Hello, readers. I’m Vrushali, a fitness enthusiast, lover of cinema and aviation working and contributor to a digital women’s lifestyle magazine in India. I live in Aurangabad, famously known as the City of Gates and am your host for the February Showcases.

This month is known for Valentine’s Day. But rather than focusing just on all things pink and fluffy, I will be reflecting on human relationships as a whole: how we connect and how our creativity helps us to do so. What better way to do this than look at our world through the lens of Misunderstandings, a concept that challenges us to explore our stories, emotions and the relationships that bind us in a different way.

As writing is a passion close to my heart and I’ve devoured books since childhood, I’m going to kick things off by paying homage to Children’s Author And Illustrators Week, which falls in the first week of February.

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First up is an excerpt by All Stories mentee Taslin Pollock. It highlights the crucial role our grandparents play in the family as a source of love. Without their love, our childhood memories wouldn’t feel complete. My grandma always misunderstood my freelancing lifestyle, she just couldn’t wrap her head around this new way of making a career – but eventually, as I showed her the ways of the internet, she somehow managed to understand things a bit better. I never mistook her unfamiliarity with modern work practices as a lack of pride in me. I also adore how this piece celebrates familial bonds, with our heritage providing stability in uncertain times.

When A Hero Falls (Excerpt)

Chapter One

Annand stands in front of the jukebox in the corner of Mr Singh’s restaurant, clutching a coin. He is squeezed between his little sister Aisha, who is on her tiptoes and his cousin Samir who is more interested in tugging on the collar of his kurta. Annand is a head taller than both of them and that was why maa said he could choose first, but that didn’t stop Aisha from making suggestions.

“That one, Annand,” Aisha jabs her finger at a band Annand had never heard of.

“The Spice Girls?” Annand scrunches up his nose and moves her finger out of the way.

He scans the list and beams when he recognises one of the tracks. He inserts the coin and makes his selection. It takes a second for Bhangra beats to belt out of the jukebox.

“It’s Nanabapa’s favourite Bollywood song,” Annand yells over the music.

Annand starts pretending to screw in lightbulbs like Nanabapa had shown him. Within seconds Aisha and Samir join in too. Aisha’s long dark hair swishes in one direction and her embroidered dupatta in the other. The aunties that had arrived early for the function start nodding along while they continue chatting and a few of the uncles jump onto the dance floor. His maa stops faffing over the large number six and number zero birthday balloons and strides towards them, biting her cheeks.

“I think the dancing is supposed to happen after the food,” maa smiles, as she ushers all three over to the only round table with a reserved sign on. Aisha goes and sits next to Bapa who is playing peekaboo with baby Hussein, Samir’s little brother. His baby giggles fill the air. Samir’s mum, Sheherah Aunty is busy videoing the moment on her phone. Aanand sits next to Samir and places the reserved sign on the empty seat next to him.

“Great choice, Annand. Nanabapa loves this song,” Sheherah Aunty sings along in Hindi.

“He always plays it in the car when we go to Bobby’s for bhadjas,” Annand admits.

“Shush, don’t let Mr Singh hear that we go his rival before he’s bought out the food. I’m starving,”

Sheherah Aunty giggles. “I hope Nanabapa gets here soon. Imagine being over an hour late for your own party.”

“Nanabapa is always late for everything,” Samir whines.

“Not usually this late,” Annand argues, quickly defending his grandfather.

“Hmm. You’re right, Annand,” maa agrees getting up. “I’ll try and call him.”

“How’s the new school, Annand,” asks Sheherah Aunty.

Annand picks up the gold 60th birthday confetti from the tabletop. He just needs a minute. His family had made the move from Dundee to Stirling a few weeks ago for Bapa’s new job. Annand hadn’t wanted to move schools. He hadn’t wanted to leave his best friend Robbie and it wasn’t exactly a riot being the new kid. It was like there was a rain cloud constantly hovering over his head. The only silver lining was being closer to Nanabapa.

© Taslin Pollock, 2025

You can connect with Taslin on Instagram: @taslinpollock                                                                     

Taslin is part of the All Stories mentoring support scheme for underrepresented children’s writers. If you want to find out  more, you can connect with All Stories via their website: www.allstories.org.uk

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I’m not the only one who’s passionate about books. Next, our veteran team member from Sunderland, Mirabelle Lavelle, introduces Ellie Clewlow, who fashions works of art from preloved books. Salvaging damaged tomes and transforming them into beautiful works is indeed healing and we sometimes overlook or misunderstand that things can indeed be mended, even if they seem irretrievable. Kinstugi is a Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by using gold lacquer. To me, Textilis is based around a similar concept, interconnecting the loose pages and tying them back together with loving hands.

An Introduction To Textilis by Team Member Mirabel Lavelle

When Ellie contacted me I was keen to connect her work to Write On!, with a particular view to being featured in Showcase. With our theme of Misunderstandings, the idea of giving old or damaged books a new life – especially in the light of Ellie’s mention of the riots of summer 2024 – is something I hope will resonate with readers.

As a Sunderland resident myself, the reference Ellie makes highlights how people completely misunderstand each other and then go even further: to riot and destroy. By salvaging damaged books and transforming them into beautiful works of art, Ellie creates healing.

Textilis: A Monument To Making

I was having a good day with a trip out and a good book to read.

As a child of the pottery industry in Stoke-on-Trent who now finds herself making art in Sunderland, Less by Patrick Grant really resonated with me. He talks about our need for less, of respect for materials and quality in a throwaway culture, and of the reintroduction of meaningful work and dignity in post-industrial communities through making.

Reusing discarded materials was very much on my mind that day. I was on my way to a fabulous local charity, Borderline Books, which collects books no longer needed by publishers, shops, libraries and individuals and redistributes them to schools, prisons, community organisations, food banks, hospitals and artists. A child in a sweet shop doesn’t begin to describe it.

I came away with a trolley full of preloved and damaged children’s books, maps and romance novels ready to be transformed into… something. I didn’t yet know quite what.

I had a thought-provoking book and a bag of potential art materials and there was a hint of sun in the sky. Not a bad start to the weekend! It was Friday 2 August 2024.

Later that night, I smelled burning. An advancing cloud of smoke was menacing my house. The nearby police station and local advice centre were on fire. Sunderland was the first torch lit in a relay of riots and unrest across the country.

The morning after, a different version of Sunderland presented itself. People came out to clean up broken glass and to make a point: that the noise and destruction of the night before were #NotMySunderland.

I sat quietly among my books until I found my words.

I gathered volumes that had been passed on to me by kind friends, colleagues and organisations. I tore those books apart. I cut the pages. I broke the words into pieces. Then I folded. I folded page after page after page. Each piece was interwoven with the next, held in place by its neighbours, and then stitched to strengthen the connections. All the while I was mourning Sunderland’s lost industrial past, the disillusionment of the present day, and what might come next.

What emerged was Textilis.

Textilis is my hope for the future, building on the foundations and traditions we already have: for a modern community of makers, skilled of hand, generous of spirit, and with gentle pride in their work and home. It takes its name from the Latin word for woven or intertwined and is inspired in form by the communal quilting traditions of the North East. Rooted in the generosity of all those who donated the books from which it is made, Textilis is a fragile but hopeful monument to Wearside. We are makers here: we make.

© Ellie Clewlow, 2025

Connect will Ellie on Instagram: @ellie_clewlow_studio and via her website: ellieclewlowstudio.com

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Next up, an excerpt from YOCH by Hayley Griffin, also an All Stories mentee. Reading this brought comfort and nudged that childlike curiosity in me as the story carries on from the point of view (POV) of a football. Packed with humour, heart and unexpected twists, it captures the essence of resilience and playfulness.

YOCH

A football trickles down the pavement.

The ball continues to roll without gaining speed or slowing down. It soon becomes clear that the ball is in control and is propelling itself forward. It’s a little tatty on the edges with a couple of serious scuff marks and a slight discolouration to a once crisp white complexion.

All that remains of the SYNOCCHIO brand are the letters Y, O, C and H that scatter across his chest. This is Yoch (pronounced Yock).

Yoch heads down a slope. Picking up speed he swiftly turns a corner, teetering close to the edge he caresses the rim of the curb with great skill and precision, gargling with delight.

He flies down to the bottom of the hill, ricochets off the curb, slams into a lamppost and flips up into the air.

‘Cannonball!’ Splash, he lands in a gigantic puddle.

Yoch spins and spins in the water trying to get out, but the more he spins, the more he drifts towards the middle.

Yoch freezes, sensing he’s not alone, as a wandering Jack Russell trots over.  It takes a good sniff of him.

‘Fwiend?’ Yoch says.

The dog lifts his leg — and pees.

Yoch splutters, ‘Errlch. Yuck.’

Spooked, the dog whimpers. Yoch notices this and growls.

The dog bolts, accidentally knocking Yoch to the edge of the puddle. Relieved, Yoch carefully dips back in the water, washing his face. He bears down and forces out a little trump, ejecting a spray of water from his pump hole.

Yoch waddles down Draper Avenue, he looks around, but there’s no one about. He sighs, accompanied by a mini deflation, and unfortunately for Yoch, every time he deflates he parps. He finds this soooooooo embarrassing, but luckily there’s no one about to hear him right now.

Every now and then a shadow swoops over from high above, circling like a dark cloud.

Two butterflies flutter by, chasing one another. Yoch rolls faster trying to keep up with them as the world goes round and round, because for Yoch, that’s just how life rolls.

Yoch spins as the butterflies change direction and he ends up rolling backwards. He’s not looking where he’s going when he bumps into a Gate. The butterflies flutter over and away.

Yoch peeps through the wooden slats and notices the lawn is manicured to perfection.

He rolls a little closer when — ‘Hey! Watch where you’re rolling.’ Yoch stops and looks down to see two snails huddled together right under his panel, about to get squashed!!

‘Oops, nearly got you.’

Yoch carefully rolls back, then shuffles around them. They appreciate his consideration and slither away to safety together. It seems everything is in two, all except for Yoch.

He then spots a bright orange mower, still warm from purring along the grass, ‘Fwien–’

When out of nowhere the shadow that has been looming over him becomes bigger, and darker, swoops down and scoops Yoch up into the air. But it’s no shadow, it’s a — Hawk!

© Hayley Griffin, 2025

Hayley is part of the All Stories mentoring support scheme for underrepresented children’s writers. If you want to find out  more, you can connect with All Stories via their website: www.allstories.org.uk

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Finally, a piece from award-winning poet and author Gita Ralleigh, who shares the opening excerpt from The Voyage Of Sam Singh, the second of her magical middle grade adventure set in a parallel colonial India. As you can see, the story is brims with adventure and mystery!

The Voyage Of Sam Singh

Sam felt the sharp dig of claws almost tug the hair from his scalp, startling him awake. ‘Ow! Suka – that hurt!’

With a flurry of emerald wings, the parrot settled on his chest, tilting his head hopefully. ‘Breakfast, Sam Singh!’

Sam yawned, blinked at the glare of daylight and reached to scratch the bird’s rosy neck. The uneasy sway of the ship’s deck had made him horribly seasick last night and he felt too queasy for food. ‘Is it morning already? I don’t have anything for you to eat, Suka – hang on!’ He delved into his pocket and found an old bag of peanuts. ‘How about these?’

‘Peanuts! Monkey nuts! Cacahuetes!’

‘Kadalai, mungfali! Good boy! We’re due at the port today. Let’s see if we can spot land.’

Sam clambered up the ladder onto the bridge of the steamship. The funnel billowed sooty smoke into the sky, streaked pink with dawn. Below, the Yellow Pearl’s foredeck thronged with passengers eager to disembark. Tradesmen with bundles of goods huddled close to the stack, white-uniformed sailors stood between them and the first-class passengers at the ship’s prow, who gripped their straw hats as the wind tugged at the brims. Stewards weaved through the crowd, carrying luggage from cabins.

‘Land ahoy! Kinara Dekho!’ screeched Suka joyfully, swooping over turquoise water.

In the distance, the turtle-shaped outline of the Isle of Lost Voices emerged from milky sea mist. Sam leaned forward, taking deep breaths of briny air as the Isle grew closer. His eyes roamed its green hills, silver sand and jagged cliffs of rock, unsure of what he was looking for. And then he saw it – a tower made from the Isle’s black stone, and polished so that it glittered darkly in the sun.

‘The Octopus, Suka!’ Sam whispered as the parrot landed on his shoulder.

His stomach lurched wildly as he stared at the building, hulking over the curve of the bay. ‘That’s where my brother’s locked up – I’m sure of it.’

© Gita Ralleigh, 2024

Connect with Gita on Instagram: @gita_ralleigh

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I hope you enjoyed my first Showcase of February; a first for me also. I can’t wait to share next week’s with you. See you then!

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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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