tapped on my back and told me I will understand in a few years.

However, I won the ticket three days ago. I didn’t mind going through the magic door. I wanted to go to a better place. I didn’t like the way I was living these past few years: full of suffering and sorrow. I didn’t mind about not returning. I know it was selfish. But I wanted to go. I never questioned or thought about how it felt after passing through the door. No one came back to tell anyone. Of course not; it’s a one-way ticket. There we go; the door was opened. I was entered slowly. The door closed behind me. I saw a bright light. It seemed like fire. It was fire. But I didn’t feel anything. It wasn’t hot. It started to burn my surroundings, burning my compartment and its linings. Within no time, the fire caught me, but I didn’t feel any pain or a burning sensation, as I’d expected.

Three days later

The mortician handed over the jar of Yesudas’s ashes to his uncle and spoke: “I’m sorry about your loss. He was good man; he fought hard with his cancer. He’s in a better place now.”

“I’m sure he is. Thank you,” Yasuda’s uncle replied tearfully, receiving the jar.

© Sebastian Elanko, 2024

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Next, we have a poem by Danny Baxter. A riddle, a mystery, a misunderstanding of what you’re getting vs what you want. I enjoy how brief and therefore impactful each line is, yet every one provokes a lasting thought of how something might not fit.

Not It

It uses the same form but has a different function.
It projects the same image but has a different constitution.
It’s measured by the same apparatus but gives a different reading.
It’s assigned with the same variables but gives a different outcome.
It’s played with the same instrument but has a different tune.
It’s made for the same season but it’s a different fashion.
It’s developed for the same system but has a different application.
It addresses the same audience but has a different agenda.
It caters for the same plight but it has different motivations.
It promotes the same goals but it has different objectives.
It is held at the same locations but creates a different atmosphere.
It uses the same expressions but has a different attitude.
It boasts of the same origin but has a different source.
It teaches the same history but with a different context.
It supports the same guidelines but uses a different interpretation.
It uses the same jargon but has a different message.
It’s labelled with the same price but it has a different value.
It fits into the same gap but it does not fill it.
It takes up the same space but does not complement it.
It is a substitution but it is not a replacement.
It is different and not the same.
I know what I want and this is not it.

© Danny Baxter, 2010 Xian Force Productions

Connect with Danny on Instagram: @dan_lbbd

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Here’s a short piece of prose from Silviya. There’s a sinister overtone but beneath it, in the last line, we can see we’ve misunderstood the intent of the girls and that, even in the darkest places, there can still be good.

Spawns Of The Devil

The two wretched girls towered over the small frightened mouse cowering in the corner.
They plotted and schemed.
Oiling up a red bucket; they squealed and cringed as they tried to capture it.
To save it from this house of death, where all hope went to die.
After watching it scurry off in the ivy vines and thick roots.
Resembling its freedom they stayed a while.
Lying in a field of gold fully immersed among dry grass.
That had fried in the fire.
The tall upright skeletal spines swayed with the silent breeze.
It whispered to the righteous, warnings against entertainment and encouragement.
They basked under what they thought was the sun, yet all light was lost on them.
Because it refused to travel that far.
It was just a big ball of fire summoned from the deep pits of hell to keep an ever-watchful eye.
To illuminate their madness.
But more so their sadness.
It is what was ordained.
They sinisterly giggled from the tickling of tall spines and the thousands of tiny feet that ran mockingly across their small bodies.
That they had slumped their hefty bodies on a fragile red ant hill.
Such stupid girls to ruin a home with their clumsy existence.
Wailing through the gold they ran free hands down.
Brushing off their holey clothes to remove any fear; that perhaps a small atom of it would enter and grow a dictatorial colony.
In the only place that remained sacred.
But how could wicked hold such a thing.
Hope.  

© Silviya Vijeyaruban, 2024

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Lastly, we have a poem by Andrea Dawson. I think we all have an idea of what marriage would be like, as individuals; what is told to us by society and films, music etc. However, the reality can be quite different. In this poem, Andrea shows the misunderstanding someone can have when their partner proposes to them, how we think that can only be a loving and devotional gesture (which it should be!), but in reality it can bring sorrow, pain and heartache. However, the end lets us know that, regardless of how dire a misunderstanding can be, there is always a way forward once we realise it. [Please be aware this contains content some people may find triggering.]

The Bride

He asks for her hand in marriage.
She wishes for a big white carriage.
A big house and a double garage.
The girl hopes for everything so lavish.
All too soon she notices he has become quite savage.
His bride all he wants to do is ravage.
This man is not good for her all he does is do her damage.
He convinces her she needs him that she cannot manage.
He demeans her and acts to her with cruelty and disparage.
He gaslights her and tells her, ‘No one will want you with all your baggage.’
He beats her black blue. She suffers a painful miscarriage.
But with help out there, her life she can salvage.

© Andrea Dawson, 2024

Connect with Andrea on Instagram: @writeonthetyne

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I hope you’ve enjoyed the first Showcase of 2025, and that I didn’t create any kind of misunderstandings with my choice of words! I’ll see you here next week, continuing our theme and bringing you more poetry and prose to fill up the cold January days.

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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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