Happy Wednesday, readers! My day job is all about ensuring my company communicates clearly with our potential customers, and that we understand exactly what the customer is asking us to communicate. This is far more complex a task than it first appears. We are constantly misunderstanding each other and in the UK we have a hesitancy to ask questions, because we fear we’ll seem ignorant or stupid, but there’s no such thing as a stupid question. The way someone speaks, their inflection, the words they use, whether they like to speak directly or indirectly, our opinion of this person, our relationship to them, all of these things impact how we interpret what they’re saying – and all can lead to misunderstandings! That’s not to mention how limited the written word is when communicating (which is where emoji use in messages really helps me out).

Considering all this, the submissions I’ve chosen for this week centre around possible, probable and even intentional misunderstandings between humans when we interact (or choose not to). I think the more we can empathise, the more we can accommodate each other and avoid misunderstandings; which, hopefully, writing about diverse characters and situations can help us with.

First is a short story by Luke Evans. When reading this, I wondered how the friends would interpret the narrator’s actions (or inactions)? Would they misunderstand his absence? The story centres around his internal thoughts, and while we as readers clearly understand the struggle he is going through, his friends may not know as much as we do.

Tidal Waters

He’d been gone a long time. Things hadn’t gone well with them in the end; words were exchanged. The only thing that tethered him to this place was her. When she was gone, he was like the long seaweed that loses its anchoring to the seafloor and becomes swept away by the tide.

He went everywhere, tried many things, but never anchored again.

Now, he was back and she was still gone. He had friends and family once, when she was around. After it all went south, he had burned some bridges. He hadn’t really meant to, he just wanted to be left alone. They’d hounded him with questions, invitations and offers to help, but he had just wanted them all to go away. When they wouldn’t, he went away instead.

The town had changed a lot since he was gone. It was an old coal and steel town. Now, the industries had moved on and only the weary people and their old buildings remained. A town has a character and a pulse of its own, but this place had lost much of what made it special to him. Its pulse had slowed, nearly stopped. There were talks of pumping money into the place: a new tramline through the town, business incentives, tourist endeavours, arts and cultural exhibits and festivals.

They said they could get the people back and he hoped it worked.

For now, it was an empty shell. The buildings were old and broken down and many shops stood empty. A few of the old familiar places had changed into other things;  diamonds in the rough of his memories staying the same.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped in through the door of the pub. It was the one place where they’d always met their friends together. He stopped dead, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. His breath caught in his throat as he looked across the bar and saw them sitting there, right where they’d always sat.

Their old friends. Sitting in the same worn old booth. They were talking and laughing over drinks like they always had. It was hard for him to see that life went on for them as it always had but, in another way, he was happy for them; their lives were still joyful and full of light.

That was the way he’d  been once. Back when she was alive.

Silently, with all the pieces of his shattered heart, he wished them well, turned and left the pub.

He let out a deep breath and, with it, let himself be swept away by the tide again.

© Luke Evans, 2024

*****

Now, we have a poem by Hongwei Bao. I think it clearly demonstrates the many ways we can misunderstand someone’s words or actions and how a misunderstanding, once cleared up, can lead to something quite good.

Misunderstanding

I hope you weren’t
too surprised when I said
I was lonely and felt
homesick when you asked
me how are you?

I also thought
it was a good idea
when you suggested
we must meet up again
soon!

Then you shouldn’t
really have needed
my constant reminder
of our appointment;
after three days,
and then a week.

So we met up
at your place
for a drink.
That drink happened to be
whiskey and beer.
Not tea or coffee.
But that was OK
for I was thirsty.

You asked me to make
myself at home. So I did.
Perhaps that explained
why I missed the last
train home and had to
stay over.

I ended up sleeping
in the same bed
with you because your sofa
was too small
and it looked
very uncomfortable.

That turned out
to be a nice
misunderstanding.

© Hongwei Bao, 2024

Hongwei (he/him) is a Nottingham-based queer Chinese writer and academic. He is the author of the poetry pamphlet Dream Of The Orchid Pavilion (Big White Shed, 2024) and poetry collection The Passion Of The Rabbit God (Valley Press, 2024).

*****

Lastly, we have a short story by James Marshall. Can you think of anyone you misunderstand more regularly than a family member? In this, I wonder if Deirdre is really how we read her, or if she’s making sure we (and her family) intentionally misunderstand her, as a defence? Is this how she processes grief? Or, does she misunderstand how badly she comes across? At the very least, I think she misunderstands her family.

The Reading Of Grievances

Deirdre pushed her way to the front of the queue of mourners. “Siblings first,” she said, each time she bumped an elbow, leaving a trace of lavender in the air behind her. She wore a pastel-blue twinset, the same one she wore to her dead brother’s wedding 37 years before, the same one she wore to her niece’s wedding three years ago and the same one she would wear in her coffin. It was written in her will.

“Siblings first,” Rich muttered to Sarah four places from the front. “She hasn’t seen your dad since our wedding.”

The queue outside the crematorium extended around the corner, past the toilets and finished, or started, beside the snack-vending machine. Chocolate and crisps to comfort the lost souls or mourning relatives who were swathed in shades of black from raven’s wing to charcoal. Shoes, stockings, suits, jackets, dresses and overcoats removed from dry-cleaning bags, boxes or suitcases for the occasion.

Sarah inhaled a waft of lavender and coughed. “I’m surprised there’s not a swarm of bees following her. Let’s get this over with before you start again. Dad would want us to get along.”

The crematorium door opened outwards, pushed by a sombre-faced man in coat and tails. Deirdre pushed past him before he had a chance to secure the door to the wall. Richard felt the crowd surge behind him, as if eager to get a ‘good seat.’ He leant back, bending his knees to resist the pushing and took his time to follow Sarah inside. He picked up a white A5 pamphlet embossed with gold lettering that listed the date and time of the service, above a picture of his dead father-in-law, Colin, playing tennis.

Richard shook his head. Colin had died after a tennis ball volleyed into his temple and he’d crashed onto the court, banging his head. The dark patch of blood still stained the service line when Richard had played three days later in the county league match.

Swept along by the crowd, Richard found himself at the front row of chairs. He saw a gap beside Sarah but a young and swift nephew plonked himself first. That left a space between Sarah and Deirdre. There was no hiding. Richard sat beside Deirdre whose ample thighs spilled over onto his seat. The only blessing was the service being 30 minutes long and not a transatlantic flight!

“Well, I never,” Deirdre said. “You’re not even a proper relative.”

Sarah leant over Richard. “Leave him alone, Auntie Deirdre. Richard spent more time with Dad than you did. He deserves to be here.”

“Hmph.” Deirdre shifted her weight. “If he’d spend less time chasing a stupid ball around he’d have more energy to give your Dad a grandchild.”

The PA system crackled and the vicar welcomed the mourners. Richard held Sarah’s trembling hand as they stood to sing the first hymn: Make Me A Channel Of Your Peace.

Deirdre squinted at the words on the pamphlet. “Why did he choose this? I’ll make sure everyone knows the hymns at my funeral.”

Richard looked at the coffin and sang.

© James Marshall, 2024

Connect with James on Linkedin: @jamesmarshallcoach

*****

I hope you’ve enjoyed this week’s submissions.. Editing them has left me feeling introspective and I’ve been reflecting on ways I have perhaps misunderstood someone’s words, intentions or actions over the past days. Hopefully this will lead to new and better understanding of each other, which can only be a good thing!

*****

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.

*****

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​: