Dear reader, welcome to the third Showcase of the month. In my late twenties, I’ve begun to see the beauty in change – how it builds resilience and transforms the mindset. I often find myself delving into the question of how to create a meaningful life and leave a strong legacy, which always leads me back to one word: Karma. Fulfilling the duties of everyday life with vigour and enthusiasm feels like the answer. Having faith in oneself and the process is essential.

When I eventually welcome wrinkles, I hope they’ll hold tenfold the love and faith I’ve cultivated, with years of my story beneath them; a life I’ve truly loved and lived. We must not misunderstand karma as being limited to past life actions or as an excuse for inaction.

Today, I’ve selected submissions that evoke the imagery of the tarot cards for me, reflecting themes of transformation, love for the divine, and the beauty of having a sanctuary. As a whole, we’re doing karma in myriad ways and, ultimately, love gets us to connect with each other.

This sweet and potent meditation by Amaka Felly Obioji is all about change and transformation. Love brings so much action into our lives and, if it’s right for us, gradually becomes an anchor we can hold on to. Our partners mirror different traits we may have buried deep inside us. We let go of an idea and  become renewed when we fall in love with ourselves, an individual or a project.

Winter And Little Prayers

I have let go of myself – free from holding on,
like autumn holding onto the sun as it struggles
to cross into the realm of winter.

In the cold morning of autumn,
the trees shed their weight of leaves,
empty enough to welcome new joy.
I am learning the unbecoming of things to become.

To be still.

Every morning, I invite the cold air into my room
to ravage my body in soft whispers of chills.
I am reborn by this very act.
To trust nature, to learn from it,
to let go of each season and usher in new things

© Amaka Felly Obioji, 2025

Connect with Amaka on Instagram: @amaka_felly

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My grandma always held faith close to her heart. She would read the holy scriptures every day, her connection with God undeniably strong. This poem reminded me of how faith and love deepen and expand as we grow older.  Greg Pidgeon shares the interplay between faith, survival and despair, which really feels raw. Endurance intertwined with faith is quite powerful. Under extreme conditions too  – you can love faith, you can love the universe – you can feel held by it all! The divine can never misunderstand our prayers.

Richard Parker

In the cerulean expansive tepid sea,
the Mignonette cuts its way to its journeys end.
Sirocco wind pushing east, stretching sail,
Above the vault of heaven, below fathomless azure.

Craft begins to skim over surf,
It’s spine cutting in deep.
Optimism in transit, faces point to the breeze,
Horizon to horizon nothing but the curve of blue.

Night falls, change is swift.
Sail waves randomly, all battened down.
Hull starts pitching, white horses start to race.
Panic ensues, personal promises are made.

The howl is now in flux.
No stars, no light, a cold sober waltzer,
a white knuckle ride.
The sea begins to swallow its rider.

A silent shout, essentials grabbed.
A drunken stumble to the lifeboat.
Sharp water omnipresent, instinct begins.
All bundled in, launched with a prayer.

The mothership has no fanfare.
Her dignity, her grace exposed.
Blowing its last breath, it enters her locker.

Unconscious to time,
paralysed with the tempo.
Each grip with every surge, their new tub takes on the ride.
Fatigue is their new comforter.
Each succumb to a trance, resigned to their fate.

Storm passed as if not begun.
The blue expanse returns.
Their bodies move to the boat’s wanderings.
Bent, misshaped, bruised.

I watch them awake from their oblivion.
Drenched and muddied.

Reality dawns, their minds are sharpened.
All three take stock, bail in shocked silence.

Still alive with chance.
A call to prayer, their faith intact.
Promises still to be kept, kin in mind.
I smile at their innocence.

Routine in nothing, never broken.
Calm silence, occasional glimpses.
Sun bleaches and scalds, night chills and shakes

Malnutrition and thirst commences.
Fantasy, delusion embarked.
An albatross sighted, they follow its Christian soul Oh they wish for its freedom.

Shark fin strikes the boat, lethargy sharply ends.
Momentum inside and out.
A new focus, welcomed adrenaline.

In the panic a floating rock is spotted.
Lame turtle is caught.
Hauled aboard and dispatched, its bounty consumed, a precious rest bite.

Time becomes vague, their journey like Pi.
Thoughts of the 6th commandment, lots are debated.
Only worship keeps them three,
I now have pity for what’s to come.

Salt lipped and driven mad.
Thirst too strong, with skinny hand.
One takes a drink from the forbidden fruit.
He falls for its false promise.

Death is hanging above that poor boy.
What must be done, a forgivable sin?
A quicken exit is prescribed,
Another ghost, I welcome him.

That ghastly meal of blood and offal.
Tears and formality ensue.
One lamb into two, I bow my head.

Sail is spotted, too late for one.
Honesty is proclaimed.
A new fate awaits the two.
I join the one.

© Greg Pidgeon, 2025

Connect with Greg on Instagram: @pidgeongreg

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Next up is a short story by James Marshall. As someone who works from home, reading about workplace drama felt surprisingly overwhelming.

Roger’s attitude is a refreshing reminder of what we should strive for: prioritising work-life balance as we navigate our careers and aim for a holistic approach to success. The sanctuary we love, our home, is always calling us back and, as a Gen Z myself, it feels as though a home of our own is a distant dream.

We should not approach our need for work-life balance as a sign of being incapable of productivity within set hours. There’s a misunderstanding here, don’t you think?  I feel I really need to change the way I love my work and the way I show up for it.

Private Caller

Roger threw down his pen as the clock flicked to a five and a double zero. Thank fuck for that. He’d been watching that damned clock for 23 minutes. Or was it 23 hours? He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair and crept outside of his cubicle.

He crawled on his hands and knees, avoiding the backs of the female workers and a potential harassment case, and weaved his way around the cubicles of fellow disgruntled male workers.

Those drones were still a pay grade below Roger and couldn’t down tools on time. They had to pretend to work for at least another hour before they could quit.

Roger’s phone buzzed when he was between two cubicles. ‘Shit. I was so close to getting out.’

A nose appeared over one cubicle wall, then another on the opposite side like two Kilroys. “Wot, no unpaid overtime?”

Roger pulled out his phone. Private Caller  was on the screen. He pressed the red telephone symbol to hang up. It was probably Trent, the manager, checking up on him.

“What are you doing?” the female Kilroy said. Her name was Britney or Kimberley or something.

“I’m going home,” Roger said from his crouch. “What’s it look like?”

“It’s only five o’clock,” the male Kilroy said.

‘His name is… Oh, I don’t even care. They’re all the same. At least this one can tell the time.’

“Thanks for that,” Roger said. “I’ve got a home to go to.”

That caused both the Kilroys to lower their heads.

‘Ha!’

The only advantage of being middle-aged in this workplace was that Roger owned his house. The millennials might have better teeth and washboard abs but they were sleeping on sofas in closet-sized rooms of shared apartments while slaving for the man.

‘Not me, I’ve got my freedom.’

Roger crawled towards the exit.

© James Marshall, 2025

Connect with James on LinkedIn: @jamesmarshallcoach

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That’s a wrap for this week’s Showcase! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did putting it together. 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/

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