Showcase: Do You Want Salt And Vinegar With That…? + Only Human + American Role Model + One Glimpse

Edited by Claire Buckle

Here we are at week four and the final Showcase on the theme of ‘Reflection.’ I’m delighted to share some more lovely pieces with you.

The following story reminds us that, sometimes, things aren’t always what they seem — and that taking a moment to understand someone else’s story can change everything.

Do You Want Salt And Vinegar With That ?

Friday night. Picky tea for the kids, then off to the ‘Top Of The House Bingo Hall’ with Dawn. The usual routine. Both of us looked forward to this after working all week looking after our families.

Rushing in just before the beginning – “Bus was late again” – Dawn puffed out of air.

“Right, eyes down,” said greasy Kev. That’s what everyone called him, due to his fondness for the ladies.

They caught up on each other’s news as the game went on. Angie knew there was something going on with Dawn. She was being secretive and, last Friday, said she’d miss bingo and wouldn’t say why.

This was it. The £5000 top prize national round. Dawn noticed Angie was fidgeting. “Christ, mate, if this comes in, we’re off to Florida!”

“Two little ducks, 22,” said greasy Kev.

“House!” Angie shouted, cheek colour now matching her hair.

They couldn’t believe their luck: £5,000! Equal shares now sitting in their handbags.

“Wait until we tell the kids,” Angie said, grinning, then going on to pronounce,“Let’s treat ourselves to a chippy tea. We deserve it.”

The local takeaway, The Captain’s Catch, was run by their old school mates, Fred and Ginger, nicknames they earned after competing in ballroom dancing competitions.

“Evening, ladies, what will it be?” said Jim, not quite meeting Dawn’s eye, Angie noticed. His wife Lucy glared at both women, looking at her husband with suspicion.

“Fish, chips, pickled eggs and curry sauce,” said Angie, while Dawn stood mutely at her side.

Now she was the one with the red face.

“On the house,” Jim said. Lucy looked up in surprise. Her husband was one of the tightest men she knew.

Once outside, Angie asked her friend, “Come on, mate, what’s going on with you and him?  You’re not playing away? You and Dean are a mint couple.”

Dawn looked the other way and dumped her chips in the bin. Realising her friend wasn’t going to give up, she confessed how she’d met Jim at the Marsden Inn last Friday night for a drink.

“No, I don’t believe it! You’re playing away, you and him. Jesus, Dawn, so he’s giving you more on the side than your Friday night fish treat then?” Angie reeled back from her friend in shock.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong. They can’t have kids,” said Dawn.

“That’s no reason for him to cheat on her,” came Angie’s swift riposte.

Dawn went on, “I have three kids. They need an egg donor and Jim asked me. My three are blonde, so are they, so he thought it would be a good match.. and that’s why I met him last Friday night. It was to discuss it all.”

“Wow.” Angie was shocked, but at least her mate wasn’t having an affair.

Later that night, a similar conversation was getting air time. Lucy, convinced her husband was having an affair, asked Jim what was going on. “Tell me the truth, I’m begging you.”

He explained as gently as he could, watching her face intently and felt  relieved when he saw it soften.

She began to cry. “Oh, Jim, that’s amazing, we might even get to have our very own dance troupe!”

(c) Leeanne Rooney, 2025

*****

The following poem is about being honest with yourself when life gets tough. It shows how it feels to be overwhelmed and scared but also how taking a moment to breathe can help you find strength and reminds us everyone makes mistakes and has hard days. That’s just part of being human.

(The first official piece for Steppin’ Out Stronger.)

Only Human

I’m human
Just like you
I’m human.

I sit here on the spot thinking
While a
River of tears builds up in my eyes
Feeling nervous and uneasy
I try to speak, but
The words don’t seem to come out right

I decided to take a step back
As
Time drifts on so fast

My heart begins to pound rapidly
Like raindrops tapping
Away on a window
Gradually increasing in
Volume each time
As the noise levitates and
Continues to take charge.

Hearing what people had to say
My confidence began
Wearing and tearing, away
As the world around
Me started to wobble and sway.

From deep inside my mind
My thoughts, gather so fast
Circulating around till
All I could see was thick fog

My emotions rush about the place
Like a relay race,
As fear and confusion
Grow so quickly in pace.

I’m human
Just like you
I’m human.

What is this space
That I’m in
I can barely make out
Where I am

I start running, but stumble
I choke on my own breath
Echoes of memories
That are too piercing
Overpowering all other sounds

Everything is super loud
Too much is happening at once

I can’t move
Can I move?
I can’t do this
Can I do this?

Maybe I should just stay where I am
Or should I try and get back up?
Feeling like
I don’t know what to do next
Just waiting for something
Anything to happen.

I
Take a pause,
Close my eyes,
Take a moment to breathe
As this is happening
Something inside me soothes
The sharp ringing turns
To a faint and peaceful whisper

I stand up, feeling stronger
And get myself together

On days like these,
When I’m not doing too good
I look within and
Just be still

I have cried, failed,
Made mistakes & fallen so many times
But, it’s okay
As we’re human
And we learn a lot from it.

I realise that
Some roads
Can be louder, darker and more difficult
Than others,
Some corners carries challenges
That are waiting for us
And our direction
Can be knocked off course
Making life, not an easy path.

I’ve chosen to step forward and
Face the wind, head-on now
Even though I may fall and fail
I know I can get up and try again

I’m human
Just like you
I’m only human.

(c) MANNY, 2025

*****

This next writer takes us back to her girlhood, showing us what it meant to grow up in America.

American Role Model

My best friend Evelyn was three years older. In her mom’s bathroom I copied her, applied baby-blue eyeshadow and pink rouge brushed upwards. I borrowed her curling iron and curled my straight hair just like hers, marvelling at the perfect sausage roll against my face.

Evelyn attended middle school dances dressed in cotton candy pink, skinny ankles wobbling in high-heeled sandals. Boys liked her and she listed their names: Brian, Mike, Curtis. Names like shiny star buttons, names like roses thrown at her feet, names like wolves who chased and tried to blow her house down.

“So many boys asked me to dance. First Jon, then Chris. I slow-danced with Tony and Miguel.” She stood back and blinked her eyes.

I couldn’t imagine dancing with boys and didn’t know what she meant by slow-danced. Was it regular dancing, but in slow motion? I grabbed the mascara and copied Evelyn, but my stick-straight Korean lashes didn’t pop my eyes open.

She told me eighth graders wanted to dance with her too; Andy and Greg. She let Greg lead her outside and kiss her in the shadow of a doorway, hidden from official chaperones.

I rolled Reckless Red on my lips like a painter laying down layers. I smacked my sticky lips. “He kissed you. On the lips?”

“Yeah.” Evelyn squinted her eyes as she sprayed hairspray on her curls.

“How do you kiss? What’s it like?” I asked, ready to take notes.

Evelyn fluffed her hair, twirled slowly for a 360-degree view in the mirror. “He put his lips on mine. Kissing is kissing. You make out.”

Make out? Slow dance? These were new vocabulary words.

I was always trying to catch up, stumbling through landscape she’d already conquered, striving to memorise her descriptions, so I’d be prepared when it was my time. She let me practise wearing her bra. I pulled my T-shirt over it and examined myself in the mirror. I already looked older. I could pass as a 12-year-old.

We sauntered in flip-flops to the supermarket, eliciting honks and “Hey baby!” They weren’t for me, but I accepted they were for me through association. I stood straighter and kicked my feet up higher, as though leading a parade. The whistles and lewd comments (I thought they were compliments) were for Evelyn, made-up like a teen beauty queen, with dirty-blonde hair and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. A group of teenage boys hanging out the windows of a beat-up Chevy, a married man in a Mercedes, a solo old man in a Volkswagen bug – Mexican, Black, white – they whizzed by like a film reel, image after image as we strolled like wrapped candies on a white-hot afternoon.

After five blocks and one intersection, we sauntered into the supermarket. I followed Evelyn to the deli where she tiptoed, looking over adult heads in front of us. When the man in front of us stepped away, a middle-aged woman with sandy-blonde hair, cut short and styled by rollers, clad in an employee uniform, an orange dress with a white apron, faced us, ready to take our order. Evelyn’s mom realised it was us and her face relaxed from tight to maternal, melting into her double chin. She asked what we were up to.

Evelyn said: “Mommy I want to buy candy and Mommy what time are you coming home and Mommy what do you think of my lipgloss?”

Her mommy Juanita (whom I called Mrs Hernandez because I respected elders), fished in her apron pocket and dropped some coins on the counter. We liked to visit her at work, we liked to see and be seen. “Bye, Mommy.” “Bye, Mrs Hernandez.”

She was my favourite mother, more favoured than my own mother. When my parents went out of town, I spent a couple of nights at their house during the week. Mrs Hernandez packed my lunch: a bologna sandwich, orange wedges, and a chocolate cupcake. My mother never packed me such food. Instead, causing me immense embarrassment at the picnic tables when I peeled away the bread to reveal a piece of ham with sliced carrots and apples sprinkled on top.

The bologna sandwich tasted delicious. I decided Mrs Hernandez was an expert since she made sandwiches at the deli. I normally threw away any fruit, but bit into the orange wedge to pay respect. The pièce de résistance: I slid the cupcake out as if handling a newborn, careful not to press hard, leaving dimple marks. Although store-bought, I relished it as if Mrs Hernandez had baked it herself, even piping whipping cream in the centre. I never felt so loved.

I spent the summer at the Hernadez’s hot duplex, boxed in Evelyn’s bedroom crammed with clothes, stuffed animals and cosmetics. Their family provided a stark difference to my immigrant Korean household ruled by Confucius, God and the patriarchy. Between Mrs Hernandez and Evelyn’s teen-girl mentoring, I learned about America. I learned women could work and earn their own money. I learned girls could be pretty and unapologetic about it. I learned Evelyn only had one chore to my eight. I learned women could be strong, independent, good kissers, excellent sandwich makers and live without cowering in the shadows.

I knew one day, I’d live fearlessly too.

(c) Ayoung Kim, 2025

Connect with Ayoung via their website: www.pinkbuddha.org

*****

To finish, a poem, which reminds us how love can be sealed in a single moment; a glance, a feeling that never leaves.

One Glimpse

One glimpse across a crowded room,
The vaguest waft of her perfume;
That’s all it took and then I knew,
The seed was sown, the feelings grew.
My heart was lost in just one tick,
I looked again and like a brick
It hit me, knocked the wind from me.
From then she ruled with this decree,
That I would e’er be in her thrall
And never would I seek to crawl
Away. And I submitted willingly,
For I could never wish to be
With anyone but her because
I knew of no-one else that was
Deserving of my total love.
And so I pray to skies above
That it may last for all my life.
For this is how I found my wife.

© Ray Miles, 2023

*****

Thank you for reading these stories and so sharing in the many different experiences. It’s been a real privilege to showcase such thoughtful, brave and honest work. I hope it’s encouraged you keep reflecting, noticing and carrying your own stories forward.

*****

Connect with Claire on Instagram: @cloubuckle, Threads: @cloubuckle and on Facebook: Claire Buckle.

*****

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.

*****

If you or someone you know has been affected by issues covered in our pages, please see the relevant link below for ​information, advice and support​: https://pentoprint.org/about/advice-support/