Welcome to my second February Showcase. Over the past weekend, I’ve been busy working on freelance projects and, while it was pretty hectic, I genuinely enjoyed it. Freelancing may not always be the safe option and can sometimes even make it hard for others to take us seriously, but loving what we do makes it all worthwhile. Speaking of freelancing, we’re also celebrating Freelance Writers Appreciation Week.

With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, love and reflection take center stage. Personally, I’ve loved celebrating by making handmade chocolates for my loved ones. But since last year I’ve cut down my sugar intake because not all sweet things can be sweet to our body but can, in fact, prove to be harmful. So, what do I do instead? I make a fruit cake, which is quite simple and has lots of tutti frutti sprinkled all over it.

In today’s Showcase, I’ve featured submissions that explore the many hues of love, family love, freelance life and the journey of growth, strength and evolution. Read on!

As a singleton who is spending this month of love by herself, there is longing and yearning to be held by someone special. Even if I schedule solo dates and get myself a diamond ring, there’s this struggle between destiny and desire. I’d love to have an engagement ring on my hand but maybe that’s not my destiny just yet.

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Our first piece by Alex conveys  yearning, introspection and acceptance of life’s duality.

Will You Remember Me?

The contrasting moments that covets me.
Will you possess the ability to share the burden and be as open as thee.
The inordinate and unfortunate of pleasantry,
Will recall such distaste that I have experience for thee,
Will you follow the road and vision and adventure of our ultimate glee.
Though, the absence of stars and sparkles that follows our hearts, through our
divided journey.
Are we at liberty to be in contempt of our own resulting destiny?
Unworthy of the fortunes of our meeting and induced sanity.
We will forever be bereaved of our foundations that result in our demise
deliberately.
Compositions not joined and refined ultimately.
Life shows a living of divide and indications to let be,
irrespective of our wants and needs to be with thee with glee.
Memories of contrasting pandemonium shall be revealed in time by
destiny.

© Alex Murdoch, 2025

Connect with Alex on Instagram: @themadpo3t

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Raising a toast to all freelancers and independent contractors out there, here’s a short poem I wrote, summing up my journey so far. The highs, the hustles and the lessons along the way. Cheers to the freelance life!

Booked, Busy And Boss-Free

With a dollop of wisdom and kilos of guts,
I started freelancing before 2021,
In 2019 I found a base,
In 2020 I rode the wave.

With clients from here and there,
wanting me to slash prices,
A business girl in the making,
Discounting was never my vice…

The rhythm of feast and famine,
Grateful that it was all mine.
No boss to answer,
No office strife,
The freedom freelancing brings to life,
Ticks something off the list just right

I deliver efficiently,
I still get scared hesitantly,
Will AI grab the work?
Wait! That’s mine?
I convey, I think,
But never restraint
I appreciate the journey,
I appreciate the wave,
Freelancing has taught me,
Heads or tails,
My boat always sails!

© Vrushali Khadilkar, 2025

Connect with Vrushali on Instagram: @aprilautumnservices

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I might sometimes underestimate or misunderstand the true power of new technology which, in its own way, helps me connect with others. This year might not involve any dating for me as dating apps are getting weirder and weirder. In fact, dating in 2025 feels like a whole new ballgame. It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Online dating is evolving so fast that some people are even falling for AI chatbots.

Additionally, with Valentine’s Day just around the corner, in my city the stores are stacked with adorable gifts and chocolates, while cafes are adorned with hearts and all things red. Meanwhile, aunties and uncles can’t help but keep a watchful eye on young couples everywhere!

As Tavinder points out in this piece, though, falling in love takes real courage. Whether it can sustain and turn into something deeper can sometimes feel as uncertain as tossing a coin.

Can I Love Again?

Can I love again?
With you, it was within the days and nights.
With you, it was within the stars and the sun.
Now that it has ended, my heart is heavy with deep pain.

I wonder, can I love again?
With you, it was pure, magical, like a fairytale.
With you, it was two souls meeting in harmony, united,
Now that it has ended, my heart is empty with negative energy.

I wonder, can I love again?
It takes effort, it takes guts, it takes trust.
It takes your soul, it takes your self, it takes your energy,
Once it has gone, the world seems smaller, the glass half-filled.
Do I dare to get hurt, meet, date, and get hurt all again?

I wonder if I can love again.
This is the trial of love, the beast of its tail, the toss of a coin.
This is the trail of love, the beauty of its capture, the light of the sun.
This is the reality of love, the nerve to try again to be in its beauty,
I wonder, can I love again? As I go out, I still try to find true love.

© Tavinder Kaur, 2025

Connect with Tavinder on Bluesky: @newtavinder.bsky.social

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At first, reading this next piece, The Family Man by Qian Liu, it reminded me of the stellar movie Past Lives. It’s a reflective short story about Henry, a devoted family man who unexpectedly revisits his past love. Doesn’t matter how old we are, those childhood sweetheart love stories frequent our minds every now and then. I remember romanticising Actor Hrithik Roshan when I was a child and I can definitely say that he was my first ‘parasocial’ crush (blushing…).

The Family Man

It was five minutes to five. Peter had already switched off his computer and stood up.

“Fancy a drink, Henry?” He patted my shoulder as he made his way among the desks, all positioned so closely that one could barely pass without having to touch something on the sides.

“I need to take the kids to their drama club tonight. You have a good time!” I replied, without taking my eyes off the screen.

“The family man! How I envy you!” He chuckled. Patting me again, he made a clownish gesture to suggest he was sneaking away from work, and disappeared through the door.

A family man. That was what people always said about me. Bachelors like Peter teased me about the joy of having a sensible wife like Joan and good kids. Missing all the after-work drinks came as part of the package. To Peter and others this might be unbearable. But I didn’t really mind. Maybe I was a family man after all.

Two hours later, I was back home with Lucy and Lily, who were tired out by their drama club. The hallway smelled like the fishmongers’ market. Apparently, Joan had cooked pan-fried salmon again. She always said salmon was good for the girls’ brain development. Careful not to frown, I returned her kisses, then quickly herded the girls to wash their hands and to go to the dinner table.

“Salmon again!” Lily complained loudly. She was much braver than me. Neither of us liked fish. But Lucy, the little one, was already tucking in voraciously. Joan and I stared at them, exchanged a knowing look, and smiled.

There was a good reason for being a contented family man. A happy family like this, meant you didn’t need to venture out to the pub on a cold, dark winter night. As an editor of a literary magazine, Joan was both intellectual and sensual. Before the girls were born, we sometimes discussed literature, although many years passed since we’d last done that. Now, we were more interested in nutrition, eyesight and school performance. I couldn’t imagine a life without Joan. How would I survive the school runs,  clubs, cooking, and all the rest, without her?

When the girls were in bed, I sat myself on the sofa and started to read a memoir, newly published online by a magazine I’d been subscribing to since university. Over a decade ago, when the magazine was still published in print, we were all crazy about its poems and short stories bubbling with the poignant emotions of youth, love, loss, hopes and dreams. I couldn’t afford it back then unless I skipped dinner for the day. Having said that, I never missed a single issue, nor did I need to starve myself. Ella always bought a copy as soon as it was out and, once she’d finished reading, it was mine. Or we would read it together, alongside so many other books.

In my mind’s eye, I could see her that late spring afternoon, sitting beside me on a wooden bench under the willow trees near our campus lake, engrossed in Madame Bovary. Sunlight penetrated the willow leaves and shone on her chestnut curls.

Suddenly she sighed. “I don’t understand why people criticise her. She is…”

“Admirable,” I said.

Ella raised an eyebrow in amazement. “How do you always know what I want to say, Henry?”

I gazed into her eyes. “At least she’s brave enough to stick to her illusions. She just didn’t meet the right man. But that doesn’t make her dreams any less sublime, to paraphrase Baudelaire.”

Ah, my thoughts had drifted too far. I should focus on this memoir while there was still time to read before bedtime.

Back then, all I noticed were the poems and short stories about romantic love and incorrigible youth. I didn’t even see that the magazine also published other types of writing, such as memoirs. Or maybe, just like us humans, magazines age too.

This was a memoir about a woman who’d left the UK to seek a different life in the US.  It told of how her dream of a romantic marriage was ultimately shattered by the reality and how she reminisced about one particular point in her life when she thought she’d found true love. All day long, I read Flaubert to him. We laughed and cried and sighed over Emma’s shattered illusions. “How sad that we are all so blinded by these illusions!” I used to say to him. “But had Emma found the right man, her illusions would have turned into her reality.” She replied, “Just like you and me! Will you make my illusions cease to be?”

My heart missed a beat when I read these conversations. They were glaringly familiar.

It had been ten years and seven months.

When the 105th rejection email appeared, I thought I was never going to find a job.

For the first time, I didn’t want to take the magazine she handed to me. “I’m done with illusions, Ella. I’m not like you. Your family can help you find a good job, or even support you to take a gap year. I can’t afford it.”

She looked at me imploringly, her voice trembling. “Please, Henry. Don’t say it.”

I tried not to notice the tears welling in her eyes.

“:Let’s face it, Ella. You deserve a better man. Plus, I can’t feel it any more, you know. I’m so sorry.”

Without daring to look her in the eyes, I walked away, nearly tripping over a bulging tree root.

A few months later, she left for the US.

I eventually found my feet and formed a family. Joan was like her in many ways. I’ve been happy.

But I didn’t know why my eyes were so sore and my face was all wet. Perhaps it was a cold of some sort.

© Qian Liu, 2025

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I hope you’ve enjoyed this week’s Showcase. See you next week!

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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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