Inkland_2024

ANTHOLOGY TEAM LEADERS

Sarah Currie Dyer & Charlotte Taylor

DESIGN & PRODUCTION

Rupert Barrington, Sarah Currie Dyer & Adam Fuller

EDITORIAL

Sarah Currie Dyer & Clare McCarron

Kate Allison, Sally Ashworth, Rupert Barrington, Elaine Lambert, Emma Mason, Abigail St. John

SOCIAL MEDIA

Caitlin Clements & Shannon E. Langan

WEBSITE

Jake Hayes

LAUNCH & EVENT

Mark Clutterbuck, Charlotte Taylor & Tamara Wolcough

C. Bramwell-Pearson, Caitlin Clements, Annette Luker, George Rainford, Imogen Townsend

Copyright @ 2025 retained by contributors

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the contributor.

All characters in this anthology, except where an entry has been expressly labelled as nonfction, are fctitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Supported by Annalie Grainger

Typeset by Sarah Currie Dyer contributing support by Gemma Matthews

Illustrated by Ellie Sandall

www.mawfypanthology.com

Middle Grade

Young Adult

Foreword

Inkland

MAWYP Anthology 2024

If all of us, according to Walt Whitman, ‘contain multitudes’ then writers contain multitudes of multitudes.

Stories are little universes. They help us understand ourselves, each other, the wider world. They divert, comfort, entertain, educate and empower, breaking then repairing our hearts, opening our minds, broadening our imaginations, and transporting us into other lives.

It is an honour to lead the MA Writing for Young People and work with so many fantastic writers at the start of their careers, seeing their craft blossom and their stories come to life. When the world seems dark, watching our students support each other to learn, develop and excel is a reminder of all that is best in humanity. Every year I learn more than I thought possible – year on year our aspiring authors show that just as there’s no limit to the universe, so there’s no limit to the realms of imagination.

It’s my privilege to present the MAWYP Anthology 2024. In these pages you’ll fnd laugh-out-loud romps, wild and wacky fantasy worlds, terrifying and wondrous magic powers, heart-rending historical tragedies and injustices, ghosts and mysteries, myth-inspired adventures, quests in real and imaginary worlds (and sometimes both), eco-thrillers, missions at sea and on land (whether up mountains or deep in the woods), stories of coming-of-age with all its charms and

challenges, families torn apart and families brought together, social media madness, magic and mundane High Schools, and much more.

Welcome to Inkland, where you’ll fnd a multitude of multitudes to surprise and delight.

Dr Alexia Casale

Reader & Programme Leader MA Writing for Young People + MAWYP Online

Introduction

For the Inkland Anthology Class of 2024

Inkland conjures up images of a world awash with stories; of fountain pens, and ink wells and writers whose tales live on; of those classic days of children’s literature, of sand fairies, and adventures on railways, little women and little princesses and boys who refuse to grow up. It reminds us of the long history of children’s books: the baseline for so many subsequent stories. At the heart of all those tales, written by pens dipped in ink, are children: their imaginations, their hopes, their fears, their dreams.

This collection is born of those pens and those children, each one colouring the world its own pigment. There are ghosts, timeslip evacuees and those suspended in time; griefstricken phantoms and vengeful wraiths and those spirits who prefer to eat sweets and solve crimes. There are aliens and monsters, Magicae and shadows from an Unseen World, deadly plant spores and an unloved automaton.

We are taken to the sinking of the Lusitania and back to the dark magic of the Reformation. We meet Helen of Troy and a descendant of Atlantis. We even encounter our own doppelganger.

Greedy landowners bury the secret of lost abbeys, and cartoons escape their frames. A girl loses her imagination but fnds her father, another overcomes grief, while a teen boy must navigate alcoholism and toxic masculinity.

There are separations, and reunions, and even an escape from a giant pea. There are chosen ones and not chosen ones, troubles with YouTube, and discovering that advice on how to be popular is not all it promised to be. And if you are very lucky, you may be accepted into the School for Young Explorers.

Inkland: a world of stories to live in, to learn from, and to enjoy.

It is an honour to introduce you to the brilliant work of the Bath Spa Writing for Young People class of 2024. It has been a privilege to see the students’ ink bloom into characters, plots and worlds. In the words of the wonderful Katherine Rundell, “plunge yourself soul-forward” into this glorious anthology and may you fnd an “unexpected alchemy” on every page. May the ink never run dry. Happy reading!

Annalie Grainger Lecturer MA Writing for Young People

A Word From Our Tutors

I am thrilled to endorse this extraordinary group of MA Writing for Young People students. Each member of this cohort has displayed an impressive ability to grapple with complex ideas, articulate them with clarity and originality, and produce work that not only meets but surpasses the highest academic and creative standards.

Throughout their studies, these writers have embraced every challenge with a collaborative spirit and an unrelenting drive to grow and excel. Their work demonstrates a profound awareness of the transformative power of words to inform, inspire, and captivate. Within these pages, you’ll encounter a vibrant tapestry of stories featuring young people grappling with ghosts, witches, and time-hopping trains; poignant explorations of adult alcoholism, border separation, autism, and the loss of imagination; chilling and thrilling tales of murder, aliens, and monsters; and even an unforgettable encounter with a dangerous pea.

This group’s collective dedication is complemented by their distinct individual voices, each one compelling, unique, and brimming with promise. Their resilience and determination have allowed them to thrive within the rigorous demands of this MA programme, honing skills that will undoubtedly serve them well in both the literary and professional realms.

It is with great admiration and confdence that I endorse this remarkable cohort of writers and I look forward to witnessing the indelible mark they will leave on the landscape of children’s storytelling.

CJ Skuse

Watching these stories take shape has been a privilege – each one a reminder of why I fell in love with storytelling in the frst place. These writers have drawn me into hidden abbeys, onto time-travelling subway cars, and through the fractured edges of reality itself. I’ve planned heists with a determined penguin, faced the weight of loss through a child’s eyes, and laughed alongside misft pirate heroes trying to outrun destiny. I’ve even found myself lost inside a pea, discovering just how boundless a story can be. Each tale lingers, leaving traces of its world behind. I hope, as you read, you feel their impact as deeply as I have. Welcome to Inkland – let the adventure begin.

Rachel Hamilton

I won’t cry – but this cohort got to me. They embraced some serious creative orienteering – facing risks and challenges – with such curiosity, wonder and compassion. While their narrative compass may point in diferent directions, they share a fxed point – to be writers who care.

They care about one another: a dedication to listening to, learning from, and supporting fellow writers. They care about their readers: a determination to create the very best stories for young people, twinning entertainment with empathy.

They care about writing with beating hearts and truthful minds. And it’s all captured here – in the pages of their anthology.

It’s been an honour to travel alongside them and their extraordinary imaginations. They’re special, this lot. All right, that’s done it. . .excuse me, something in my eye.

Alex Campbell

It has been a privilege to work with these amazing writers over their time on the MA at Bath Spa University. The love, care and attention they’ve poured into their stories speaks for itself. During the MA, students become experts in their chosen area, experts in their own writing, putting them in a position to produce writing of the highest quality. At a time when we are acutely aware of changing trends in publishing, in children’s reading and in children’s lives, these writers have responded creatively to fnd ways to tell stories to engage, enrich and empower young people. In this anthology, you’ll fnd stories addressing political polarization, neurodivergence, addiction, class and gender; you’ll also fnd magic, comedy, adventure, crime and history. I hope you enjoy reading these pieces, told in such a variety of creative and accessible formats, as much as I have.

Lucy Cuthew

Rupert Barrington

Rupert has spent thirty-fve years with the BBC producing primetime nature documentaries. He’s been excited most of the time, scared occasionally (it was a big snake), and loved it all. Yet he’s always had a secret yearning to tweak the dial of reality and bend the rules of nature, to create imaginary worlds that are nearly, but not quite, like ours. Writing children’s fction is that dream come true. He graduated from the MA with distinction. His writing is fuelled by pastries, and nature creeps in everywhere.

The Girl Who Lost Her Imagination

Kirsty loves her decaying town, the people’s towering hair sculptures and heavenly strudels. They fuel her imagination, which Mama thinks is alarmingly over-active. Is it causing problems for her family? When Papa vanishes, Kirsty blames her imagination. She crushes it, hoping this will bring him home. Unexpectedly, she gains a superpower: spotting liars. Professor von Wallop promises to make her town great again. Kirsty alone sees that he plans to destroy it. Can she defeat him without her imagination? As it fades and her world grows dull, does she even care anymore? Will she fnd Papa and reignite her imagination before it is gone forever? Upper MG mystery/adventure.

rupert_barrington@hotmail.com

The Girl Who Lost Her Imagination

Chapter One

Kirsty Kelleher glared at a paving slab that was annoying her. A blonde plait slipped over her shoulder and swung in front of her chin. ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion,’ she muttered to it, shoving it back. Her irritation had been building for the last ten minutes as she walked through the gorgeous little town of Rielsing-Heidelberg on her way home from school. First, she stepped in a muddy puddle by a blocked drain, wetting her sock. Then, after avoiding several more puddles, she spotted a fowering dandelion in the middle of the pavement. She shooed of a honey bee and yanked it out. Now this, a cracked paving slab on the ancient bridge.

She folded her arms. ‘Humph’. Her town had stood at the foot of the Alps for a thousand years, unblemished, unchanging, simply perfect. Her papa claimed that when invading armies frst set eyes on its charming streets, its cosy bakeries and exquisite architecture, they apologised for turning up uninvited and went straight home. All her life the place had been immaculate, exactly as she liked it. Well, it wasn’t so immaculate now, was it? It seemed to be fraying at the edges.

‘Look, Nina,’ she said to a scatty-haired girl who stopped beside her to reverse a large, jam-flled croissant into her mouth. ‘That slab wasn’t broken yesterday!’ For emphasis she stuck a fnger in the split down the middle, spooking a woodlouse.

Nina pufed out pastry fragments as she said something unintelligible.

‘Did you just say, “Who cares, it’s old”?’ Kirsty snapped. Nina nodded and mumbled again, making Kirsty raise her eyebrows. With a tug, she straightened the immaculate lace edging of her dirndl, the traditional apron dress of the Alps. ‘Of course it matters, Nina. This isn’t just anywhere, it’s Riesling-Heidelberg!’

She looked at the slab again. ‘Wait. What’s that mark?’ She ran a fnger across both halves, drawing out a shape. Nina mumbled through her croissant. Kirsty said, ‘No, it is not “just a vein in the rock”. It’s a massive, massive footprint.’

Nina faded away as Kirsty’s imagination took over to show her exactly what must have happened. She was now on the bridge several hours earlier, commuters rushing by. Heavy steps approached. She swung round as an unnaturally vast foot splashed in a muddy puddle. It marched on, slamming on the slab in front of her, which split with a crack that echoed of the sides of the bridge. The sun came out and the footprint dried, leaving a vague smudge.

Kirsty shook her head. Her imagination released her and she was back in the present again, looking up and down the bridge in case the culprit was slap-slapping around in size ffty-seven shoes. But all she could see were normally-shaped people, ambling past vast stone soldiers that lined each side of the bridge.

She should warn Mama and Papa. They would know what to do about a person with immense feet who was wandering about damaging their lovely town. Papa might get his friends or even the police to help.

Beside her, Nina swallowed and spoke. ‘Did I ever tell you how much I love this town’s pastries?’ She jolted at Kirsty’s sharp look. ‘What? Oh, the mark on the slab? Probably just your imagination, again.’

Her imagination? All day at school she had blocked out the conversation she overheard between her parents last night. Now it came rushing back.

Mama had whispered to Papa, ‘Imagination is a wonderful thing, but is hers too over-active?’

Was Nina right? Had she imagined the footprint? She often found it hard to know what was real and what was in her head. Which was Mama’s point, wasn’t it? She always told her parents everything, but should she tell them about this?

‘Hey, worry face,’ Nina said, tearing the end of a second croissant, ‘you need some Riesling-Heidelberg pastry.’

Kirsty snifed deeply. Its delightful smell shot messages along her nerves, like lions romping down a tunnel, ordering her to be happy. Her town’s pastries did this to everyone. The puddles, weeds and broken slab drifted into the background.

She popped the piece of croissant in her mouth and ran of to the middle of the bridge, dodging horse-drawn carts. There she fung out her arms and spun in the soft, autumnal sunshine. Her plaits, school satchel and white apron few out as her world whipped by, a blur of towering statues, a wide river fowing to the lowlands, and her town on its banks, stufed full of exquisite buildings. Tilting her head back, she saw pigeons crossing a blue sky, but not in a pigeon’s usual raggedy fock. These ones few in formation towards a circular, spotlessly white wall that wrapped up the town like a ribbon. Beyond it lay mountains as pointy and snow-capped as a small child’s drawing.

Kirsty cried out, ‘I love you, Riesling-Heidelberg. Please don’t ever, ever change.’

Dizzy now, she staggered, struggling to stay upright, her joy replaced by panic. A passing lady swayed and fung up a hand to steady a magnifcent, full-colour sculpture on top of her head, made from her own hair. It took the form of an ostrich laying an uncomfortably large egg.

Kirsty crashed into Nina coming the other way, sending

their satchels fying. They hit the ground in the shadow of the biggest stone soldier. Coughing out pastry fakes, Kirsty felt cold, sunless air in her throat. Inches away, huge stone toes poked out of huge stone sandals. Some powerful force seemed to drag her head up. She saw bare, carved legs rough with lichen, and a body as big as a bell tower. This was The Grand Duke of Hofengurgl, leader of the statues who guarded the town from enemies. In one fst he held a vast sword. Dangling from the other, straight above her head, were the spindly, stone legs of an enemy general. She kept craning her neck until it hurt. Now she was looking way up, right into his scarred, angry face. She jerked back with a cry. He just blinked, didn’t he?

She scrabbled out of his shadow. Had that really just happened? Did The Grand Duke actually blink? She blinked twice herself and looked up again. His cold, stone gaze was fxed on the far-of town wall as always.

‘Nina, did you see…?’

But Nina wasn’t looking. She was inspecting one of The Duke’s legs. ‘Very big muscles,’ she noted approvingly.

Kirsty didn’t ask again. She knew what Nina would say, all sing-song: Imagination. But his blink was so real. Confused, she walked with Nina over the bridge. They reached a narrow alley just as a man sauntered out. His hair was shaped into a huge pair of half-moon glasses pinching a giant nose on top of his head. Kirsty took in his perfectly normal jacket before squeaking at his trousers.

Nina whispered, ‘Oh, that’s nice.’

Each trouser leg was carefully crafted to look exactly like an untidy stack of books. The man paused to let Kirsty read the names on the spines, then he shook out a crease and walked on. Kirsty sighed. Where else in the world did grownups have their hair so imaginatively sculpted and wear such amazing clothes? Only in Riesling-Heidelberg.

She swallowed the last bit of croissant and her worries crept back. What if she told her parents about the footprint or The Duke blinking, and they thought she had made them up? What if they couldn’t take any more of her overactive imagination? What would happen then?

Nina pulled her from her thoughts and into a hug. ‘Got to go. Love you. Even though you’re a bit, you know, weird sometimes.’

‘Love you too,’ Kirsty said. ‘Even though you’re not.’

Nina ran of beside the river. Kirsty turned to the alley and wriggled her toes. She was close to home. If RieslingHeidelberg was her world, then home was its beating heart.

Chapter Two

Kirsty emerged from the alley into the town square. Sunlight glared of a wide sweep of paving, worn shiny by centuries of footsteps. Sprinting to the middle, she swept a hand through twin jets of crisp-cold water spouting from the ears of a metal, leaping pony fountain. The spray of droplets she created shattered sunlight into colourful beams. The pony was an old friend. She often told her parents how it galloped past her window at night. It was true, she’d heard it.

Running on, she waved to several uniformed doormen standing at the grand entrances to tall buildings. She glanced up at black and white, checkerboard stonework, past foor after foor of decorative, stained-glass windows, each fghting a losing battle against eruptions of window box fowers.

Every town on the lowlands had a square, even Das Plünk, Riesling-Heidelberg’s greatest rival. Kirsty had seen drawings of them all in a book. None was anywhere near

as good as this one, her town square. Especially not Das Plünk’s, which was rubbish and small and didn’t even have a fountain.

Reaching the far side, she hurried down cobbled streets. Above her, old timbered houses leaned over, squeezing the sky into a narrow strip of blue. Gossips, she thought, whispering news into each other’s window-shaped ears with a sound like rustling curtains. Were they repeating Mama’s comment from last night? Imagination is a wonderful thing, but is her’s too overactive?

Or were they talking about what happened yesterday to trigger it? Kirsty had hurtled into the living room shouting, ‘You have to see the hermit crabs in the town fountain. One just grabbed another’s shell, pulled the owner crab out and slotted itself in instead. Then it wriggled like it was really comfortable. Hilarious!’

Her parents followed her to the square where they all stood side by side, looking down at the fountain pool. Except for a few rusting coins thrown in for good luck, it was empty.

‘I think you imagined them, my darling,’ Mama said gently. ‘Hermit crabs live by the sea.’

But Kirsty insisted, ‘Someone probably took them while I was fetching you. For pets. They’d be less fun than a dog, but quieter.’

By the time they got home, Mama’s baking was burned and Papa’s beautiful pen, dropped as Kirsty tugged him out, was permanently welded to the stovetop. That night Mama whispered to him, Imagination is a wonderful thing, but is her’s too overactive?

If the crabs really had been in her imagination, then what else was she imagining every day that might not be real? She defnitely would not tell them what she thought she saw on the bridge today – the footprint on the paving slab and the Grand Duke’s blink.

She was about to run on when the houses whispered the rest of Mama’s comment to Papa. She’s growing up, eleven now, change is coming.

Kirsty didn’t know what that meant but she was sure of one thing. Her world was perfect just as it was. She didn’t want anything to change.

‘Shut up, you lot,’ she hissed, and sprinted away.

Reaching her front door, she shook herself down and began her coming home ritual.

One: don’t breathe as you step in.

Two: stand on the mat, still holding your breath. Ask yourself, what has Mama baked today?

Three: take a huge snif and fnd out.

Today, the smell that fred up the olfactory cells in her nose and sent pulses of pleasure zinging around her brain was blackberry and apple strudel. Her favourite! It took an efort to stop herself sprinting to the kitchen, where Mama was humming. Not until step four, she told herself, the step that said her world was the same as ever. Pause, pause, pause. Finally, a click and scrape of wood.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! She clapped as a small, wooden bird futtered beside her, then slid back into the clock face, just as it did every hour of her life. Now she could move. She vaulted the sofa, scattering cushions, fung open a door, and clattered down wooden steps.

‘Mama!’ She wrapped her arms around a woman who was a grown-up version of herself, except for the plaits. Her hair was sculpted to look like an overturned pot, with whisks and stirring spoons tumbling down both sides of her face.

Kirsty pressed into Mama’s apron, breathing a smell of baking so delicious she had to hold tight to stop herself from wobbling. She always thought of her mother as a colour, a clear golden brown, because everything she baked was that shade of perfection.

‘How was your day, dear?’ Mama asked, leaning back to look at her.

‘Fine,’ she said, struggling not to blurt out about the footprint and The Grand Duke’s blink.

‘Something wrong?’ Mama tilted her head to one side, a hair whisk rolling over a hair spoon. The baking smell was smoothing out Kirsty’s worries, so she shrugged, brushed four of Mama’s sleeve, and stepped around her to gaze at the strudel on the old, wooden table.

‘Ooh!’ She leaned across, feeling its freshly baked warmth on her cheek. Nina’s croissant on the bridge was good, but this was another level.

The town’s baking secrets were too precious to write down. They might get stolen! Instead, they had been passed down the centuries by word of mouth. The bakers didn’t think about weights and measurements and timings, they worked by instinct. Luckily, Mama’s instincts were especially good. Kirsty stepped from foot to foot as Mama cut the strudel. Its pastry was so light that the knife sank like a fnger through cream. Kirsty dropped a piece in her mouth, but she didn’t chew. A sublime bake like this was a thing of grace and good manners that melted on the tongue. The tart sweetness of fruit sparkled inside her, sharp as winter sunlight on ice. Bliss. This, right here, was her perfect life.

Later, at bedtime, Mama said, ‘Nothing you want to talk about?’ Kirsty shook her head. Certainly not the footprint or The Grand Duke. But actually, she did have a question. ‘Why is our town getting messier?’

Mama took a long breath. ‘Riesling-Heidelberg isn’t as wealthy as it used to be, so there’s less money to spend on general upkeep.’

‘But why?’

‘Because the pastry business is not doing as well as it once did.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. We make the best pastries on the whole of the lowlands!’

Mama smiled. ‘I know. And I’m sure it’ll all sort itself out, so don’t worry.’ She kissed Kirsty goodnight, but her smile didn’t calm a niggling feeling inside. Kirsty didn’t want her town getting messier. She wanted it to stay exactly as it always had been.

C. Bramwell-Pearson

After completing a Communications Arts Degree, Claire worked on ITV’s successful cartoon series The Telebugs followed by Walt Disney’s groundbreaking Who Framed Roger Rabbit? International work preceded Steven Spielberg’s features, Balto, We’re Back and American Tail II - and Warners Bros Space Jam and Quest for Camelot. 2019 led her to New York’s famous Gotham Writers Workshop and fnally in 2023 to the wonderful Writing for Young People MA at Bath Spa University. Cartoons Can’t Cry? is Claire’s thrilling debut MG adventure story.

Cartoons Can’t Cry?

Who Framed Roger Rabbit meets Percy Jackson. Can elevenyear-old Seb Penarth and Arjun Singh and cartoon characters Princess Rowena and Blodwyn, a Drabbonix (third dragon, third phoenix, third rabbit) stop evil Queen Heretix and her monster army from invading London on the night of her flm’s premier? Can they solve the mystery of UK children falling asleep and fnd his famous parents, the creators of the Queen Heretix movie franchise who disappeared three months ago? Seb’s father has left a recorded message in a prototype Blodwyn toy. He’s been kidnapped. Seb must fnd his notebook and prevent Heretix from crossing from fantasy to the real world...

clairebramwellpearson59@gmail.com

Cartoons Can’t Cry?

Eccentric Auntie Xanthe has asked Seb to help clean his father’s old studio, Coloured Passions, where she has a cleaning contract. Seb has stumbled across a recording inside a prototype toy of Blodwyn (a hybrid dragon-character from the Queen Heretix movies) and learns that his parents have been kidnapped, and he must fnd his father’s missing notebook.

Chapter Five Queen Heretix

Seb stomped down the echoing stairs to the lower foor and pushed open the doors into a corridor with the same Coloured Passions deep blue carpet. There was a thick silence, and a hint of peppermints hung in the air. Along the passage to the left was a row of varnished pine doors, each with a circular window labeled: Rostrum Camera, Stockroom and EditingSuite. Three huge, framed posters of the blockbuster series Queen Heretix and the Snow-White Mystery, Queen Heretix and the Cinderella Curse and Queen Heretix and the Sleeping Beauty Secret hung on the wall opposite.

Gazing at each glossy poster in turn he would never forget their star-studded London Premiers – being unable to sleep for a week, the scratchy new clothes his mum had hurriedly bought (normally the day before) and Hellie frantically wetting his hair to stop it looking like an orange toilet brush before bundling him into his waiting limo.

But now, clutching Xanthe’s eco rubbish bag, it seemed that this magical world had just been a fgment of his imagination.

At the end of the corridor was a pair of double doors leading to the Studio’s Viewing Theatre. Dragging his bag behind him, Seb shoved open the heavy doors. Instantly, cup-shaped wall lights lit up a small cinema. In front of him, he saw ffty plush-red seats divided by a central aisle, illuminated by rows of tiny foor lights. At the far end of the auditorium was a large rectangular screen and in the wall above him hovered the projectionist’s small glass window.

Seb scanned the silent room. Everything looked immaculate, almost as though Xanthe had just given it the Stretch and Shine Platinum Star Treatment.

Great! He smiled. Nothing to do. So he shufed along the back row, kicked his bin bag under a seat in front, and settled down to eat a bag of jelly worms Hellie had sweetly hidden in his suitcase.

As he chewed the last Coca Cola favored worm, Seb heard the Viewing Theatre’s doors creak, then slowly open. An industrial strength scent of peppermints wafted into the room, and long, fnger-like tendrils of lavender mist appeared through the open doors, invading the small cinema. Feeling his heart thump, Seb wriggled down in his seat and stufed the empty bag back into his pocket.

Out of the swirling purple vapour strode a hooded fgure, wearing a cloak which resembled black branches of roaming seaweed.

I’m sure that must be The Director, thought Seb, as the mysterious character raised a hand and clicked long, elegant fngers.

The lights, softened by the clouds of mist, dimmed and Seb heard a mechanical whirring. Craning his neck, he looked behind him and saw in the darkness a stream of light speckled

with foating motes, coming from the projectionist’s window. The Director’s rippling silhouette loomed large on the blazing white screen, like a sea anemone caught in a swell. Suddenly, there was a burst of sound from the ceiling-speakers, and he heard the raucous cacophony of a busy street market. Warm colours exploded onto the movie screen, and Seb saw a narrow alley, flled with donkeys pulling carts, canvas awnings billowing in the breeze and men wearing long fowing robes standing beside heaps of golden spices in brass dishes.

The Director sighed and lisped, ‘She’ss not going to like thiss,’ then glided silently down the carpeted aisle towards the screen, his garments drifting behind him. He stopped in front of the image of the bustling street scene and, putting his pale hand in amongst the strips of rippling material, produced a small implement like a tiny silver torch. With sweeping strokes, he drew a fap on the movie screen, then bent down, and with fnger and thumb carefully picked up the edge of the screen as though it was a piece of fne coloured silk. He held it for a moment, as if in two minds and then slipped efortlessly inside. Instantly, the dark swirling fgure was walking quickly down the cobbled alley, dodging clattering donkey carts while he swatted away fies. Moments later, he had vanished amongst the colourful milling throng.

With his eyes round like buttons, Seb levered himself up. He shook his head and blinked – I don’t believe it. That strange guy has just cut a hole in the screen and walked into the cartoon! I’m going mad!

The scene changed, and Seb saw a vaulted room with a fagstone foor and a magnifcent stone freplace with a coat of arms of a leering, fanged toad suspended above it. At the far end of the chamber was a large latticed window with sumptuous tapestry curtains. And spaced around the room were life-sized oil paintings in gold frames of an evil Queen, afecting dramatic poses in famous fairytale cartoons.

Amongst the artworks paced a familiar woman, dressed in a red leather jacket with a sequined crown on the back. Besides her biker jacket, Queen Heretix wore tight leather trousers, stilettos with diamond buckles, and above her raven black ponytail, she had a crown made entirely of blood red rubies. And nestling nervously on her shoulder was a pimply chameleon with swiveling pinpoint eyes.

A guard in royal livery stood beside the arched oak doors. Slung from his leather belt hung a jeweled sword, and below his embroidered tabard were green-scaled hind legs with cruel claws and a fnned tail that thrashed like a vicious snake.

A knock echoed around the chamber.

The guard looked across at his mistress, who was now standing with her arms folded. She ficked her hand, and the soldier stepped forward and pulled open the heavy studded door. The Director swept into the room. He bowed deeply to the Queen who stood with her manicured hands on her hips.

‘So,’ she said, looking at her visitor and narrowing her eyes. ‘Any more news?’

The Director straightened and sighed, ‘Your Majesty, I’m afraid our suspicionss have been confrmed – Heretix, Queen of Pencilvania iss the fnal cartoon, and our backerss are going to close the Studio after the Premier at The Plushview, Leicester Square, on the 31st of May.’

‘No!’ screamed the Queen, ripping of her crown and throwing it at the freplace, sending hundreds of bloodcoloured jewels skittering across the paved foor. ‘No, no, no! I simply won’t allow it! Not after a career such as mine!’

‘I know that it’ss a dreadful blow,’ said The Director, taking a quick step backwards.

With the chameleon clinging on for dear life, the Queen strode up to a painting where she was dressed in a purple robe in Queen Heretix and the Sleeping Beauty Secret. Throwing her head back, she pointed, ‘One of my greatest roles!’ And

without waiting for an answer, she moved to the next portrait of herself holding a shiny red apple in Queen Heretix and the Snow-White Mystery. Grasping the golden frame, she cried, ‘The producers said that I was “simply unforgettable as the wicked stepmother!” They even created The Queen Heretix Limited Edition Hologram Mirror as merchandise for the movie...No, I shall not be thrown onto the acting scrap heap! No, no, NO!’

‘But what will you do?’ said The Director, studying the furious monarch’s face.

The Queen whirled round and stared at the hooded fgure with her green eyes fashing. ‘Take action!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, make our own movies,’ replied Heretix, balling her fst as though she was going to punch someone and making her chameleon edge up her shoulder.

‘But how?’ said The Director, looking at the Queen, who was biting her lips angrily.

‘I am fed up with being some stupid puppet with no agency or power. Now is the time to ACT!’

‘Oh,’ queried The Director, nervously. ‘What? …Now?’

‘Yes, now,’ said Heretix, raising an eyebrow and tapping her chin thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been thinking about it…At the movie premier, we Drawlings are going to traverse the Fourth Wall and stage an INVASION!’

No –this is impossible! thought Seb. Queen Heretix wants to invade London! Horrifed, he gripped the seat in front, gazing at the two huge, monstrous characters on the screen - not believing what he was hearing.

‘That’ss a bit drastic,’ continued The Director, watching the Queen pacing backwards and forwards, her stilettos clicking on the ancient stone.

‘Not at all,’ replied Heretix imperiously. ‘I guessed that this may be my last role when you said that audience fgures

had literally - fallen of a clif!’

‘I’m sorry,’ said The Director, shaking his head sadly. ‘It’s all about money nowadayss.’

‘I don’t care,’ said the Queen, gazing at a particularly beautiful portrait of herself wearing a fur-edged gown as The Snow Queen. ‘I refuse to be treated this way…I have spoken to my Royal Sorcerer Rhydian – and with his help, after the invasion, I intend to set up a new government where we Drawlings will be in power…and those popcorn eating Squareyes will be our slaves!’

‘I see,’ said The Director, his interest piqued. ‘So where exactly will be your new government?’

‘In Bramleys Toy Shop on Oxford Street. It has fve foors, and the location is perfect.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed The Director, holding up a slender fnger and looking pleased. ‘There is only one slight problem. We need an enormous amount of Purus Sanguis in order for your army to traverse the Fourth Wall.’ Then putting a hand in his undulating robes, he took out his silver torch, which was the size of a thin tube of dynamite. ‘Even my Ajar is running out of juice. I suspect that I may only be able to come to Pencilvania one more time before I need a refll.’

‘Leave it with me,’ said the Queen cryptically. ‘I’ll sort something out.’ Then nodding to her reptilian guard, who saluted and opened the door, she stalked out of the chamber, curling the chameleon’s tail around her fnger.

The Director stood in the center of the room, regarding the imposing paintings of the Queen. Each one adjusted their position slightly and returned his gaze with obvious disdain. It was as he was leaving the room that Seb noticed one of the heavy curtains twitch, and Princess Rowena’s small crowned head with her long blond plait peep round it.

Chapter Six

The Signal Box

Xanthe’s railway signal box had a rickety wooden staircase and was supported by four ten-foot stilts. When the Darlingcott Council slapped a demolition order on it, announcing that it was unsafe, Xanthe had rushed down the garden and tied herself with her old skipping rope to one of its columns. Furious at the possibility of losing her unconventional greenhouse, she had conducted interviews with BBC Local News, Heritage Experts and Darlingcott’s local MP, dressed in her neon green Stretch and Shine boiler suit. Needless to say, Seb’s iron-willed auntie had emerged victorious, and the Victorian signal box was not only saved but the Council had to renovate it too.

Having large windows on three sides to observe approaching trains, the light was perfect for Xanthe’s Aphrodite Spider Scrunchers. Xanthe was cultivating these insect-eating plants, which were over-sized relatives of Venus Flytraps, to sell them as Stretch and Shine household aids for removing annoying pests.

However, despite the forest of nipping Scrunchers in tomato grow-bags, Seb used the obsolete signal box as his own private ofce where he and his best friend Arjun could conduct meetings – without too many human interruptions.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Arjun, skillfully dodging the jaws of a snapping Scruncher. ‘So, you saw this sinister guy, The Director, walk into the movie. He then goes and talks with Queen Heretix who has decided to invade the whole world!’

‘Not the whole world,’ corrected Seb, kicking the Scruncher which was now trying to nibble his hair. ‘Just London…at the flm’s premier.’

‘Well, I still don’t believe it,’ replied Arjun, weaving quickly between two rows of drooling Spider Scrunchers and hopping onto a windowsill for safety. ‘You’re mad! They’re

all just drawings - made of paper. It’s just impossible! And anyway, how are they going to get through the screen?’

‘No idea,’ said Seb, dangling a dead fy he’d found in front of a plant. ‘Heretix mentioned something about Purus Sanguis. Whatever that is.’

Suddenly, Seb felt the signal box tremble, and seconds later the 10.52 from Bath Spa rumbled along the tracks on its way to Paddington Station.

Immediately, all the Scrunchers turned towards the window as six railway carriages clanked past the end of Xanthe’s narrow garden.

‘So what about your dad’s notebook?’ said Arjun, raising his voice above the noise. ‘Did you fnd any clues in the studio?’

‘Nothing,’ Seb shouted over the heads of the plants. ‘But I’m sure The Director lied to the police. It’s all connected…But I just don’t know how.’

After removing his trainer’s laces from a baby Scruncher, Seb joined Arjun at the window.

He hesitated for a moment as he watched the intercity train shrink into the distance.

‘I know that it’s Bank Holiday Monday, but I wondered whether you’d like to come to the Coloured Passions Studio? I’m giving Xanthe and Crystal a hand, and we’re having orange chocolate cake at Sugared Heaven afterwards…’ Then Seb paused, ‘And actually – it’s also my birthday.’

‘Your birthday! Try and stop me!’ cried Arjun and gave Seb a hug. ‘I was invited to Jasmin Kumar’s Hollywood versus Bollywood bash. But your Cleaning Party sounds much more exciting…and I don’t have to put on any greasy foundation or wear any of mum’s smelly hair spray!’

Arjun stopped suddenly and looked at his friend. ‘Have you told Xanthe and Crystal?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean about The Director and Heretix and all that stuf?’

‘Are you mad?’ cried Seb, giving his friend a shove. ‘Just imagine Xanthe being interviewed by some reporter on Suburbling TV News…And my darling Sebbie saw a man in a foating cloak walk through a movie screen and discuss an invasion with Queen Heretix. You know…the famous one who is in all those cartoons…blah, blah, blah!’

‘Mmmm,’ giggled Arjun. ‘Maybe that wasn’t such a brilliant idea!’

‘Arj, I’ve got to stop her,’ said Seb, idly ficking a spider at the nearest Scruncher. ‘…But I’m not sure how.’

There was a shout from below.

‘Sebbieeee, Arjunnnn…can you give the Scrunchers this bag of maggots I got from Cleever’s the Butchers and then come down for some tea?’

As Seb fought his way towards the door he said, ‘Oh yes, and I forgot to tell you, Arj. I think I saw Princess Rowena hiding behind a curtain in Heretix’s Castle…’

Steven Chatterton

Steven Chatterton grew up working class in the Black Country. Imagination helped him navigate life on his council estate, an experience he draws on for his debut novel. It also informs his commitment to mentoring disadvantaged kids via creative workshops in London. A multi-award-winning flmmaker, he adapted his latest flm into an internationally published children’s picture book, which was recently selected for the Edinburgh Book Festival. His screenplays have been chosen for European development programmes and ranked highly on US competition shortlists. Graduated with distinction. He’s utterly bonkers about dogs.

Night Inside Me

A Monster Calls meets Skellig. Magical Social Realism. MG+. Twelve-year-old Sam Sway has a big imagination. Too big, for his disapproving dad. Why can’t he be more like Ethan, his tough older brother? Sam has always lived in his shadow. But now Dad’s gone away, and the brothers are relocated to the ominous Tanhouse council estate with Mum. That’s when an actual shadow latches onto Ethan’s back and leads him down a dark path. Guided by Feathers, a liminal being from the Unseen World, Sam must harness all his creativity to forge his own path into manhood. But can he overcome his own demons in time to save Ethan? chattertonsd@gmail.com

Night Inside Me

Chapter One

Ethan’s in the front passenger seat. Headphones on, face fxed forward. Mum’s driving. I’m in the back. I’m always in the back. It used to be Dad driving, Mum in the front passenger, then Ethan and me in the back. But now Dad’s gone away, all our positions have changed. Except mine.

As summer rain pitter-patters the window, I dig around in my bag of Haribo, searching for a fried egg. They’re my fave. But I need to be quiet. Even with his headphones on, Ethan might hear, then he’ll want one. And I don’t feel like sharing. Got one.

Ethan turns, pulling his headphones of one ear. ‘Giz one then, Sam.’

I slide the egg back in and catch a cola bottle, pulling it out like a rare coin and hand it forward. Ethan looks at it like I just picked my nose and ofered him a bogie. ‘I don’t want a cola bottle, Sam. I want an egg.’

‘There’s none left,’ I fb. ‘I ate them all.’

He throws me one of his glares. Ethan’s glares are usually fun glares, like he’s just playin’, but this glare is a glare-glare. He ain’t messin’. Or if he is, he’s upped his straight-face game.

‘Gimme the bag, Sam,’ he says, softly, like he’s wrapping a brotherly arm around me. Like he’s telling me everything is OK. But everything isn’t OK, and not only because he’s about to a) fnd out I just lied to him, and b) eat my last egg.

I can’t say no. Not to Ethan. I can do nothing though, which is what I do. Like I’m frozen in time and space and this stinky fippin’ car. Ethan doesn’t mind, he knows he’ll win

eventually. So he just keeps glaring. A glare that says we both know how this ends. I try to hold it, but his glare is right.

‘Sam,’ Mum slices through the silence, ‘share your sweets.’ So I pass him the bag.

Ethan plucks out the one remaining egg, my egg, and holds it up, admiring it. ‘Well, look at that, there was one left after all.’

‘Let’s have one then, Ethan,’ Mum says, as we sit at trafc lights, with the indicator tick-tick-tickin’. But Ethan ignores her, hands me the bag, winks, and pulls his headphones back on.

I fsh out a foam crocodile and pass it to Mum because I know they’re her fave.

‘Thanks, Love,’ she says, in a forced cheery way, as if Ethan blanking her doesn’t hurt. But it does. I know it does. I press my cheek against the window, watching unfamiliar streets pass by.

New shops.

New houses.

A new start.

That’s what Mum called it, after Dad went to prison. She said Lockner Estate wasn’t a good place for us anymore. Too many of Dad’s bad mates and their bad kids being a bad infuence. She didn’t want us going down the same path.

Life was easy on Lockner. No one messed with Dad and no one messed with Ethan, which meant no one messed with me. It’s handy having a tough older brother. I don’t think Mum had a single friend there, though. It was Dad’s world.

I couldn’t tell her I was sad to leave. Men aren’t supposed to show soft emotions. That’s what Dad always says. Man up. Lock it away inside. But now he’s locked away inside. Ethan kicked of about leaving Lockner, ranting and raging about it not being fair. I just kept my mouth shut and went with it. Like the wheels on this car, rollin’ along.

As we pull up, Mum scrapes the kerb with the hubcap, and Ethan sucks his teeth in disapproval.

‘Need to work on my parking,’ says Mum, trying to make light of a bad situation.

I look up at our new home. Tanhouse Tower looms over us, the same colour as the dirty dishcloth clouds swirling above it. Like some shadowy Disney castle, with an evil lord ruling inside. But this ain’t no fairy tale. This is real life.

I count twenty-one foors, each with multiple windows, all glaring down at me like dead, soulless eyes. Mum said it’s the best she could get on the council. Apparently there’s a housing crisis.

‘Looks nice,’ I say because I know I should. To keep the peace. To make this work. I’ll do anything to keep what’s left of my family together.

‘New things always seem difcult in the beginning,’ says Mum. ‘But together, we can make it work. They say there’s a lovely community here, and they’re opening a youth club, so there’ll be loads of fun activities for you both.’ She throws me a weak smile, so I throw her one back, but no one is convincing anyone here. ‘C’mon,’ she says, and nudges Ethan, who grunts.

We get out of the car. I’m at least glad to get away from the stale stench of Dad’s ciggies.

The three of us stare up as Tanhouse stares down. In my mind, it opens its massive mouth and gobbles us up. But that’s just my mind. There’s a reason Dad calls me Space Sam. Because my imagination is too much for him.

‘Ethan, please try,’ says Mum, and Ethan slides his headphones around his neck. ‘Our boxes have been delivered, so we can start unpacking. Start making it home.’

Ethan chuckles, but it’s not a ha-ha chuckle. It’s a nothingMum-can-do-is-ever-right chuckle. It’s a Dad chuckle.

He’s not usually like this. Ethan’s ace. My brilliant big

brother who’s always got my back. He’s only two years older than me, but the distance between twelve and fourteen makes it feel more. He’s practically a man now. But with everything that’s happened, he’s gone right in on himself. Proper moody.

Tanhouse’s roots are all tarmac, except for a kiddies’ play park tucked away in its shade, with swings, slides and a climbing frame that looks more like the buckled skeleton of some giant insect. Leaning against it is a group of kids with their hoods up, gawping at us and muttering. Above them, a gang of crows line the top of the frame, silently staring, waiting to attack and pluck our bones clean.

Warm drizzle spatters my cheeks. ‘Let’s get inside,’ says Mum, and I follow, scuttling like a good doggy, with Ethan shufing behind. The entrance is covered by a massive concrete canopy supported with thick pillar legs, like giant teeth biting into the tarmac.

Mum pulls out a key fob, presses it against a panel and the door clicks open. ‘You’ve got your own keys too, so you can come and go as you please. You’re not prisoners.’ She realises what she’s said, and her keys clatter to the foor. ‘I’m sorry.’

Ethan looks at her like she’s less than nothing. She seems stunned, not knowing how to make what she just said better. The door times out and clicks shut again. Ethan sighs as I scoop up the keys, handing them to Mum. She presses the fob to the panel again, and it clicks open, again.

We push through the main door into a dingy stairwell with grafti-covered walls. Not the cool, artsy kind you see around train tunnels, just naf Sharpie scribblings:

HARRIS IS A LOSER

TANHOUSE CREW

THIS

IS VEAL’S HOUSE

‘Let’s take the lift.’ Mum presses the button to call it. A rumbling begins high above, getting closer and closer, like

impending doom. Something pings and the chrome doors slow-swoosh open. We fle in, the mood more like we’re going to a funeral than a new start.

Chapter Two

Our new start is on the fourteenth foor, at the end of a long corridor that smells of bleach. Mum leads the way. ‘The council redecorated, so it’ll be all shiny and new for you.’ She forces a smile that splits my heart.

As her key twists in the lock, the door creaks, like a tomb cracked open after a thousand years. ‘Ta-da,’ she says as a waft of fresh paint hits my nose. We step inside a whitewalled hallway and Mum pushes a door to her right. ‘This is the kitchen, where the magic happens, the lounge is through there, and the bedrooms down the hall. Ethan, I’ve given you the biggest. Sam, yours is…cosy, but the smallest.’ Figures.

‘The removal men have put your boxes in your rooms,’ she says.

‘When are we visiting Dad?’ says Ethan, completely outta nowhere.

Mum forces another smile. ‘We only just got here, Ethan. Give it a minute.’

The rottweiler in the room here is Mum has also fled for divorce. Said it was best for us. Ethan has barely spoken to Mum since.

Ethan trudges down the hallway as Mum rufes my hair. ‘Why don’t you check your room out while I unpack the kitchen? Then I can make us some grub. Sound good?’

‘Sounds good,’ I say, which isn’t the same as is good, but I don’t wanna add to Mum’s stress.

I plod to my door, knowing I have to be happy with whatever lies inside, even if I’m not. Daylight streams around the edge like some enchanted chamber. I push it open and walk in.

One bed: new.

One wardrobe: old.

One desk: mine.

There’s a big bright window over the bed with Pokémon curtains. Mum came here last week to get it ready, and she’ll have worked hard so we’ll like it, but she’s missed the mark with Pokémon. Maybe two years ago, but she tried, I guess.

I breathe in the fresh paint fumes, then jump onto my bed to look out the window. From up here you can see for miles. I search for our old house, old school, old park, but it’s a massive maze of miniature mystery.

I packed three boxes. One with my clothes, one with notebooks full of my rubbish stories, and one crammed with old toys. But there’s another, with ETHAN written on it. My hands hover over the faps. They’re not taped, just folded in. I could open it. He’d kill me but he doesn’t have to know.

Quiet as a cat, I peel the faps open. I’m half expecting it to be brimming with Ethan’s amazing artwork, but inside are just more boxes full of wanna-be-a-man toiletries. There’s one that’s diferent though. Wooden. And old. And knackered. With childish felt-tip handwriting: JACK SWAY – DO NOT OPEN. Dad’s.

I rest it on my bed, slide open a metal catch and lift the lid. Inside, there are loads of old toy knights and marbles which must have been Dad’s when he was a kid. But what’s Ethan doing with them?

I pick up one of the knights. It’s metal, not plastic like modern toys. A dirty silver knight with a dirty white shield raising a bent sword. I hold it like I’ve unearthed some ancient treasure. It’s mad to think of Dad ever playing with these.

My bedroom door bangs open. ‘Have you got one of my boxes?’ says Ethan. Then he sees it’s already open. ‘Yo! Who said you could go through my stuf?’

Panic explodes in my brain. Busted! ‘Sorry! I didn’t see your name so I opened it and…why have you got Dad’s toys?’

He takes a deep breath, like he just swallowed the anger he was about to vom all over me. Closing the door, he sits on the edge of my bed next to Dad’s box and picks up another knight, holding it like solid gold. ‘When Mum packed Dad’s stuf for storage, I sneaked this box out. I didn’t even get chance to look inside, just wanted to keep a piece of him, y’know?’

For a second he lets his mask slip, and I see the sadness behind.

‘Look,’ he says, tipping the knights and marbles out. ‘There’s loads of them.’ One by one, he lines the knights up, his sadness disappearing as kid-Ethan bubbles through.

‘Let’s set them up for a battle,’ I say, excited to hang with Ethan.

But he stops, like I said the wrong thing, and puts the knight down. ‘Y’know, now Dad’s gone, you’ve gotta toughen up. You’re not a little kid anymore. I can’t always be there for you. I gotta survive too, innit.’

My soul gulps. I don’t have any words. It’s easy for Ethan to say toughen up, but I’m not like him or Dad. I know what they want me to be, but I’m just not it. This is hands-down the last thing I wanna hear from Ethan right now.

‘Like Dad said, we gotta man up,’ he says.

My outside head nods a feeble nod. My inside head blares what does man up even mean?

‘Eurgh, mingin!’ He holds his fnger up. It has a tiny globule of what looks like oily-grey snot on it.

‘What the hell is that?’ I ask.

‘I dunno, maybe something crawled in the box and died. Can’t imagine it’s been opened for years. I’m gonna wash my

hands. Put everything back in my room, yeah?’

‘Yeah, I will.’

‘And don’t tell Mum.’

He goes to the bathroom, and the tap sputters on.

I peer at the oily gunk in the corner of the box. Was that really a living thing once? I don’t wanna touch it. But I do wanna stare at it. And I swear down it’s staring back at me. It twists, stretching upwards, as if trying to get a look at me. But I know that’s daft. Space Sam daft.

I put the knights and marbles back in the box, avoiding the gunk. All except the dude with the bent sword. I slide him under my pillow. I don’t know why. It’s not like I miss Dad, at least not how Ethan does, and it feels weird to have his old toys in my new room, but there’s something about this one. I lie on my new bed. The fragrance of fabric-softened fresh sheets flling my nose. I think about my old mates…it’s weird to call them that, but that’s what they are now, I guess. Nailer, Demari, Cole, I doubt I’ll ever see them again. When we were little, we’d all hang at Nailer’s playing Minecraft, Mario or FIFA, and his mum would make thick cheese sarnies dolloped with Branston Pickle. Mum says I’ll make new mates when I start school next month, but I dunno.

I hold the knight up as afternoon sunlight slips through the clouds. I close my eyes and imagine the glory of being a knight in shining armour. I’m leading a battle, cavalry to my left, archers to my right, castle behind me. Storm clouds gather. Crows swoop and caw, sensing war. The king has been captured, and now they’re coming for the rest of us. Then, over the hill, I see them. An army of shadow nights approaching. Sam, I want to speak with you.

My eyes fick open. That voice. It was in my room, not my head. But my room is empty.

Mark Clutterbuck

Mark Clutterbuck is an education adviser and ex-headteacher, who is passionate about promoting literacy to young people. He founded and is chairperson of the Spark! Book Awards, which currently has over 170 participating schools. Mark has previously worked as a human rights ofcial, where he organised dance, music and poetry fundraising events. He is a history lover and discovered the shocking true story of Carl Bartels and the Liver Birds on a trip to Liverpool. An enthusiastic football fan, Mark lives in Kingston upon Thames with his family.

Two Golden Birds

A dual narrative upper MG adventure based on the true story of Carl Bartels, the designer of Liverpool’s iconic Liver Birds. Life in 1915 London is tough for Bernie Bartels and his German family. When the sinking of the Lusitania unleashes an onslaught of antiGerman anger and takes away the father he loves, Bernie decides to make a stand. Meanwhile on the Isle of Man, Stan’s rescue of the Lusitania’s survivors leaves him with a passionate hatred of all things German. As the two boys’ lives become entwined in ways they never could have imagined, both learn hard lessons about prejudice, truth and standing up for what is right.

mclutt2@gmail.com

Two Golden Birds

The Fishing Net

This story, the one you are about to read, weaves across land and sea. It criss-crosses from place to place, from peace to war and makes a net of memories, truths and a few lies. It is a net that stretches from New York to Liverpool, from Stuttgart to London, from Haringey to the Isle of Man.

Caught in its mesh, you will fnd Bernie, a schoolboy poet, and Olive, a girl of many voices as well as soldiers, prisoners, artists, and two golden birds. You will meet winners and losers, liars and truth seekers, the ignorant and the wise.

You may also discover, if you look closely enough, hope and love and courage.

But frst, we begin with a fourteen-year-old fsherman,

far out

in the middle of the Irish Sea.

Chapter One Stanley Ball

The 7th of May 1915, was a day that would haunt Stanley Ball for the rest of his life.

Although he rarely liked to talk about it, many years later Stan would still remember the precise time when he realised the horror unfolding in front of him – almost exactly two o’clock in the afternoon.

Stan was three days out of port, with the prospect of three more before he could be home. The most junior member of The Wanderer ’s crew, he was supposed to be on lookout duty. Today might be calm, but here on deck, he still felt exposed. The smack and hiss of the sea against the boat mufed his hearing, and the salt spray stung his eyes, while he scanned the waves. At least his nausea had passed, but even on a calm day like this, damp seeped

through every inch of his clothing and chilled his blood. He could barely believe he was still three whole days from a warm, dry bed.

‘Focus, lad. Stop daydreaming!’ A familiar voice broke into his thoughts.

Stan sighed. If he was not being told of for failing to do one thing properly, he was being shouted at for not doing something else. Being a crew member on his own father’s boat was a challenge, and at fourteen, he had already learned that William Ball would be hardest on him. Perhaps, Stan wondered, it was because his father could see how little his son wanted to follow in his footsteps.

Stan tried to look more alert, but his mind continued to wander. Some people loved the sea, and others loved the mountains. Stan was a mountain person. He had spent all his life on the island where he was born, and he would choose the ragged, unpolished glory of the Manx landscape over the ocean every time. He loved those winding paths, the view from the summit of Grebe, the little streams in spring that pointed the way to the top of North Barrule, and the way the snow in winter drew its patterns across Beinny-Phott.

He liked the frmness of land. His home. The Isle of Man. Manx.

A sudden surge caught him by surprise, and his numb hands grabbed out at the headsail to stop himself falling. However many times he was at sea, he always found it to be a dangerous, foreign place. “A fckle mistress”, his father had once called it. In a matter of moments, glassy calm waters could turn into a vicious, many-clawed monster that would send a boat lurching, crashing and falling. Suddenly you were holding on for your very life.

But the sea was no longer the only danger out here. England was at war, and while fshing vessels were supposed

to be safe, there was no betting that a German U-boat wouldn’t use them for target practice or mistake them for an enemy ship. It had happened before.

‘Get used to it, son,’ his father had told him. ‘War or peace, catches have to be landed. You can’t hide away on land. You have to just get on with it. This is our livelihood. It puts food in your mouth and shoes on your feet.’

War was creeping into every part of life. Some of the older boys from Peel had already left the island to join up to fght. Other soldiers had arrived, building a camp that had already begun to hold German prisoners – soldiers, spies and traitors. There was fury among the islanders that their peaceful haven should be taken over in this way, with a bunch of bloodthirsty Krauts on their doorstep. Even if they were kept behind wire.

At half past one, Stan frst spotted the passenger liner on the line of the horizon. He announced it to the crew and, if he hoped for any praise from his father for his eagle eyes, he was disappointed. William Ball barely grunted an acknowledgement.

Probably a mile away, the ship looked tiny, but he knew it would be huge – he could tell from the four funnels. He’d heard that a boat like that could hold over two thousand people. Imagine. And proper luxury, three meals a day, actual beds and ladies sipping champagne at the bar in their fnest clothes. Life at sea would not be so bad on something like that.

Stan looked back to the cabin behind him where Nick, The Wanderer’s helmsman, had one hand on the wheel, checking the boat’s course to make sure they stayed well clear. That liner would make way for no one. Their little boat would be the loser in any collision.

Nick looked relaxed. They were a long way of. There was nothing to worry about.

There was no warning.

And, at frst, no sign.

Stan didn’t see the torpedo that struck the four-funnelled Lusitania as it made its way from New York to its Liverpool home.

He didn’t see the hole beneath the water line.

Over the creaking of The Wanderer’s timbers and the constant lapping waves, Stan didn’t even hear the second explosion that followed.

Or the screams of the passengers as they called out for loved ones, or scrambled desperately into lifeboats that would not release.

And he didn’t smell the acrid stench of burning.

At least not yet.

But at two o’clock, just before he was due to take his turn in the galley for food, he noticed that something was wrong. Its bows were too low in the water, ghost trails of smoke were beginning to rise and…

‘It’s sinking!’ he yelled, ‘The liner, it’s sinking!’ and all seven crewmen of The Wanderer turned to where he was staring, in disbelief, at frst, and then in horror.

It was happening so quickly. There were three funnels now.

Steadying himself, Stan turned briefy to his father, hoping that what he was seeing was not true, but William Ball was more still than Stan had ever seen him, transfxed by what was unfolding.

Two funnels.

The ocean, the people around him and even The Wanderer itself ceased to exist.

One funnel. A heartbeat.

Then nothing at all.

Silence.

It took a minute before anyone spoke.

And Stan was surprised that it was his own voice that he heard frst. ‘We have to go for her. Dad, we have to go for her!’ he called urgently.

William Ball seemed to wake from a nightmarish dream. ‘Yes, go for her!’ he repeated, almost mechanically.

Nick appeared to hesitate and Stan found himself yelling once again, ‘Be British, Nick. We have to go for her. People need our help.’ And for once, he saw a ficker of approval on his father’s face, as the skipper became himself once more and ordered The Wanderer forward. In a furry of movement, nets were drawn in and sails raised to catch the full wind.

Twenty agonising minutes later, Stan’s eyes were still darting across the salty wilderness looking for any survivors. And, he admitted to himself, any sign of a German submarine. Even though they were doing the right thing, he could not ignore the thought that somewhere beneath them, right now, a U-boat was lurking.

Death was only a torpedo away.

Stan hardly noticed the air stinging his eyes or the cold gripping his fngers, but there was a tightness in his throat as he searched the waves.

His eyes ficked from one white-foamed crest to the next. Nothing.

Another minute. Nothing. A minute more.

And then a speck.

Hope rose in his chest and within another second, he was pointing and shouting.

First one lifeboat then another. He was fushed with happiness, until he saw them more clearly. Two lonely lifeboats tossing helplessly on the waves. He choked back a sob.

Inside the crowded boats, cold and bedraggled, women and children huddled together, whimpering with relief and terror.

Who am I?

I am Bernie Bartels I am English I am German I am neither Both.

Last year

When countries rulers Decided that war was better than peace Killing better than talking I became someone else a Kraut

The Hun

Now, I am the stuck in the middle boy a no man’s land boy Not quite an enemy

No longer a friend

Stuck in the middle.

Chapter Two Land of Hope and Glory

Bernie Bartels and his mother were sitting quietly in the parlour when his sister, Maggie, arrived downstairs. She

appeared ready for bed in her blue nightshirt and bare feet.

Bernie closed his journal quickly. He was happy to show Maggie the drawings and cartoons that he sketched in the large, leather covered notebook his parents had given him, in fact sometimes he made the pictures just for her, but poetry was diferent. Poetry was too private for her or anyone else to see. It was clear, though, that the six-year-old had something diferent on her mind. She was standing awkwardly, half in and half out of the room, her hands tightly clasping Liesel, her favourite doll, the one their father had carved for her. She was staring at their mother, waiting while one foot traced tiny circles on the wooden foor.

‘Are you alright, Maggie?’ Bernie asked, less out of concern, and more to get the attention of Matilde Bartels, who sat facing the last of the fre, her back to them, and seemingly lost in her needlework.

Their mother turned and Maggie stepped forward. ‘Mum, am I German?’ she asked.

Bernie wondered how his mother would reply. He watched as she carefully stuck the needle into the patterned fabric for safety, laid it aside, and patted her lap for Maggie to come over.

‘What are you worrying about, little one?’

‘Sophie says all Germans are evil, and right now they are killing good English people and they’re murdering them, but you’re German, and you don’t kill people. And Vati doesn’t do those things. And if you are German, then Bernie and I must be German, and I don’t want to be!’ Maggie’s snifs turned into sobs and her mother pulled her closer.

Bernie felt a surge of anger rising. ‘Sophie’s an idiot,’ he said.

But his mum hushed him with a cross look. ‘You are eleven years old, Bernard, you should know better than to say such a thing. Sophie’s just a little girl, like Maggie. It is hard for her, her father is away in France.’ She paused and turned back to

Maggie. Her voice was softer now. ‘Listen, Liebling, you were born in England, so you can be English but we’re a German family so you can be German too but, more important, you are Maggie Bartels, our lovely daughter.’

Bernie watched his sister climb into their mother’s lap.

‘Your father and I have been here for over twenty years, longer than we lived anywhere. England is our home now. But, Maggie, you don’t have to be one thing or another.’

His mother stroked Maggie’s blond hair as the little girl snifed and held on to her tightly and Bernie nearly went over to join them. He knew very well what Maggie was feeling. He doubted if he would manage to get to school tomorrow morning without hearing the words ‘Bloody Bernie Boche’ yelled out at him. Or worse.

From down the hall, he heard his father emerge from his workshop on the side of their house. The smell of oil and wood shavings preceded him. Carl Bartels entered the room. He was a tidy man, smart in his shirt and waistcoat beneath the work overalls he wore.

‘Work done for tonight,’ he smiled and then looking at Maggie, frowned, ‘What is wrong, little one?’

‘Sophie’s being mean to Maggie,’ Bernie explained before his mother hushed him with another look. Carl Bartels ran his fngers through what remained of his brown hair and sighed. He put his arms out and Maggie jumped down from their mother’s lap and ran over to him.

‘It’s bedtime,’ he said. ‘Come on, tell me what story you would like tonight.’

Bernie knew what she would say before she even spoke.

‘One about the birds you made,’ she said. ‘The golden ones that guard Liverpool. The ones that keep it safe.’

Carl smiled. ‘You know already, Liebling,’ he said. ‘They sit high over the city, up on the Liver Building. One looks out over the river, the other looks back on the city. The boy is

called Bertie, nearly the same name as your brother. The girl is called Bessie.’

‘And you made them, didn’t you, Vati?’

Maggie’s arm curled tightly round his neck, and her face pressed close to his. They reached the door. Bernie watched and his father turned, as he knew he would. ‘Too big for a story, Große?’ he asked. Bernie hesitated. He had heard these stories a hundred times before. His father had designed the Liver birds when Bernie was still very young. Four years ago they had been cast in metal and set on top of the tallest building in Europe. It was, he knew, his father’s proudest achievement and now in Vati’s stories, the birds few of on diferent adventures before always returning to guard the city.

‘Come on, Bernie!’ Maggie called as the door closed. He might be too old for such tales but as he watched the door close and heard their voices on the stairs, he put aside his journal and got up to join them.

The next morning, Bernie was out the door and on his way to school before Mum could call him back to take Maggie with him. He walked purposefully.

Right to the end of Duckett Road. Turn left. On to Green Lanes. Past the bakers where a queue was beginning to form. Head down, past the butcher who had shouted at him last week.

Across the road, past the newsstand on the corner.

Savage German Torpedo Destroys Lusitania

Women and Children Murdered!

The newspaper headline hit him like a punch.

Eimear Conboye

Eimear spent most of her childhood reading books and dreaming up stories. After earning her BA in English and Philosophy, she worked as a bookseller for several years. She loves writing about elements of Irish history and holds a certifcate in Irish Cultural and Heritage Studies. She also has a slight obsession with bees. Eimear’s favourite place in the world is West Cork where she enjoyed many childhood holidays at her grandparents’ home by the sea. Here the rugged landscape fed her imagination (and still does), always inspiring new stories.

The Ghost in the Oak Tree

An upper MG supernatural adventure about twelve-year-old Eva who has moved to Ballyback, a village in West Cork known for its connection with bees and environmental awareness. Eva is grieving the loss of her gran and believes it’s too late to help the environment. When a ghost who can’t remember his past enters her life, Eva decides to help him. But the more the ghost remembers, the weaker Eva gets. Is there a link between the two? And what are the bees trying to tell them? Will Eva be able to fgure out the messages, help the ghost and fnd the strength to save herself before time runs out?

eimearconboye@gmail.com

The Ghost in the Oak Tree

Chapter One

‘Eva Catherine Hayes! Where are the car keys?’ Dad’s voice booms from the downstairs hallway. I picture him rubbing the bald patch on top of his head. It’s something he does when he’s fustered.

‘Dunno, Dad. Where did you last see them?’ I call back, innocently. I’ve always been good at lying. Gran used to say it was because I have a great imagination from all the books I read. The problem is, Dad knows I’m good at it.

‘On the kitchen counter where I put them fve minutes ago,’ Dad answers. ‘Don’t play games, Eves. I know you took them.’

‘No, I didn’t. Search me if you don’t believe me. We’ll have to phone Mum and tell her we can’t leave here.’

I count to ten and right on cue I hear Dad’s footsteps on the stairs. In seconds he’s standing in the doorway of the now empty room that, until today, was my bedroom. I look up from where I’m reading, cross-legged on the foor. ‘Did you fnd them?’ I ask, trying not to smile as his jaw clenches. He’s counting to ten again in his head like he tells me to do when I get mad.

‘Come on, Eva. It’s too hot for messing around. We have to go. Give me the keys.’

‘I. Don’t. Have. Them.’ I look him in the eyes as I say each word.

He inhales noisily. ‘This house isn’t ours anymore.’ He walks into the room. ‘It’s been sold. You know that.’

‘We’ll just have to un-sell it then because without the car

keys we can’t go anywhere.’ I know I’m being stupid, but I almost allow myself to believe it.

Dad snorts. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Eves.’ He sits down beside me. ‘We’re moving for a good reason. We’ll be able to live sustainably in the countryside. And everyone in Ballyback is devoted to helping the environment.’

‘Well they should change the name to Ballybackwards then because it’s way too late to help the environment. It’s a lost cause,’ I say, wiping sweat from my forehead. ‘This heatwave is proof.’

‘It’s not a lost cause,’ Dad says quietly, putting his arm around my shoulders. I shake it of and stand up.

‘I’m NOT going, Dad.’ And as long as he can’t fnd the keys, he can’t make me. I walk to the window and press my hands against the edges of the sill. Cars fash past along the main road in front of our house. The sun’s brightness makes me squint, its heat causing the skin on my arms to prickle. I glance downwards to where the keys are jammed between the wall and the radiator. If I could just keep them hidden from Dad for the rest of the day then…then…what? I know it’s a last ditch attempt to prevent something that’s going to happen anyway. Mum’s already at the new house with all of our stuf, getting things in order. The only reason me and Dad aren’t there is because we had to wait for school to fnish up for summer. But if I managed to delay us leaving for just one day, that would at least be a small victory. And maybe, just maybe, if Mum and Dad see how difcult I’m going to make things for them, they might decide to take into account what I want for once.

The foorboards creak. Dad appears beside me. I swallow and look up at him. Has he seen the keys?

Not yet. He’s looking out at the passing cars. I need to get him away from here.

‘Maybe you should look downstairs again, Dad. The keys

might have fallen under the counter.’ I turn, heading towards the door. ‘Come on, I’ll help.’

He stays put.

‘Dad?’

He turns around and leans against the windowsill, crossing his arms. His eyes land in turn on each of the three things in the room: my book, thrown open on the page I was just reading, the yoga mat I’ve spent the last three nights sleeping on and my stufed backpack. Please search the backpack.

I wait but Dad doesn’t move. He looks at me and lifts his foot to rest it against the radiator.

I hold my breath.

Are the keys secure enough?

‘Do you remember, about fve years ago, when Gran went to visit her friend in France?’ he asks.

I bite down on my thumb. How dare he mention Gran! ‘No.’

‘Well.’ Dad rubs his stubbly jaw. ‘You didn’t want her to go. So, you took her purse and hid it.’

A faint memory fickers on the fringe of my mind.

‘We searched everywhere. Gran nearly missed her fight. But we eventually found it. Do you know where?’

I shake my head as my stomach sinks.

Dad lifts his foot and brings it down with a clang against the radiator.

Nothing happens. I stife a sigh of relief.

Dad puts his foot on the ground and lifts the other one. He pauses, watching me closely.

I hold his gaze.

Down goes his foot with a resounding thud. The keys clatter to the foor.

Chapter Two

I keep my earbuds in throughout the journey, ignoring Dad whenever he says anything. A scream sits at the back of my throat itching to burst free. Each second takes me farther and farther away from home, my real home, because this new place is never going to feel like home. It’s not where we lived with Gran. But Mum and Dad don’t care about that. Just like they stopped caring about Gran in the end when they put her into the home. She would have gotten better if she’d stayed with us, in her own house. Her memory would defnitely have come back.

Once we’re out of the city it’s all narrow, twisty country roads for about an hour and a half until we come to a sign saying ‘Welcome to Ballyback’. It’s written in large looping letters across a yellow, honeycomb background with dozens of tiny painted bees. When I frst heard the name of the village we were moving to, I asked if it was because it was at the back end of nowhere. But Dad told me it’s an Anglicisation of the Irish name ‘Baile na mBeacha’ which means ‘Town of the Bees’ and nearly everyone there keeps bees. I made a reasonable argument against moving to a place where we were likely to get stung all day long, but Mum and Dad said that bees only sting when they feel threatened. As long as I don’t annoy them, they won’t annoy me. I said I was very likely to annoy them by accident, but Mum and Dad wouldn’t listen.

We drive past a row of terraced houses, all with small, overgrown gardens and window boxes. There’s a playground with a huge wooden beehive plonked in the middle. It looks a bit like an upside down basket and reminds me of the pictures in the Winnie-the-Pooh book Gran used to read me when I was small. The memory stings and I blink it away. I chew my thumb as we drive slowly down a maze of

narrow streets. Barrels of fowers stand on every corner, tiny bees hovering over them. I notice the fowers are all fresh and healthy, not dry and dying like most of the plants around the country. There’s been a hosepipe ban for over three weeks now because of the heatwave. Is Ballyback breaking the law?

All the shops we pass have bee stuf in the windows: honey, beeswax candles, bee books, bee-printed clothes, bee cakes and buns. Everywhere I look I see bees: painted, drawn, stitched, stamped, sculpted, shaped, carved, or real ones fitting between fowers. This place is nuts!

‘There’s the gallery that’s going to display Mum’s paintings,’ Dad says, pointing excitedly at a building with huge windows full of colourful artworks. Guess what most of the paintings are of? I roll my eyes.

People keep crossing the road in front of us, and Dad has to jerk to a stop every fve seconds. Everyone’s covered in sweat. At least the car has air con.

The house is up a steep hill outside the village. ‘Home, sweet home,’ Dad says as we drive along the gravel path towards an old two-storey stone house covered in ivy. Is he actually trying to wind me up? This is not my home.

Mum’s smiling and waving from the red front door, her curly hair tied up in a messy bun, just like mine. She’s wearing her usual painting clothes: an oversized shirt and worn jeans covered in fecks of colour.

The garden is overgrown with long, dry grass and withered fowers. A single tree standing beyond the house catches my eye. It’s the creepiest tree I’ve ever seen. The branches are all mangled and twisted like badly broken limbs. Twigs stick out here and there making me think of skeletal fngers reaching for something, or someone, to grasp. Small brown leaves hang limply from them resembling strips of dead skin. A shiver runs through me and I’m suddenly cold.

‘Someone walking on your grave?’ Dad asks.

It’s something he says when anyone shivers. I’ve heard it thousands of times before. So why did it just make my heart skip a beat?

Dad parks in front of the house.

‘Welcome home,’ Mum says as Dad gets out and gives her a hug. Anger sparks in my chest and the creepy coldness evaporates. I open the car door and heat hits me like I’ve just stepped into an oven.

‘Eva, love, I’ve missed you,’ Mum calls, skipping around the front of the car towards me. I swing my backpack over my shoulder and slam the door shut. Mum jumps and stops in her tracks.

‘EVA!’ she yelps.

I march round the back of the car and into the house without a backward glance.

Chapter Three

It’s evening when Dad’s voice wrenches me from the pages of my worn copy of Ancient Legends of Ireland. It was one of Gran’s books. She used to read it to me when I was little, and I can still hear her voice every time I reread the stories.

‘Eva! Dinner!’

I want to yell back that I’m not hungry, but the truth is I’m starving. My stomach rumbles as the smell of veggie lasagne wafts up the stairs into my room. I follow my nose to the kitchen at the back of the house. The deformed tree looms from the window and that strange, uneasy feeling creeps over me again.

‘Do you like your new room?’ Mum asks, snapping my thoughts away from the tree. She sounds like she’s pretending to be cheerful. I give her a look that says, Do you really expect me to answer such a stupid question?

It’s weird sitting at the same wooden table we’ve had for years but in a kitchen I’ve never been in before. I rub at a scratch I made when I was seven and the table had been new. I was doing my homework with Gran next to me, helping. My pencil had just been sharpened, and I was leaning too heavily. It went straight through the page leaving a long, thin scrape on the wood. I was really upset about it and tried to rub it out. As if an eraser could mend a scar. Gran had told me not to worry. She said she’d tell Mum and Dad it was her fault. They hadn’t been happy when they saw it, but Gran had been calm as anything. She told them if the table was going to be used, it was going to get damaged and that was a simple fact.

‘Is that a new scratch?’ Dad asks. He’s watching my fngers trace over the mark. Mum pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth and looks down.

‘It probably happened during the move.’ She tuts.

I stare at them. How could they have forgotten giving Gran a hard time about this? It’s like they’ve wiped her away. It wasn’t enough to leave behind the house where we lived with her, now they have to forget everything else about her too.

I slam my fork down. ‘I did this!’ I yell pointing at the scratch. ‘I did it years ago, and Gran covered for me, and you told her of for it!’ They gawk at me, mouths open, as if I’ve gone completely crazy. My face is hot and I feel like a hurricane. I need to get out of here. My chair screeches against the foorboards as I stand. I hope it leaves a mark. Running to the backdoor in the corner, I yank it open and dart outside.

The air in the garden is still and warm. I breathe in and out, trying to calm myself, but it doesn’t work. I kick a large stone. It goes fying into the warped tree and bounces of the trunk. From the corner of my eye I see something move between the bent branches, and my breath catches. I scan the spot, but there doesn’t seem to be anything there. A shudder runs down my spine. I have an overwhelming urge to walk away, but then

I realise how silly I’m being. Who’s scared of a tree? I step closer. The leaves are oak. We did lots of nature walks in the park near my old school. But the oak trees there were all tall and straight. This one is bulky and squat, and the leaves are much smaller, all brittle and brown with curled edges.

I reach out. My hand shakes as I touch the nearest branch. It feels cold, rough and dry.

Suddenly something small and noisy fies straight at my face, followed by more.

Bees!

Shrieking, I jump back, waving my hands. They fy around, buzzing loudly, forcing me backwards, away from the tree. There’s lots of them now. I duck and dance, fapping my arms.

The next thing I know, I’ve turned full circle, and I’m back beside the oak. I dip under the branches and the world goes cold. Like midwinter cold.

The bees don’t follow, staying beyond the branches, as if there’s an invisible barrier they can’t cross.

Goosebumps rise on my bare arms. Something’s defnitely not right.

‘Who are you?’

My heart leaps into my throat. My head snaps toward the voice.

Beside me stands a boy with black hair and piercing blue eyes. He’s wearing a dirty grey shirt and worn trousers covered in patches. His feet are bare.

At frst my brain refuses to register what’s so strange about him.

Then it clicks.

I can see right through him.

For a brief moment my voice is caught in my throat before it breaks free in the form of a deafening scream.

Tracy Curran

Tracy Curran lives in Cornwall and is a direct train ride away from London. A former primary school teacher and carer, she is now a published picture book author about to break into the chapter book market. Tracy is passionate about encouraging children to read for pleasure and runs a book review blog, The Breadcrumb Forest, as well as partaking in author events. She loves toadstools, pumpkins and cuddly animals. @WriterCornish @LittleCornishWriter

Enid Everest: Epic Explorer

Enid Everest, frst year student at Everest’s School for Young Explorers, muddles her east from her west, mistakes toadstools for mushrooms and doesn’t know if she’s got what it takes to be a brilliant explorer like her parents. Determined to prove herself, Enid vows to win the school’s annual Horizon Hike. But someone is out to sabotage her. As Enid makes a shocking discovery, she realises she must conquer the mountain, not to impress her parents, but to save them. Poor Enid better make sure she has her map the right way up! Lower MG fantasy.

tracycurran08@gmail.com

Enid Everest: Epic Explorer

Chapter One

If you want to be an explorer and win a challenge like The Horizon Hiking Race – something which I’m hoping to do –then you need to follow my important bits of advice.

Enid Everest’s Important Bits of Advice:

• Make sure you can read a compass PROPERLY.

• Make sure your map is ALWAYS the right way up.

• Know your rattlesnakes from your cobras – they are VERY diferent beasts.

• Always carry a spare pair of socks – foot rot is the WORST!

‘Enid, your map of Africa is upside down,’ Rav whispers in my ear as Miss Poles, our maps and navigation teacher, talks to us all from the front of the class. There’s so many maps and fags plastered to the wood-panelled, windowless walls that it feels like we’re in a sailor’s creaky sea-cabin rather than in a school that’s teetering on top of a Spanish mountain. But that’s fne with me because a map is an explorer’s ABC.

I push my glasses up onto the bridge of my nose, throw the end of my thickly-knitted, rainbow-coloured scarf over my shoulder and shoot a panicked glance at my best friend.

‘I knew that!’

Quickly, I turn the map the right way up, checking the little compass in the bottom left hand corner. It looks like this:

(Illustration Note: Drawing of the compass in the

bottom left-hand corner of the map.)

I nod. North, east, south, west – that’s right. Miss Poles taught us a way to remember the compass points, going around clockwise: ‘Naughty Elephants Squirt Water’…

Or…is it ‘Squirt Water at Naughty Elephants?’ Suddenly unsure, I fick the map the other way round again to check. But that just makes the compass points look like this:

(I.N: Drawing of an upside down compass in the top right-hand corner of the map.)

Why didn’t I notice that before?

‘Enid Everest, your map of Africa is upside down!’ Miss Poles strides up the aisle towards the desk that Rav and I share and taps a bright blue, dagger-sharp fngernail onto my map before turning it sharply around. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that the continent of Africa looks like the shape of an elephant’s head? This way up, it looks like the shape of a hiking boot. You won’t be hiking anywhere if you can’t learn your north from your south.’

Sniggers and snorts ripple around the classroom as my cheeks turn the colour of a faming sunset. The continent of Africa looks like the shape of an elephant’s head. Right – I knew that! Although to me it looks more like the shape of Miss Poles’ bottom in that tight pencil skirt she’s wearing.

Rav gives me a sympathetic nudge. ‘Don’t worry about it!’ she smiles. ‘It’s an easy mistake to make.’

I sink down in my seat like an unprepared explorer caught in a bog. Getting a map the wrong way up is a silly mistake to make, and I am NOT going to be the sort of explorer that makes silly mistakes, especially as…

I am an EVEREST!

Yep, I’m the youngest explorer in a long line of seriously

brilliant explorers, and my dad happens to run this school.

‘Don’t worry about me, Rav,’ I say, trying my best to sound convincing. ‘I know my way around a map blindfolded, OK? I was just…er…testing Miss Poles, that’s all. Dad’s asked me to make sure she’s on the ball.’

Rav smiles, gives me a thumbs up, and passes me a lava sweet – one of our own inventions. I pop it into my mouth and sit up straight again, instantly feeling a bit better.

Rav – or Ravena as she hates being called – and I are roommates. We’ve been inseparable ever since we started our frst term at Everest’s Boarding School for Young Explorers. We bonded over our love of sweets and have been inventing our own. That means we always have a steady supply to get us through our classes.

Rav’s the one who smuggles the sweets into our lessons, though. The teachers don’t pick on her half as much as they pick on me. That’s because she’s the perfect student, and I am an Everest whose grades are hovering…er…just a bit below perfect.

Everything is going to be okay, though, because explorers aren’t meant to be stuck in classrooms with teachers breathing down their necks, are they? Questions and tests might make me feel super nervous and a bit muddled, but The Horizon Hiking Race is my chance to impress the teachers way beyond any A-grade. It will also be my frst time in the wild without my parents…

Time to prove that I have what it takes to be as brilliant as them.

I snap my attention back to Miss Poles. She’s talking about scales and I frown. What have scales got to do with learning geography? Oh. I roll my eyes. She must be wittering on about Amazon again. I turn towards the class fsh tank, which sits on a shelf surrounded by books, scrolls and brightly-coloured wall displays. There, right in the centre of it, is Amazon the

Goldfsh giving me his usual stink eye.

Amazon belongs to Miss Poles, and she moons over him like a toddler moons over a puppy. But Amazon is no puppy – he’s a thirty-three-year-old goldfsh with a death stare. He won’t share his tank with any other fsh. Every time Miss Poles tries to give him a friend, they mysteriously disappear.

I squint at Amazon suspiciously. Is it possible that Miss Poles doesn’t know her goldfsh from her piranhas?

‘Now everyone,’ Miss Poles interrupts my thoughts by clapping her perfectly-pampered hands, ‘if the scale of this map is 1:48,000,000, can you work out the approximate distance from Johannesburg in South Africa to Lusaka in Zambia as the crow fies?’

WHAAAAAAT? Turns out that Miss Poles is talking about map scales not fsh scales, and map scales involve MATHS! EEK. I always try and pay attention in maths…but I might need another lava sweet to work this one out.

‘Easy-peasy!’ Rav murmurs and I scowl. All this theory and no practice is as dull as a cloudy night sky. I can’t wait for our afternoon lessons to be over. Then Rav and I can trek down our sun-soaked mountain – where Everest’s School for Young Explorers is perched like an over-sized bird on a too-small branch – and actually enjoy being surrounded by nature. We can also stock up on ingredients for our next sweet-making session at the village shop. You don’t need a map with a scale to get there…you just put one foot in front of the other until you arrive.

We could even abseil down – it’s way quicker…

‘Enid Everest, do you have an answer?’

I jump at the sound of my name. Miss Poles has picked me to answer again!

‘Umm…’

Rav nudges her exercise book ever so slightly towards me, and I reel of the answer that’s sat smugly on her neat page.

‘About 1,200 kilometres.’

Miss Poles narrows her eyes, snifs once and nods. Then she turns her attention towards Lily and Vladimir who are sitting with their hands in the air, scowling at me. Vladimir and Lily are also perfect students and their family, The Cartiers, have rivalled my family in The Horizon Hiking Race ever since it started.

‘Thanks, Rav,’ I whisper, forcing a smile onto my face.

‘No worries, Enid,’ Rav whispers back. ‘I know you’d do the same for me.’

I nod. Deep down, I don’t think I would have got the right answer if Miss Poles had waited a century, but Rav never needs help with a question. Still, she’s way lovelier than Lily and Vladimir, who spend every minute of every class trying to out-shine everyone. When it comes to The Horizon Hiking Race, Rav is going to make the best teammate… I’m going to have to be the leader, though. I bite my lip. You can’t have an Everest bringing up the rear.

I rock back in my chair, worries wriggling inside my brain like tadpoles. Dad says I’m worrying about winning The Horizon Hiking Race way too much because, even though our family has been winning the race for generations, it really doesn’t matter if I don’t. That’s a load of sloth poop! Dad’s saying that because he doesn’t think I can win it. He and Mum are always on edge about taking me on any of their ‘riskier’ explorations, and they don’t think I’ve got what it takes to be an explorer.

To be fair, that might be because:

• When I was three, I tried to leap of a boat onto a hippo’s back – well, they are known as river horses and horseback is a great way to explore.

• When I was fve, I tried to jump out of a plane BEFORE my parachute had been attached.

• When I was seven, I went foraging for food and ended up cooking up a lovely meal of Death Cap mushrooms. Thankfully, Mum spotted my mistake before we settled down to eat.

There have been a few other incidents like that, but you get the picture. Mum and Dad like to refer to them as ‘mishaps’ but apart from the mushrooms, which look very similar to edible pufballs, I knew exactly what I was doing: Proving I was a brave and adventurous explorer, that’s what.

As it turns out, you probably shouldn’t do any of the above if you want your parents to take you seriously. Or, as Rav said, if you don’t want to die. (I knew that!)

Anyway, winning The Horizon Hiking Race is the only way I can uphold the Everest name and prove to my parents that I DO have what it takes to become a serious and brilliant explorer, just like them. That means, even though my team will be competing against our classmates AND other schools…

Failure ISN’T an option. GULP!

Chapter Two

As soon as our maps and navigation lesson is over, Rav, me and the rest of our year group head towards the Terrarium for our last lesson of the day – animal identifcation and handling with Mr Croccington. The Terrarium is a specially-built tropical house which my dad designed to house his crocodile, TickTock, and a host of other animals who needed our help.

Mr Croccington is waiting for us with the energy of a kangaroo who has eaten our entire stash of sweets. His constant level of excitement makes up for his very plain khaki outft, and it also makes his chest swell up, like a bag of crisps that’s going to burst open at any moment.

Crisps, unlike sweets, are not a very practical food for explorers – don’t even get me started about littering – but I can’t resist a packet of cheese and onion now and again. Having cheese and onion breath is defnitely not a bad thing when you’re trying to protect yourself from predators out in the wild.

If Mr Croccington was a crisp, he’d defnitely be more beef and ale than cheese and onion, though. His arms and legs are thick and bulgy, and his body is as solid and sturdy as a bull’s. He throws his arms out as he welcomes us.

‘Gooday, young nippers. Come on in and let’s get started. Today we’ll be learning our caimans from our alligators and our crocodiles from our salt crocs.’ He leads us into the steaming glasshouse that makes my glasses fog and my strawberry curls frizz up like a lizard’s frill.

Beads of sweat appear on Rav’s forehead and, all around us, our classmates start peeling of layers. I tug at the scarf that’s spiralled around my neck like a sweaty snake but there’s no way I’m taking it of – I never do. Instead, I use it to wipe my glasses.

‘Now, there are lots of diferent species, all native to diferent parts of the globe,’ Mr Croccington continues, bobbing on the balls of his feet, ‘but it’s imperative to know where you might encounter one. After all, the location of The Horizon Hiking Race has not yet been revealed and knowledge of your surroundings is everything.’ Mr Croccington stops and points towards me, his smile threatening to split his face in two. ‘Enid, how about you kickstart the class by introducing us all to Tick-Tock?’

I stife a groan. Tick-Tock kind of belongs to Dad –although wild animals are NEVER really pets – but that croc doesn’t like me one bit. Maybe it’s because I named him TickTock after the crocodile in Peter Pan, which by the way is my favourite story ever because who wouldn’t want to explore an island like Neverland? Or maybe it’s because my hair literally makes him see red. Whatever his problem is, one look at me makes him snappier than Amazon the goldfsh on a playdate. If you want to have a long career as an explorer, it’s best to stay away from animals that want to eat you.

‘Er, Mr Croccington,’ I begin, fushing the same colour as my hair. ‘I would but…’ I trail of. I was about to point out that he is, in fact, our teacher, but I don’t want to appear rude.

‘Sir, I think Enid might be scared,’ pipes up Vladimir, shooting me a sly look. Next to him, his cousin Lily is twirling her blonde hair around her fnger and grinning. Both of them have had a problem with me ever since they found out my surname.

‘O…of course I’m not scared!’ I walk to the front of the group with a chuckle that, due to the over-thick air, sticks in my throat. ‘Tick-Tock is practically one of the family.’

With wet patches oozing under the armpits of my T-shirt – completely due to the heat, of course – I loosen my scarf a bit more and lead everyone through the Terrarium to a huge enclosure that houses Tick-Tock. Most of the enclosures in the tropical house have a glass barrier that’s only as high as our chest. This allows birds and butterfies to futter around freely.

Tick-Tock’s enclosure, however, has every kind of security there is. Thick glass shoots right up to the ceiling and the metal door is triple-locked. Inside, there’s tons of vegetation and a massive pool. This morning, Tick-Tock is lying half in and half out of the shallow end. His eye cracks open as we approach…

Sarah Currie Dyer

Growing up in America, Sarah could be found climbing trees, imagining worlds with her siblings, or lost in a book. In her twelve years as a teacher, she saw frst-hand how teens have the power to spark positive change. She loves learning and searches for stories where history, nature, and empathy intersect. Her personal experience with dyslexia inspired her manuscript. England has been Sarah’s home for over a decade. She lives with her husband and two children, who love books as much as her. She graduates with distinction.

The Weaver and the Wildcat

In a fantastical Reformation world, thirteen-year-old Kat is grief stricken after her mother is burned at the stake when the new Queen outlaws commoners from wielding Threads – magical connections between all things. To keep her father and sister safe, Kat is desperate to wield Threads, but royalist Walter wants nothing more than to expose her as a traitor. With time running out, can she escape Walter, oppose the Queen’s persecutions, and uncover the secret of her relationship with the world’s Threads? A speculative Upper MG for readers who love natureled magic, historically inspired worldbuilding, and a conficted but courageous protagonist.

sarah.currie.dyer@gmail.com

The Weaver and the Wildcat

Chapter One

The Keeper’s Lantern sways in the breeze, illuminating the farmyard. Pa has tended the candle so it burns for another day. In all thirteen years of my life, the lantern has never been extinguished. I look out over the steep russet hills surrounding my home. Today, the autumn equinox, is my Ceremony of Light. For the hundredth time, I imagine Pa saying over me, Katharine Rose, daughter of earth and sky, your journey starts today.

The equinox brings change. Dark nights become longer until spring, and I will be taught to see and then wield Threads – fbres that connect all things in a vast web of life. I long to learn – to add nutrients to the soil like Pa or to heal like Ma did. It will be difcult. When my older sister, Elly, ignites the fre in our hearth, she describes connecting sunlight, air, and wood, but I see no flaments just as I cannot touch the lantern’s glow. Yet I believe in myself. Excitement sparks inside me. All I want is to answer the earth’s heartbeat that thrums alongside my own, telling me, I am connected.

Old Gem bleats. Smoothing my wool skirts, I enter the barn. To an untrained nose, it smells of dung and dirt, but to me, it signals sheep fed on the fell’s summer grass. I open Gem’s stall, milking stool and pail in hand. The sheep nuzzles my pocket for the clover I keep for her. ‘Wait, old girl. Milk frst.’ Sitting, I lean my forehead on Gem’s warm fank, pinching and pulling her teats. Milk squirts into the bucket. Steam rises from the frothy, foamy surface. Ladling a spoonful to my mouth, it tastes of roasted chestnuts.

Hooves pound the cobbled yard. Fear freezes me. Last time someone arrived this early and at that speed, they took Ma.

Stars, keep my family safe! Daydreams scatter. Milk sloshes as I run to the door.

‘Welcome,’ Pa booms, but his strained tone stops me from running out.

‘Mister Rose, a word.’ The voice belongs to a man with a fat accent. He’s not from the Lakes; our accent is round and big like the mountains.

A Queen’s man? They leave death in their wake. The nutty taste of Old Gem’s milk is replaced by something darker, more acidic.

‘Rest your horse, sir,’ Pa says.

As they enter, I press behind the door. Elly, please stay out of sight in the lower felds.

‘A good harvest?’ the man asks.

‘It’ll do,’ Pa says. Summer was damp. Pa’s skills wielding Threads protected a good part of our crop from rot. ‘We delivered our seasonal tithe to the Queen’s outpost.’

Unable to see the messenger, I cannot tell if he is satisfed with Pa’s answer. In silence, they box the horse in the farthest stall. Then the man asks, ‘Can anyone hear us?’

‘This way,’ Pa says fatly.

When their footsteps disappear toward Lookout Rock, I sneak from my refuge. The tall mare, the colour of autumn beech leaves, is saddled and shiny with sweat. ‘Why’s that man here?’ I whisper, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Could he know Pa helps wielders fee north? Placing a water bucket close to the horse, she lowers her head and drinks. It is nearly empty when the mare looks back at me. ‘Thirsty, huh?’

She whinnies, blowing warm air in my face.

I reach for an apple from the ledge and hold it out. She munches it in four bites, tickling my hand with the hairs on her lip.

Pa’s weary voice approaches. ‘I thought as much.’

Recalling tales of Queen’s men snatching children on a whim, I leap over Gem’s fence and drop to all fours as two pairs of boots strike the stone entrance. Gem nudges my back with her nose. Don’t give me away, old girl!

As they walk toward the stall, I belly crawl to the side of the pen. Straw scratches and sticks to my hands. I thank the stars that the messenger’s mare is on the other side of the barn and take shallow breaths. My face is inches from sheep droppings.

The man swings onto his horse, who whinnies as she takes his weight. ‘I don’t believe in the bloodshed, personally.’

Liar! Queen’s men are all the same. Pressing against the pen’s wood slats, Gem stands over me. Her hoof pins my long plait to the ground, pinching my scalp, but I am concealed.

‘I understand, sir.’ Pa remains polite. Maybe he’s cursing in his head like me. He knows better than to be disrespectful. We all do. Seven months ago, after defending the right to her title, our power-hungry Queen ruled that no one under her crown may manipulate Threads – all apart from those in her Order. She sanctioned her army to kill dissenters, silencing them with fre.

Remembering my mother, I push the blistering panic to the deepest part of my mind and peek through the slats at the man in the saddle. His boots are polished black leather with the Queen’s golden dragon insignia. Ahead of the frst frost, the Order claims there is a shortage of food and woven goods, yet this messenger wears leather and gold. The Queen does not want any of us, even folks in the Lake Country, to forget about her. I want to spit on him. In my head, Elly’s sisterknows-best voice asks: When will you grow up, Kat?

Walking out of the barn, the horse snorts.

‘The Queen’s Order watches you. In two weeks, she reaches the Lakes. Her men sooner.’ He points his whip at Pa. ‘I must go. The Queen kills rebels, remember?’

‘Thank you for your mercy,’ Pa says.

Mercy?

Hooves beat over the messenger’s last words. A trot becomes a gallop. I breathe deeply. The clawing stench of manure sticks in my nose and mouth. I stife a cough, waiting for Pa to leave.

He stands at the barn doors, his soft chuckle a sunray through a cloud. ‘Are you wallowing in the sheep muck all day, Kat?’

I sigh. ‘You saw me?’

‘One wouldn’t exactly mistake you for a lamb, my love.’ Pa pretends nothing’s wrong. ‘It must stink to high heaven down there.’

‘It does.’ I stand, wiping my hands on my kirtle.

Pa carries my milking bucket into the courtyard. He stops by the Keeper’s Lantern hanging on the wall between the barn and our home.

I bite my lip. ‘I was afraid he was coming for you.’

Pa takes the ordinary-looking lantern down. Hammered into the metalwork is a hidden sun, three life-giving rays twisting from its centre. The symbol means: safe passage for wielders. In tending the candle, Pa preserves our community’s understanding of Threads. Like Ma who could have saved herself, Pa refuses to meet violence with violence. Still, his knowledge remains vital to the rebellion’s eforts.

‘Will you tell me what he said?’ I ask.

‘Over breakfast.’

I don’t argue. Pa means when me and Elly are together. He means after he’s thought it through and decided what to tell us. And what not to.

Pa opens the lantern’s glass hatch and blows out the fame, which has shone for as long as I remember. I shiver. Even after we lost Ma, he kept it burning.

Chapter Two

After bathing in our wooden tub that Elly placed by the fre, I dry myself and shimmy into my shift followed by my woollen kirtle. Being clean is a relief, but worry curls in my chest like smoke. I whisper to Elly, ‘The messenger said, The Queen’s Order watches you.’

She fusses with my strap. ‘We can’t understand until we hear from Pa.’

If only she’d heard too. I stand with my back to her, so she will lace up my kirtle.

‘You need to learn how to do this yourself,’ she says. I keep quiet because she’s doing it for me, and if I aggravate her, she may stop.

As Elly moves to the hearth, I perch on the edge of our bed and tame my damp hair in a hasty plait. Our cottage’s main room is before me: table and stools, Pa’s armchair, and freplace. Ma’s wooden loom sits against the far wall. I sneak a look at my sister tending our porridge. She reminds me of Ma: tall, delicate hands, and hair wrapped in a bun. She doesn’t look worried, but then she always hides her emotions better than me.

A bowl of blackberries sits on the table, a kind gesture from Elly because today should be my Ceremony of Light. ‘Grub’s up,’ she calls, setting the pot beside our bowls.

Pa emerges from our parents’ room, and Treacle, his dog, follows. We sit at the table, hold hands, and are quiet for a moment. I try to keep in my mind what I am grateful for: the fell, the warm autumn, Old Gem and her milk. But the uneasy smoke in my chest signals change, and I am afraid.

Most mornings I need two portions, but today I circle my spoon around the earthenware bowl.

‘Eat, Kat,’ Pa says. ‘You’ll need your strength.’

I swallow blackberries with a swig of milk. They taste bitter this morning.

‘Pa, what’s the news?’ Elly asks.

He hesitates, takes a breath, and says, ‘With our resistance growing—the Queen mounts a second attack.’

Sickening grief settles in my stomach like debris falling to the bottom of a pond. Ma is further from me than ever. With no new skirmishes in the Lakes, we’ve observed a taut peace since winter, but rumour has it that innocents are being assaulted to the south. Families, who’ve had their lands claimed by the Queen, stay with us on their way to safety in the Borderlands. Although Pa does not like me and Elly talking about it, travellers tell us of rebels wielding Threads to kill Queen’s men. I knew my ceremony would be smaller than Elly’s, but I held out hope. Another wave means it’s a huge risk to teach me – even in private.

Pa continues, ‘She’ll never be satisfed until she’s stamped out all opposition to her wielding ban. Royal bounties are on the lives of those who continue to defy her authority, and her Order hunts them down.’

Neither Elly nor I say a word.

‘My loves, the Queen intends to execute me.’

Elly drops her spoon, chipping her earthenware bowl. My expression matches hers: wide eyes and raised brows. Under the table, I fnd her hand and breathe to keep the fames at bay.

Pa’s voice is hoarse. ‘At great risk to himself, that man warned me. He served under three monarchs. Like us, he’s lost family to her regime.’

My brain puts together the information – the messenger, the Queen, the snufed out Keeper’s Lantern. ‘Pa.’ I tense my stomach muscles, embarrassed at my high-pitched voice. ‘Will you die?’

His face crumples. ‘I pray not, Kitten.’ Pa looks between us before continuing, ‘At dusk, I’ll travel north to the Borderlands.’

‘We leave tonight?’ My pulse rises.

‘No,’ Pa says. ‘I leave so you may live—’

Elly gasps.

‘—travelling with me would be seen as rebellion.’

My blood beats a rhythm in my ears. We would be killed too.

Like a rising storm, an overwhelming anxiety swells inside me. ‘You must bring us. I need you!’ My desperation feels childish, but I cannot bear to lose Pa too.

‘They hunt our leaders, but children remain safe for now.’ Pa squeezes my shoulder. ‘Kat, you cannot manipulate Threads. As long as you are not with me, they’ll not come for you.’

My throat tightens.

‘And Elly is only two years into training,’ he continues. ‘She won’t wield now that it’s forbidden.’ When she doesn’t reply, Pa prods, ‘Will you, Elly?’

‘No, Pa, I won’t.’

Pa rubs his fngers through his grey hair, gathering his thoughts. ‘Penny and Tamar Astalla vowed to share provisions and watch over you. Our rent is paid, and Lord Strykeland is not due to collect the broadcloth for a fortnight. Elly, you are skilled on the loom, and Kat, you have cared for the sheep since you were a little thing. You’re already better than me.’ He gives me a broad smile. ‘Your mother would be proud of you both.’

‘Who goes with you?’ Elly asks.

I smack my fsts on the table. ‘Bring us!’ Why doesn’t Elly care that we will be alone?

‘I know this isn’t easy,’ Pa says, placing a hand on my arm before answering Elly. ‘I must warn Billy Pentwaith’s parents. He’s been scouting the Order’s southern raids’—he looks between us—‘I cannot say more. You’ll be safer when the rebels move north.’

Fear runs below the surface of my skin like fast fowing water – for Pa’s life, for being left behind, and for who the Queen will target next – but the thought that foats free is that today should be my Ceremony of Light. I want to wield Threads to direct sunlight to our garden in the winter months, to pull an infection from a sickly sheep, or to bind yarn with woad’s blue tints for lasting colour. But most of all, I want to stop the Queen. ‘Today is the equinox. It was Ma’s dying wish that you teach me—’

‘Everything is diferent now,’ Elly interrupts, furrowing her brow. ‘The Queen moves closer with every passing day.’

‘I know you have longed for this, Kat’—Pa tucks my loose strand of hair behind my ear—‘but the knowledge is not worth your life. There are valuable skills beyond wielding. I wish I could teach you, but I’ll aid you better if I remain alive.’

Anger rises in me. How could the Queen come after both my parents? The smoke in my chest threatens to sufocate me. Does she assume I will love her Order after all that has happened?

Pa pushes his chair away from the table. ‘Come here.’ He holds out his arms. We come to him, moths to light, and he encircles us. Against my cheek, his woollen tunic that Ma knit is soft from wear. My nose flls with the aroma of horse, soil, sunshine, and hard work mixed with a trace of Ma’s rose water, which fades like a lost melody. I rub my damp cheek with the back of my hand and steal a glance at Elly. Her eyes are dry.

‘Girls, take care of each other,’ he says, and we give our word.

Pa turns to me. ‘Show the Astallas this.’ He folds a scrap of sacking into my hand. ‘I leave at dusk, but Tamar has a map, which I need, showing borderland encampments. In addition to caring for you both, Penny is our new Keeper –

she’ll light the mill’s lantern. I trust her to spread word of the dangers.’

I nod, feeling three-years-old once more. ‘That’s my girl.’ Pa kisses the top of my head. ‘Run like the wind. Bring me the map. Stop for nothing, and show it to no one.’

Adam Fuller

Adam has worked in schools, forests, prisons, theatres and castles. From scribbling ghost stories in wobbly, beyond-the-grave handwriting, aged six, to creating numerous internationallytouring family theatre shows, Adam is now thrilled to be writing books. His humorous, wildly imaginative stories are about making brave and exciting choices. They explore how a small voice can make a big diference in helping the world become a more level playing feld. Adam grew up in Bournemouth and, via twenty years in Bristol, now runs an award-winning fringe theatre in Weston-super-Mare.

Trapped In A Dangerous Pea

Frustrated at always being ignored, eleven-year-old Rosa miraculously falls inside a pea and fnds a world of pea dwellers living in a strictly hierarchical society. Ruled by the self-serving, snotty-nosed Peters, everyone knows their place as they happily ravage the pea for food and resources as if it’s endless. Finding a way home gives Rosa the opportunity to prove the pea is limited and shake up a world in need of greater equality. Forming an outcast gang of reluctant helpers, Rosa aims to expose the truth and return home. But she must overcome the Peters’ attempts to stop her as they battle to prevent her enlightening ideas from catching on.

adam.fuller@hotmail.co.uk

Trapped In A Dangerous Pea

Chapter One

Rosa was playing with her food, swinging her fork at peas and ficking them into a goal she’d moulded out of mashed potato. She imagined she was practising for the World Dinner Plate Hockey Championships. She was the star striker; scoring goals was what she did for fun. One, two, three peas fashed across the plate and into the goal. This was easy. Too easy.

‘Bored,’ Rosa sighed, rolling a pea out of the crumbling goal and toying with it in the middle of the plate. A sudden urge to see the wretched pea squashed fat made her press down on it with her fork. ‘Die, pea,’ she growled as its insides oozed through the prongs of the fork. She rolled another pea out of the goal. ‘Pea you later,’ she said, sending it to the same fate, before jostling a third pea into the open. ‘It’s pea-n nice knowing you.’ Rosa grinned at the growing pile of squished pea mess. ‘This is pea end,’ she hissed at another victim, picking up an uncrushed pea in her fngers. If she squinted and imagined a moustache and glasses, this pea looked a lot like her head teacher, Mr Timpkins.

That morning, Timpkins had shouted at Rosa for wasting time fussing over leaky taps in the toilets, rather than focusing on her schoolwork. Apparently, showing a concern for the environment made Timpkins angry, and making Rosa feel bad made Timpkins feel important. ‘Time’s up Timpkins.’ Rosa pinched the pea between her fnger and thumb until its insides popped out.

Squishing peas was far more fun than eating them, but Rosa knew she’d be in trouble. ‘Eat your greens, Rosa,’ Mum

had tossed over her shoulder while wrestling Rosa’s baby brother, Todd, upstairs for a bath.

‘Eeee-ba gweeens Oh-sa,’ Todd had echoed in his irritatingly cute voice, but Rosa didn’t care. Peas were disgusting. Mum, Todd, Timpkins and peas could totally get lost.

‘I’ve told you a million times, I hate peas!’ Rosa muttered to herself as another pea fell victim to the might of her fork. Mum never listened to her – she was always too busy with Todd, or work, or household chores that she complained Rosa never helped with. Why should I help you if you never even listen to me?

Having worked herself into a miniature fury, Rosa swung her fork at the last remaining intact pea. She caught it right in its stupid winking eye and sent it fying of the plate. It bounced of the wall and disappeared under the table.

Todd’s screams of resistance from upstairs indicated it was time for him to get out of the bath. ‘Rosa, bring me a towel please!’ Mum shouted over Todd’s wailing.

Rosa let out a heavy sigh and mouthed the word ‘No.’ She waited for Mum to follow up with cries of ‘Give me a break, Rosa! One baby is enough to look after!’

‘I left it on the banister,’ Mum pleaded over the sound of frantic splashing.

Rosa clocked the purple towel clearly draped over the handrail at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I can’t see it,’ she shouted upstairs.

‘Rosa! Give me a break!’ Mum’s voice was hot and spiky. Rosa’s dog, Kevin, barked from the living room in protest at being woken up from his nap.

Rosa put her head in her hands. Today was a bad day. Timpkins, Mum, falling out with Sally Norman over a packet of prawn cocktail crisps. Rosa slumped under the sinking feeling of having the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Looking down through her knees, she spotted the runaway pea staring back at her from the foor. It was nestled by a table leg – she could almost hear it whispering, ‘Babies drop food Rosa,’ in a voice like Timpkins and Mum swirled together with a whisk.

Rosa grunted, bending down to pick the plucky pea from the foor and send it to its mushy grave. But as her fngers reached out, she felt a strange pop in her upside-down head, and everything went green.

It felt like toppling of a diving board before being quite ready to jump. Rosa’s upper body tumbled over her feet as she closed her eyes and waited for her head to hit the foor. But instead, she carried on falling, somersaulting over and over, faster and faster – the distance between the seat of her chair and the foor growing impossibly large. With each rotation, Rosa felt tiny one moment and enormous the next, like the world around her kept infating and bursting, infating and bursting. Her ears were popping, and her head was so hot she felt like she needed to let out steam.

Then a crash and she was underwater. Or was she? She’d fallen into a stodgy liquid substance and her somersaults halted. Falling became more like sinking. But this wasn’t water, it was thick, lumpy and kind of…mushy.

Panic electrifed Rosa’s muscles. She screwed her eyes and mouth tight and failed her limbs. The mushy gloop got up her nose, into her ears and inside her clothes. A tangy favour at the back of her throat left her horrifed at the thought of what it might be.

Just as her lungs felt like they would burst, Rosa’s body touched upon a springy surface. But rather than slowing her downward journey, the surface fexed, gave way and sucked

Rosa through, until her body emerged into thin air.

Relief from the gloop lasted a second, before Rosa hurtled downwards at tremendous speed. She fumbled at her eyes and face, clawing away the green gunk to reveal the sight of green ground heading her way terrifyingly fast. As she opened her mouth to let out a desperate scream, Rosa hit the ground with a squelch. And like the world’s biggest bird poo, a huge glob of green mush splatted right on top of her.

Chapter Two

Rosa lay still, sure she must be in a thousand pieces. But as she slowly moved her fngers and then her hands and feet, followed by bending her knees and wriggling her shoulders, she realised she was intact and lying on a soft, spongy surface that had cushioned her fall.

She wiped the mushy gunk from her face and opened her eyes. A pea-green sky stretched as far as she could see in all directions. A wave of sickness nibbled at her stomach. Struggling onto her elbows, she sat up and promptly spat out a large gob of green stuf that was lodged at the back of her throat. ‘Pea!’ she choked, scraping her tongue with her fngers to get every last bit of the revolting taste out of her mouth.

Trying to ignore a rising panic, Rosa scooped more of the disgusting green muck from her body and fung it away as far as possible. She pulled clumps of goop from her hair, cursing every pea in existence as she untangled her dark brown curls.

Wrestling with surging feelings of dread, Rosa fnally pufed her chest, lifted her head and looked around. All she could see was green. She was in the middle of an expanse of pea-green ground, surrounded by large, mossy-green mounds that looked like giant igloos made of green slabs.

Some of them had entrances that faced the open space where Rosa was sitting. She dug her fngers into the ground and her heart thumped in her chest. There are people living here? In the distance, she could hear the faint sound of rhythmic drumming.

Rosa covered her face with her hands and tried to ignore the smell of crushed peas coming from everywhere. ‘This can’t be happening,’ she said through trembling fngers as the mush inside her clothes dripped horribly down her skin. She stood up, shaking her hands and legs to force the remnants of green sludge from her body. Something shiny caught her eye, lying on the ground by her foot. She bent down and picked up her fork. It felt cold and real in her hand and holding it in this strange, green place made Rosa feel very far from home.

As tears welled in Rosa’s eyes, the ground trembled beneath her feet. Jumping aside, Rosa gripped the fork for protection as the ground cracked and gave way to reveal a snufing nose. With no time to hide, Rosa gritted her teeth as a head appeared out of the ground, shaking green substance from its ears as it spoke. ‘Is nowhere safe from your wretched pounding? How far must I go for some peace and quiet?’

The words stopped as the head’s large green eyes locked upon Rosa. She stared back, eyes wide. At her feet was the head of a creature that looked like an otter, but it was three times the size of any otter she’d ever seen and as green as leaves in summer. The creature’s eyes mirrored Rosa’s shock. ‘Oh no. No, no, NO!’ it fustered, before somersaulting back into its hole.

‘Wait!’ Desperate for help from someone who might know where she was, Rosa dived and caught the end of the creature’s tail. Flinging her fork to the foor and clinging on tight, she yanked with all her might. ‘Come back!’ she grunted, leaning backwards and heaving until she toppled over, pulling the full otter-like creature out of the hole to land on her with a yelp.

Untangling themselves from a heap on the foor, Rosa lost her grip on the creature and it stumbled back towards the hole. Lunging too late to grab hold again, Rosa was about to cry out in despair when the creature squealed in discomfort. It clutched one of its ankles and fell to the foor, writhing around whimpering and trying to lick its clearly wounded foot. Realising the creature had stepped on her fork, Rosa seized the utensil – brandishing it as a threat of further punishment if the creature tried to escape again.

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ Rosa tried to sound brave while the fork quivered in her sweaty grip.

‘You already have!’ the creature wailed, hopping around. ‘That thing went right in my foot!’

‘Sorry.’

‘Hard to believe!’

‘Why are your eyes closed?’ Rosa asked as the creature nursed its injury with its eyes screwed shut.

‘I don’t want to see you. If I don’t see you, I can’t describe you when people ask questions.’

‘Who’s going to do that?’

‘Everyone! Once word gets out, there’ll be all sorts of fuss.’

Rosa eyed the entrances to the mounds. ‘Who else lives here?’

‘I’m not telling you anything. For all I know you’re here just because you want to poke us all with that horrible thing.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know why I’m here.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ The creature kept its eyes closed but tried to face in the direction of Rosa’s voice.

‘And you’ve already seen me,’ Rosa said. ‘When you popped your head out of the hole.’

The creature stopped hopping – the sides of its mouth drooped. ‘Yes, but I didn’t see you see you. I just caught sight of you, for a feeting moment.’

‘You stared right at me.’

‘Shock has clouded my memory.’ The creature fumbled on the ground in search of an escape.

‘Not so fast.’ Rosa stood directly over the hole. She scufed one of the creature’s paws away from fnding its target. She needed more information. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve still got my fork.’

‘Your what?’

‘The pointy thing. You can’t go. You’ve got to help me, please.’

‘Help you?’ The creature was beginning to sound angry. ‘You’ve fattened my tunnel, hurt my foot and now you’re threatening me with a ‘fork’. Why should I help you? All I want is for you to GO AWAY!’

The creature’s voice shook Rosa and loosened the fear banging at her rib cage. This was wrong – all of this was wrong. How did she go from having dinner and being shouted at by Mum, to here, wherever here was, and being shouted at by a giant green otter that refused to even look at her?

Unable to contain herself any longer, Rosa let out a cry of desperation, and despite trying to gulp them back, tears trickled down her cheeks. At that unfortunate moment, the creature opened its eyes and looked at her.

‘Alright, alright.’ The creature softened its voice. It peered at her with cat-like eyes. ‘Hey, what’s wrong with your skin?’

Rosa steadied herself with three deep breaths as she inspected her hands. Despite some green streaks from the mush, her skin looked normal, but a fop of curly hair fell across her eyes and Rosa let out a sharp cry. She pulled more of her hair in front of her face and was horrifed to see that it had all turned a rich green colour.

‘What’s happening to me?’ Rosa cried. ‘You have to help me! I just want to go home!’

The giant otter narrowed its eyes. ‘Where exactly have

you come from? Do the Peters know you’re here?’

The Peters? Rosa’s heartbeat pulsed in her ears and her body felt full of wet sand, cementing her feet to the spot. Her shoulders dragged her chin towards her chest and she spoke with a feeble voice she barely recognised. ‘I was having dinner and something happened. I fell and now I’m here. But I don’t know where here is.’

The creature blinked twice. ‘This is The Pea,’ it said, lowering its voice and looking around uneasily. ‘You’re in The Pea. And the Peters aren’t going to like the fact that you’re not entirely green.’

Elaine Lambert

Prior to graduating with a distinction from the MA in Writing for Young People, Elaine was a head of English. She still works parttime, teaching students in both the UK and overseas and likes nothing better than seeing their satisfaction when they write their own stories. She was born in Ireland and spent much of her childhood between the two farms of her grandparents which sparked her imagination. Elaine loves to read and write stories with humour and heart. She lives in Gloucestershire with her husband and two sons.

The Wimbling Woods

Rumour has it that there’s a lost abbey in the Wimbling Woods, but the greedy landowner Captain Webber won’t have it. It’s 1957. Twelve-year-old history geek Leif Livingstone has been abandoned in sleepy Monkton Bottom for the summer. But when he meets the high-spirited Horatio, he learns of the threat Webber and his malicious son, Fergus, pose to the woods with their bulldozers. When the two friends discover Windrush runaway Wynn hiding in the woods, together they set of on a race-against-time quest to prove the existence of the secret abbey, and stop Webber’s bulldozers in their tracks. But can Leif convince Wynn to trust them? MG historical adventure.

esmlambert@gmail.com

The Wimbling Woods

Prologue

To the north of Monkton Bottom sprawls a wilderness so dark and dense the trees are said to murmur long-forgotten tales from over a thousand years ago – the timeless Wimbling Woods. Whoever frst named it so can’t have seen the whole of it, for the trees are so vast, spreading across hillside and valley, nestling over cliftop and crowding into caves where treasured secrets are harboured in its shadows. Not so much a humble woodland, but an expansive, ancient forest, with silvery-white birch trees glowing in its dark interior, thousandyear-old yews keeping watch on its fanks, and giant oaks with trunks so gnarly you can see hoary faces in their bark.

Step inside the Wimbling Woods and you will discover dark pockets, so deep and thick it’s said no map has ever traced the shapes and no foot has found a way into its dreaming heart. And yet there, it’s also said, lies a lost abbey, buried in the ivy, vetch and tangled vines of the past. And no one thought to look for it. Nobody needed to look for it. Until now.

Chapter One

He’d done it again. The boy sitting next to Leif was swinging his foot sideways.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The hard leather of his boot kept knocking into the soft material of Leif’s plimsoll – made worse by the fact they were

pinching his toes anyway. They’d been too small for several months, but his mum never noticed things like that. It wasn’t in her grand scheme of world concerns.

It was dim in the church. The pews, he and the village children were seated on, were incredibly uncomfortable. At the back, the organ was being played by a tiny woman with wispy hair and cobwebby clothes. She was so small that from Leif’s position, the organ appeared to be producing music all on its own. They were meant to be singing along. At the front, a pink-faced lady was conducting the singing with what looked like a wand. He wished it was a wand. At least it would have made what was promising to be a very long, dull and dreary afternoon much more interesting.

Most of the adults – an army of old ladies – were poised around the church preparing what had been described as ‘arts and crafts’ with a bonanza of glue, scissors, cardboard, empty Bovril tins and old plant pots. It looked like one of the litter hauls from the clear-up of a Scottish beach his parents had photographed last summer. Maybe it was. And here he was, expected to turn it all into something new and exciting. Great.

The only silver lining was that his aunt had declined to volunteer as part of the Granny Army, so at least she wasn’t prodding him to sit up straight, shake hands, or say how-do-you-do. Your manners are entirely questionable, Leif Livingstone. She really was stuck in the 1800s.

As the boy’s boot knocked his foot again, Leif tried edging a little to the left. Was it going to happen here too? What was it about him that attracted the bullies? All last term, the other boys had decided it was funny to stamp on his feet. One after another they’d crash down on him. He’d kept socks on at home, hiding the bruises from his parents. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Dad always said to stare a monster in the eye, and so Leif looked sideways and gave the boy his best and coldest

stare. For all the good it did. The dark-haired hoodlum grinned back at him and carried on swinging his legs. Unable to get the boy to see his annoyance, Leif rummaged in his pocket for the reassuring smoothness of the belemnite that his dad had given him.

He remembered with shame how frosty he’d been with his parents. Sitting on the steps outside Aunt Theodora’s house, his mum handing over clothes and instructions. Meanwhile, his dad, Jonty, had been nudging Leif playfully, holding out the belemnite between fnger and thumb.

‘What is it?’ Leif asked, not bothering to disguise his sulky tone of voice. He sure wasn’t going to make it easy for them to abandon him for the whole summer.

Dad’s eyes were laughing. ‘A thunderbolt. It was thrown down by the gods in a ft of rage.’

‘Really, Dad. I’m not three. What is it?’

‘What do you think it is?’

It looked like a bullet casing. Smooth and pointed at one end like a spear.

‘A javelin head?’

Jonty shook his head and grinned, holding it fat in his hand, waiting for another guess. Leif loved his dad, but didn’t care much for the guessing games. Did he have to turn everything into a school lesson?

‘A bird? I dunno. I give up. Just tell me. Or don’t. I don’t care.’ Leif didn’t want to be moody with his dad, but it was the only weapon he had left. He’d tried pleading, promising, and even threatening to run away, but none of it had made any diference. It never did.

‘Come on, Leif, don’t be mopey.’ He placed the belemnite in his son’s palm and for the frst time Leif could feel the cool stone.

‘It’s a fossil.’

‘See! You do know. I have every confdence in you.’ He

rufed his son’s hair playfully. ‘The summer won’t be that long, and it won’t be that bad. You will make your own adventures.’ Then he paused as Leif pulled a face, before continuing. ‘Even here.’ Standing up, Jonty slowly placed a hand on Leif’s head. ‘You’ve got hidden depths, Leif. You don’t know it yet, but you’re a leader.’

‘Why can’t I come with you, then?’

‘Oh, Leif…the best adventures are the ones you make on your own. You’ll love it here at Aunt Dora’s.’

Now, as Leif rummaged for the smooth cold dart in his pocket, feeling the pleasing weight of it, he wished it was a thunderbolt. He imagined throwing it at the front of the church, making a spectacular fash of lightning, so that everyone would make a run for it, including the tapping boy next to him – who’d moved closer and was still shunting at him with his heavy boot.

He felt the urge to kick back. It was all his parents’ fault. It might not have been their idea that he attend this dull church summer camp for the next four weeks (no, that was all bossy Aunt Theodora’s brainwave), but it was Mum and Dad who had abandoned him in the frst place. Heading of on yet another of their campaigns for the summer.

Important work to do, they’d said.

It gets a bit rowdy, they’d said.

No place for a small boy, they’d said.

Leif had overheard Mum talking to Aunt Dora on the phone, and of course the adults all agreed with one another. Then, on arrival at his aunt’s house in Monkton Bottom, he’d watched as one adult passed him over to the other.

‘Thank you so much, Theodora. It’s so helpful of you to take this on.’

‘Not at all, Flora. I’m well used to the dog, so I have a good idea of how small boys need fresh air and plenty of water.’

Wow! He was on an equal footing with Aunt Dora’s border terrier, Lord Bertram. Stupid dog, with a stupid name. And then here he was in the middle of nowhere, forced to attend Saint Oswald’s Church Summer Camp for dufers, with a boy too big for his boots trying to pick a fght with his feet. The only positive was that Monkton Bottom was surrounded by thick forest. Now that was a place that looked interesting. A place for tree houses and caves and his own hidden adventures. Not that he’d ever escape Aunt Theodora’s clutches long enough to explore it.

The boy next to him edged closer and Leif felt his hot breath in his ear. ‘I think you’re just the right size for my plan.’

Leif shifted away from the boy and felt his stomach clench with a dark, empty, hollowed-out feeling. Here it was again. Just like the bullies at school, always picking on his size, his hair, or the fact that he just knew stuf. He thought he’d escaped that for the summer. But even here, in sleepy, boring Monkton Bottom, another bully had turned up to carry on with the jeering and mocking.

‘And what do we have for you today?’ Standing on a raised platform at the front, the Reverend Hastie Clare began reading out a list of activities. He looked as if he’d been dressed by the wind. His black hair reminded Leif of his mum’s knitting basket – a tangled jumble of loose threads and knots. His sleeves and trouser legs looked too short and there was a spiky bramble hanging of one end of his jacket. He’s got a mother like me, thought Leif.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The boy next to him was thumping his foot again, and this time he also placed a warm, sticky hand on Leif’s arm. The grip was vice-like, more claw than hand. At that moment, everyone rose out of their seats and began charging towards the activities. But the boy next to him still had his hand on

Leif’s arm and as they shufed out of the row, the hot hand pulled Leif roughly along. He tried to pull his arm away, but the hand was much stronger and steered him to the far end of the hall, into a corridor. Before he knew it, Leif had been pushed out of a side door where he fell with a bump onto a grass embankment. CLACK. The door clicked shut.

‘Horatio Marmaduke Clare. Pleased to meet you.’ The boy was looking down at him with a broad smile, revealing several gaps in his teeth, dark peaty-brown eyes that glinted with mischief and a mop of badly cut, thick black hair. Clare –suddenly Leif made the connection between the mad, tousled Reverend inside and this even more dishevelled specimen outside.

The boy noticed Leif’s glance and moved his hand to his head and grinned broadly. ‘I did it myself. My dad’s cuts are worse than mine. Come on. It’s a granny circus in there. You don’t want to be left all on your own with that lot. My dad always says you have to be your own person, listen to your inner voice and follow it at all times. And my inner voice is saying that you’ll be bored to absolute tears in there. You’ll ft perfectly through the Hollow Oak. Come on. If we go in that way today, I can show you my best places in the Wimbling Woods.’

‘The what?’

Horatio was pointing just above the embankment, where the grass grew long and stretched out towards thick trees. Leif could hear leaves rustling in the distance with papery whispers.

The boy was staring at him. ‘Well, they’re not really called that. But my name for them’s best. And what’s your name?’

Leif blushed. He hated sharing his name, but Horatio’s was worse – surely? And yet he’d worn it with pride, said it like it was a heraldic shield. He looked down at his shoes as if for support and thought of saying his name with the same

aplomb – Leif Green Livingstone. But he didn’t have any of that confdence. What were his parents thinking? He sounded more like an island than a boy. Leif took a breath and considered a lie, but the looming building of the church seemed in that moment to be looking at him – its stained-glass windows for eyes, peering at him with glassy disapproval. Meanwhile, Horatio had clearly got bored waiting for an answer and was now climbing the embankment. Leif watched him disappear into the long grass above them. There was no way he was going to trust this thug of a boy. Hadn’t he been quietly bruising his feet for at least half an hour? If he’d learned anything from the last torturous year at school, it was to not trust others or to follow their lead. He looked back at the church windows which now seemed to be scowling down at him, children’s voices echoing from within like percussion. The air danced around him. He could smell the gorse bushes on the bank and the distant trees were full of summer. Why should he be stuck inside when his mum and dad were of on adventures? The very idea of going back in, so he could paste glue onto old lollipop sticks to make a plant pot stand, was bringing on the start of one of his headaches. At that moment he could hear the most terrible music striking up with a cacophony of tambourines, rattles and badly made drums. This was shortly followed by the most toneless singing he’d ever heard – it sounded like the soundtrack to the last flm he and Dad had watched at the pictures, The Creature from the Black Lagoon.

No, he wasn’t going to be squashed into Aunt Dora’s boring regime. He was going to fnd his own summer adventures. Isn’t that what Dad had said? And those trees looked deliciously dark and inviting. He grabbed at the sturdy shrubs Horatio had used as a purchase, and with three big steps he was up and into the long grass following the bobbing dark hair of his new companion.

Horatio turned round and waited, feeling the long grass in his fngers. ‘So, you going to tell me your name?’

With a small voice he edged out the one word, ‘Leif.’ He cringed inwardly, waiting for the laughter.

Horatio delivered a friendly nudge as they walked. ‘With a name like that, I think the Wimbling Woods will like you.’

The July sun was shimmering as they made their way across a wide meadow with the church behind them and Monkton Bottom below them, the woods drawing closer with every step. Insects were jumping and a scent of wildfowers rose in the air as they swished through the long grass. Suddenly, Horatio put his hand out, grabbed Leif and pulled him down. Ahead of them, a fock of angry crows erupted in the sky.

Craah! Craah! Craah! Craah! Their cries split the air like a siren.

‘It’s just crows,’ Leif said.

‘It’s never just crows,’ whispered Horatio.

‘Well, it sounds like just crows to me.’

‘It’ll be Webber’s man trying to be clever. Thinks he can sneak up on us, but the crows are jumpy when he’s about cos of his shotgun, see.’

Just then, a gun snapped in the air above them like a god clicking his fngers.

Leif gulped and looked back at the way they’d come. Perhaps he shouldn’t be following this strange boy with a bad haircut, but it seemed further to go back than to go on. He was pretty sure this wasn’t what Dad had meant about making your own summer adventures.

Annette Luker

Annette Luker is a public health doctor who looks to weave her health and international development experience into compelling stories for young people. She is particularly interested in allowing children from diferent countries to meet each other on the pages of a book. She lives in Bath with her husband, three teenagers, two cats and an over enthusiastic dog. She can often be found searching for a quiet corner of the house in which to hide and write. Annette graduates from the MA in Writing for Young People with distinction.

Borders

It has been decreed that the country of Rode must physically separate from its neighbour Dryde – land pulling away from land. But on the eve of Separation, only child Toby makes a choice that leaves his best friend Mani trapped with him while his beloved dog is stuck on the other side of the border. Mani is like the brother he never had, but can their relationship weather the storm that is coming, and can friendship and football mend a broken world? Upper MG speculative.

annetteluker01@gmail.com

Borders

Chapter One Barriers

Toby was used to the background rumbling of the cross slicer, but the noise of the vertical grinder was diferent. A constant thud, thud, thud with occasional high-pitched screeching when metal hit challenging layers of rock.

Toby pressed his ear protectors frmly against his ears, trying to block out the noise and the reminder that Separation was happening tomorrow.

‘Can you pass the cereal?’ Mum asked, pointing to the box in front of him. It was still strange to hear her voice through the headset, but it was better than the drone of President Cride, who cut across the family network at irritatingly regular intervals. Toby passed her the bran fakes.

‘As it’s our last day before we…go…?’ Toby muttered, scooping and dropping the cereal in his bowl, ‘Can we go to see Mani?’ Even now he found it difcult to say the word Separate out loud, despite it being all anyone had talked about for the last year. Saying it somehow made it more real.

Mum paused and thought. ‘It might be a bit complicated… but yes, we can defnitely try.’

Complicated, Toby thought, was a massive understatement. Complicated was when you had a tricky maths problem, not when a machine was digging a trench across your town, ready to pull your half fve hundred miles away from your best friend, just because of some stupid line on a map.

Mum carried on. ‘We could take a picnic like we used to… it would be good for you to have a chance to say goodbye

properly.’ She smiled the type of small smile that makes you sadder than before because there is no happiness behind it.

Toby winced. He didn’t want to say goodbye, he just wanted to hang out with Mani and plan how they would visit each other once Rode fnally reached the new tethering site. ‘I’ll message him to tell him we’re coming,’ Toby said. Mum nodded.

Toby: Coming to see you.

Toby: Mum coming too.

Toby: Leaving in 10.

Two blue ticks appeared next to the messages. Mani had been Toby’s best friend forever. As babies they’d had no choice about being friends – their mums had just put them next to each other wherever they went. There were photos of them together on play mats, in highchairs and on swings. Even when their year seven class had been divided into two last year – Rode kids in the morning and Dryde kids in the afternoon – they’d still worked out ways to see each other in the evenings. Two weeks ago, however, when the Grinders started, things got really complicated with barriers and fences and gates dividing the town.

Toby waited for the three dots to appear to tell him Mani was writing his reply – but they didn’t come. He frowned with confusion – Mani had always been quick at responding. Their message chains were usually long and unintelligible to others, they’d known each other so long that they almost had their own language. But for the last week, there’d been long gaps between replies, and when they did come, they’d been shorter and diferent somehow. He turned back towards Mum.

‘Can I take Duck?’ he asked. ‘She needs a walk, and I’ve thought of a way to protect her ears?’

‘Okay…’ said Mum, ‘if you think she can cope? Evie would like that too, I’m sure.’

Toby scowled at the thought of Evie and Duck cuddling up to each other. He hated the fact that Duck loved Evie, Mani’s twin, almost as much as him. It was as if Duck sensed that Toby and Evie didn’t get on, and she was determined to change their minds by showing Evie excessive slathery doggie adoration every time they visited.

Toby walked out to the bike shed in the yard, holding his phone in his pocket so he could feel the ping of a notifcation from Mani. He pulled at the door, now thickly padded with makeshift sound insulation in the form of an old duvet. The rest of the shed was similarly draped with loft insulation, a toddler mattress and various blankets neighbours had donated when they realised that Duck couldn’t be kennelled for the Grinders like all the other pets. Duck had her head buried under a foral sofa cushion.

Toby wedged the door shut behind him, knelt down and cautiously took of his ear protectors. This was the only place where doing this was even vaguely tolerable. In the half-light that fltered through the wood and padding, he reached for Duck’s nose under the cushions. She snifed him out excitedly, her tail beating quickly on the wooden foor. He pulled a set of his old wireless headphones from his pocket and wove them slowly under the cushions, feeling for the velvet of her ears. He stroked them gently before positioning and adjusting the earphones. Her tail beating stopped, and Toby felt her muscles tighten with uncertainty as she adjusted to the newly mufed sounds. He continued to stroke her as she snufed for reassurance against his hand. Then, very gradually, she pushed her head forwards, and her face appeared, laced with fear. A look he hadn’t seen since the day Mum had found her

cold, shivering and alone at the side of the road.

‘Hey there, Duck. It’s okay,’ Toby coaxed, stroking the white and black fur of her cheeks with one hand, while scratching her lower back with the other. She made a small snort of pleasure, and he felt the tightness of her skin relax.

‘I know it’s scary and loud, I’m going to wrap this around you, so these headphones don’t fall of, okay?’

Toby started to wind his old school scarf under Duck’s chin and around her head. She looked at him inquisitively but with trust that had been hard-won over the past four years.

He tied the ends of the scarf together in a bow and sat back to look at her. She looked ludicrous and a giggle burst out of him. The scarf was such a contrast to the wildness that he loved about her – the wildness that came from fending for herself, and surviving, when she’d been abandoned by her previous owners. They’d tried and failed to train her to be more of a normal dog, but she’d set her own rules from the start – never going in the house (so not being kennelled for the digging), never wearing a lead, and never being without her Chewy Duck toy (which was why she had such a stupid name).

Duck looked at Toby indignantly and he found himself apologising for her appearance.

‘It’s just until the Grinders stop, okay? And…if you wear them, you’ll get to see Evie.’ He couldn’t believe he was using this as a selling point, particularly as he now realised that she couldn’t hear a thing he was saying.

Toby put his own ear protectors back on and slowly pushed open the shed door, watching all the time for her reaction. She paused at the threshold, and he wondered how much of the noise her fnely tuned ears could still hear. Whatever it was, she decided that she could cope with it for a taste of freedom, and she picked up Chewy Duck and stepped out gingerly into the yard. Mum was already there, a selection of picnic snacks in hand.

‘Ready?’ she asked.

Toby looked at his phone and the blank space where a reply should be.

‘Ready,’ he said.

Chapter Two

The Border

It wasn’t far to the Border area, and they walked fast, spurred on by Duck’s enthusiasm as she trotted along beside them. An elderly couple smiled and pointed at Duck as they passed by, and Duck lifted her scarf-wrapped head in reply as if scarves were the next big thing in summer dog-wear.

Toby had seen the top of the metal border fence being put up from his bedroom window, but at a distance, he hadn’t appreciated the sheer size of the structure that now barred the road he used to take to school. A sign on the railings blared in red letters:

THIS ROAD IS CLOSED

They joined a queue of people clutching passports and waiting apprehensively to fle past a man in uniform in a glass box. No one looked pleased to have to wait, and Toby wondered, for the hundredth time, why people had voted for this stuf. Duck edged closer to Toby’s side. The man in the box was barely looking at the papers people handed him, but as they approached, he shook his head.

‘No dogs allowed!’ rang the man’s voice, loud and clear in Toby’s ear protectors. The man gestured to a sign hanging from the side of the box with a big red cross through a picture of a dog. Alongside it, also crossed out, were pictures of bikes, scooters and suitcases. A cold prickle of unease crept and

settled across Toby’s back and shoulders.

‘Why exactly not?’ Mum asked the man whose forehead was wedged into a deep, frowning V shape.

‘Because it’s the rules.’ He tapped the sign again.

‘Says who?’ Mum demanded.

‘Says the Border Control Department.’ He was obviously trying to end the conversation, but Mum was defnitely not fnished.

‘We haven’t ofcially Separated yet, so where exactly does it say that dogs can’t cross in the Separation agreement?’ Mum’s face was fushing an alarming trafc light shade of red.

The man shrugged and looked over her shoulder at the queue building behind them. ‘You need to leave the dog, Madam, or you won’t be able to cross.’ It was clear that any further conversation was going nowhere.

Mum stood and stared at his turned head for a full thirty seconds, which, when there is a line of jittery people building behind you, is a very long time. Finally, she grabbed Toby’s arm and pulled him to the side of the queue.

‘I’m so sorry darling, we’ll have to leave Duck behind if you want to cross. Do you still want to go?’

Toby looked down at Duck who was now nudging his head between his knees looking for additional cover from the noise. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

Mani: Ok

That was it, nothing else.

He’d have all the time in the world with Duck after Separation, but this was the last time he would see Mani for… he didn’t want to think about it. He kicked a pebble hard across the road, and for a second the tension in his shoulders seemed to release with its fight.

‘We can take Duck home,’ he said, ‘I want to see Mani.’

Duck skulked a few feet behind them on their way back to the house. She was obviously unimpressed that her outing had been cut short and refused to get into the shed once back in the garden. Instead, she lay down in a patch of sunshine as far away from Toby and Mum as she could get and closed her eyes.

‘She never ignores me – she must be really mad,’ Toby said.

‘I’m sure she’ll get over it, darling.’ Mum reached out to gently rufe his hair; he batted her hand away. These days her pats and hugs of afection were more annoying than comforting, and he wondered briefy why Duck even liked being stroked.

‘Can I leave her outside?’ Toby asked. ‘She can’t annoy anyone right now if she barks?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Please?’ The shortness of Mani’s message was playing on his mind, and he didn’t want to battle to get Duck back into the shed.

Mum looked at Duck sleeping and nodded. They headed back out onto the street, closing the gate slowly behind them. Duck didn’t finch or open her eyes as they left, Chewy Duck still clamped frmly in her mouth.

Back at the border and back through the queue, the same ofcial now waved them through a small passageway between two panels of slatted metal fence. Toby walked behind Mum as they were funnelled towards a set of stairs, enclosed on all sides with wire meshing. The earth was physically vibrating under their feet as they approached, and the crescendoing, thudding noise from the Grinders rattled through his chest. It was like when Dad turned up the speakers really loud in the car, but here there was no happy singing or music behind it.

He concentrated on the pairs of feet on the stair in front of him and started climbing, THUD, step, THUD, step, THUD, step. The beating rhythm kept him moving, even when his

instinct was to turn around and run from the noise.

At the top of the stairs was the bridge. He had seen pictures of similar bridges being built on TV as the Grinders moved their relentless digging around Rode from town to countryside to city. On the news there were smiley faces waving Rodian fags as people posed to admire the Grinders at work beneath them, but here, in his town, seeing their work for the frst time took his breath away – and not in a good way.

Peering through the metal lattice surrounding him he could see the tarmac of the road abruptly end, and the darkness of the border chasm stretch out in a narrow line as far as his eye could see to his left, and all the way to the nearby coast on the right. It was as if God had gouged a fresh wound into the fesh of the earth with a blunt knife. There was nothing gentle to it. This wasn’t a steady mountain incline or an undulating clif face, the edges of the chasm looked raw and painful, with rough, jagged edges.

Almost directly beneath them, he could see the rubble of McVardy’s newsagents, where he and Mani used to buy crisps on their way home from school. It had only closed a month ago when Mrs McVardy was tearfully relocated by the authorities so they could prepare for the digging. Toby could still see part of the counter peeking out from beneath the fallen bricks, but the back of the shop was entirely gone, and he wondered if the Grinder had just sliced through it. The thought made him shudder.

He stared into the gloom. Fifteen metres to freedom, the Separation campaign leafets said. He always thought that this didn’t sound like much, but now, looking down into the darkness, it seemed very deep indeed.

Emma Mason

Emma has wanted to be a writer ever since she was a child, entranced by the mysterious squiggles on pages that grown-ups magically translated into stories. Once she realised they were words, her ambition was set – to write some of her own. Emma gets most of her ideas by daydreaming. She loves browsing second-hand bookshops for obscure stories, imagining what the past was like, and anything to do with time-travel. She was shortlisted for the Kelpies Writing Prize in 2019. Emma is half German, but grew up in Scotland.

The Winter of Spindlewood Cottage

Lockdown, November 2020: When twelve-year-old Billy is sent to stay with his Granny in her remote house in the Lake District, his turbulent relationship with his older sister, Florence, is tested to the limit. Battling boredom and loneliness, Billy is drawn to Spindlewood, an abandoned cottage surrounded by quicksand –where he and Florence begin exchanging letters with mysterious children. But there’s something strange, perhaps even ghostly, about these children. Why do they write in such an old-fashioned way, about war, and being evacuated to the countryside? As Billy and Florence confront secrets both past and present, their lives are about to be changed forever…Upper MG time slip. emmatheresa.m@gmail.com

The Winter of Spindlewood Cottage

Chapter One

People always told Billy to stay away from Spindlewood Cottage. And he listened – until that day in late 2020, the day Mum abandoned him and his sister at Granny’s.

She didn’t even come to the door with them, just dropped them of at the edge of the forest.

‘It’s safer this way,’ she said, handing them each a facemask. ‘You know what Granny’s like. She’ll want to invite me in for tea, make a whole event of it, social distancing rules or not! I’d rather not risk it.’

It was already getting dark. It had been a long drive up to Cumbria, where Granny lived. Billy looked at the path, disappearing into the woods like a black hole. They were by the sea, and usually, you could glimpse the coast through the trees, and Granny’s house at the end of the path. But today, a grey fog hung over them, covering everything except the closest bushes.

‘I’ll wait right here till you get to Granny’s door,’ Mum promised. ‘Don’t worry. Florence, you’ll message me when you reach it, won’t you?’

Florence just nodded. She still hadn’t taken of her headphones. She’d worn them for the whole drive. It had made it really boring. She wouldn’t chat or play any of the usual car games. In the end, Billy had spent most of the journey on his phone. He’d tried messaging Ollie, his best mate, but Ollie hadn’t replied. He was probably busy at school, with friends he could hang out with in person.

Billy hadn’t wanted to look out of the car window. The

motorway was so empty – only the occasional car, emerging from the mist like cockroaches in an apocalypse. It was easier to stare at the games on his phone where apocalypses were lead by tacky CGI zombies, and the tap of a fnger would swipe you back to the real world.

Florence didn’t even say goodbye to Mum properly. She stood rigid while Mum hugged her, like a stringless puppet. Billy saw the hurt look on Mum’s face, and for a moment he hated Florence. Now, he had to make Mum feel better – which meant acting doubly nice and grown-up and pretending he didn’t mind being abandoned.

He just about managed to hug Mum without being too clingy, and to not start crying, and to nod and smile when Mum gave her goodbye speech: about how she’d video call them every day, and it would only be a few weeks, and it really was the best solution. By that point, Florence had already picked up the suitcases and started walking.

‘Wait for Billy!’ Mum shouted after her. Florence stopped, just before the forest swallowed her. But she didn’t come back. She didn’t even turn around.

‘It’ll be okay,’ Mum whispered to Billy. She gave him a last quick hug and added, ‘And stay safe!’

Then, it was obvious that it was time for Billy to stop hanging around and to follow his sister.

He wished life was like a computer game. One where you could press pause and stop time. So even if you were about to be savaged by a monster, or lurch of a clif, you could halt the world in its tracks. Make everything stay exactly how it was, until you were ready to fght the monster or brave the fall.

He’d have given anything for a pause button right now. With Mum still there, Florence waiting for him. And this… whatever was ahead of them…not having started yet.

But it wasn’t a video game. It was real life. So he took one last look at Mum and followed Florence into the forest.

‘About time!’ Florence said. Before Billy had caught up properly, she was walking again.

He hated when she acted that way. Like, now she was fourteen, she was much older than him, instead of two years, and could hardly be bothered with him. She wasn’t even watching him, just expecting him to keep up.

It would serve her right if he walked extra slowly. If he stopped altogether, right there, in the middle of the path.

So he did.

He was halfway along already. The trees loomed over him, their thick leaves like devilish red clouds. It was still misty and even darker than before. He couldn’t see Mum anymore. He couldn’t see Florence in front of him either. She’d gone too far ahead. He was alone. He started to feel like he couldn’t breathe.

He needed a distraction, any distraction. So he switched on his phone torch, shone it around. Its sepia light made a comforting glow, spotlighting the path ahead of him, solid and concrete. The autumn leaves on the forest foor, in their friendly oranges and yellows, like a primary school paint palette…and then…

What was that? Another path?

It wasn’t an ofcial one. More, a trodden-in gap in the tangled forest bushes. It slithered enticingly away up the slope – towards the bay.

Almost instinctively, Billy walked towards it. It felt right. Better than going further down the main path, through the dark forest and towards Granny’s house, and these terrifying next few weeks.

Here, it was lighter. The trees thinned as he got higher up. He could see things now – glimpses of the wide bay, the sands in the distance.

Then, he saw something else. The thing that the path led to. And with a jolt, he remembered what it was.

The old abandoned cottage. It had always been there, right at the edge of the forest, looking over the bay. He’d walked past before, years ago. Back when the world was normal and visits to Granny were fun and short.

But Granny had always said not to get too close, that it was probably littered with broken glass and falling bricks and who-knew-what-else. Billy had almost forgotten it existed.

This was now, though. The moment he saw it, it was like a magnet, pulling him towards it. He liked how that felt: freer than the stomach-churning wrongness of leaving Mum, and his home, and his friends. As if time really had stopped.

Vaguely, he heard Florence calling, ‘Billy! Where have you got to? Come on!’ But it was easy to tune her out. Served her right for ignoring him in the car.

He drifted closer, shone his light over the front of the cottage, illuminating bit by bit. First, he could only see leaves, wrapped around the cottage like a cobra, devouring it. They covered it so thickly that it was difcult to see the bricks behind them.

When he shone his light towards the windows, he saw that there weren’t any. Just dark spaces between the bricks, like eye sockets on a skull. Billy checked the ground for broken glass, but he couldn’t spot any amongst the dead leaves. He was fed up of worrying about staying safe, anyway. It was all grown-ups went on about these days. It had been the last thing Mum said before he’d left her. Like it was a replacement for ‘goodbye’. It made him angry again.

So he walked right up, safety or not. He pressed his hand against the brick wall, and felt something metallic. He brushed a few clingy weeds away. It was a sign. It said: SPINDLEWOOD.

It had been someone’s home once. It had had a name. What had happened? How had it ended up like this? Like a corpse –slowly rotting away as nature absorbed it back into itself.

Suddenly, he wanted to run away. Back to the main path where Florence was waiting. But it was like he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot, staring at Spindlewood’s sad remains. He didn’t want to abandon it too.

For a second, Billy was sure he heard something. Inside the cottage, or just ahead of it. A soft, child-like voice. Calling, Where are you? Where are you?

It had to be the wind. It was blowing softly, a constant wailing as it rode across the bay and rattled the trees.

But he had to check. To make sure. He took a deep breath, tried to fght the churning in his stomach. Slowly, hesitantly, he moved his light. Prepared, for the frst time, to look through the black, skull-eye space, and inside the cottage.

And then it happened.

As sudden as lightning, fashes of light appeared –illuminating the cottage for two long beats, and then one shorter one. Billy reeled back. Terror pumped into his heart. Where had they come from? Inside the cottage…or somewhere beyond?

But there wasn’t anything beyond Spindlewood. There was only the bay, and that was just boggy grasses, followed by quicksand. Never walk out onto the sands that was another thing Granny had always told them. Not unless you wanted to sink to your death.

Billy had just got his breath back, was trying to convince himself he’d imagined it. When, like a horrifying encore, another snap of light came. A pause, then long ones: one… two…three…

‘Billy!’ Her hand on his shoulder. So sudden, so real, so out-of-place that Billy lost his mind completely – and screamed.

He swung round to face Florence. ‘What did you do that for?!’

‘What’s the matter?’ For a second she’d looked worried. Then she started laughing. ‘Billy, you look like you’ve seen a

ghost! What, did you creep yourself out?’

She’d broken the spell. She’d made him scream, and now she was laughing, like he was a dumb little kid and this was some stupid joke.

‘Mind your own business!’ Billy snapped. He stalked back down the slope, so quickly he almost tripped over the fallen leaves. Suddenly, the main path was far more welcoming.

Florence scrambled to catch up. ‘Come on!’ she said. ‘We’ve been dithering long enough – let’s get to Granny’s. What were you snooping round that place for, anyway? It’s freaky. I always feel like I’m being watched.’

Billy didn’t ask what she meant, though he wanted to. He didn’t want to give her a chance to laugh at him again. He grabbed his suitcase of the ground and walked on. He didn’t want to be here anymore, all alone. Florence was already a blur in the deepening dusk, walking too fast for him.

Then he saw another light, emerging from the turning of the path, up ahead. His heart jumped – until he heard a voice: ‘Florence? Billy? Where have you got to? Come on in, out of the cold!’

‘Granny!’ Billy shouted. Then he was running, out of the forest and towards her waiting home. Still concrete and cosy and real.

A world away from Spindlewood and whatever lay behind its corpsed-out walls.

Effie, age six

Efe cut through the cardboard carefully. She wasn’t the best at cutting round edges, but this was important. She wanted this paper doll to last as long as possible – maybe till she was grown-up.

Marilyn, said the page, above the doll. Mummy had read it out to her. Efe liked how the name sounded. My sister Marilyn. She’d always, always wanted a sister. The only other girls who lived nearby – Emily and Iris – were sisters, and they were always playing sister games together. That’s what they’d say when Efe asked if she could join in: ‘This is a sisters only game’. Then they’d run of and play it, and Efe would be left on the sidelines, not allowed to join in.

And now, Efe’s mother was of collecting an evacuee to stay with them. Efe had thought that was her chance. ‘Pleeeaaase let us take in a girl!’ she’d begged. ‘A girl my age, to play with!’

But Mummy and Daddy had laughed like she was silly. ‘We’ll be getting a boy,’ Daddy had said. ‘An older boy, to help on the farm. If we’re being forced to look after one of those ruddy children, he might as well earn his keep.’

There weren’t many people left to work on the farm. Daddy was always complaining about it. Before, he said (which meant some long-ago time before Efe could remember), there had been farm hands living at Spindlewood. But they’d all gone. Ever since Efe could remember, Spindlewood Cottage had stood empty, and Dad had been complaining that there were no decent helpers.

Lasses, he said – Mummy, or women from the town, or those land army girls – were all fne and good, but they weren’t made for it. ‘No,’ he’d said, ‘You need a good, strong boy to get proper work done.’

Efe thought that sounded stupid, but she was only six. Daddy said she’d know better when she was older.

So, even though the town was about to be fooded with new children, there was still no sister for her. She didn’t want a brother. The boys on her street were annoying – always charging about pretending to be bomber planes, barging into each other and making explosive noises. And an older boy

would be extra useless.

Still. Now, at least, she had Marilyn.

Efe managed to cut her out almost perfectly – even if her head was a tiny bit crooked and half her right foot had somehow been sliced of. She was examining her when the front door opened.

Efe sat up straight and turned to look. Mummy came in, wearing her polite Visitors Smile. And behind her was The Boy. He was exactly what Efe had been dreading. At least twice as old as her, with curly hair that was so messy he must have been playing some stupid rough game to get it that way. He looked at Efe, and then at Marilyn, and smirked.

‘Been caught in a bombing, has she?’ he asked, nodding at Marilyn’s missing foot. ‘I thought we’d come here to escape all that!’

Efe scowled. She’d been practising scowling in the mirror, and now she was glad she’d perfected it.

But then, someone else came into view. Efe stared. It was a girl, with long blonde hair, tied up in pretty ribbons. She was smaller than the boy. Only a few years older than Efe. She smiled at Efe, and Efe’s scowl melted away.

‘Efe, darling,’ said Mummy. ‘These are Geofrey Bennett – and his sister, Jemima.’

Chapter Two

From the outside, Granny’s house looked isolated. It was a grey-bricked, jagged-edged thing, standing right where the forest ended, wedged in a small space before the coast turned to rocky clifs. Above the clifs were felds, but Billy had never seen anyone working on them, and they looked bare and dead.

On the inside, though, the house was warm and cosy: an old-fashioned tin oven, wallpaper of faded farm animals, ramshackle plates and trinkets dotted everywhere, and a lit freplace heating the kitchen. Granny fitted about like a butterfy, making glasses of squash, putting a plate of tofee apples on the table. You wouldn’t have thought she was in her eighties. Mum always said she should take things easier. Granny always said Mum was a worry-wart.

Christopher Piper

Christopher is never quite all here and never quite all there. He’s usually lost between the pages of his imagination, only popping back to reality to do some writing. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t want to tell tales of quirky otherworlds rich in humour, horror and escapism. His stories explore neurodivergence and surrealism in an accessible, engaging way. As an illustrator, his novels come to life through hand-drawn art. Unwilling to let a silly thing like logic get in the way, his favourite words are...‘What if?’

A Case of the Vapours

Vapour the Steam Automaton is unwanted. Chatty, curious and easily distracted, she’s shipped of to the seashell city of Wentletrap to be someone else’s problem. Vapour hopes she and her snarky snake-like companion, Tether, will fnd somewhere to belong amongst the city’s ridiculous clockwork inventions. But dark secrets await her too. Dragons stalk the basements. Ghosts haunt the streets. Robot rebellion is brewing and rain is erasing humans from existence. Everyone in Wentletrap is losing their identity and looking for someone to blame. Vapour allies with Lacie, a smudgy human girl seeking answers. To escape Wentletrap’s clutches, Vapour must face her troubled past and decide if belonging anywhere truly matters.

cpchezpiper@btinternet.com

Full illustrated version available upon request.

A Case of the Vapours

Chapter One

Fault

Vapour’s journey neared its end, and nothing wanted to talk to her.

It was her own fault, really. Humans were human, and human she was not. After six days of travel, her fellow passengers’ patience had worn thinner than their third-class carriage seat cushions. Before she’d even opened her mouth this morning, someone had been fetched to get rid of her…again. Fortunately, that someone wasn’t very good at it. Unfortunately, it was getting quite boring to watch.

Vapour’s eyes glowed softly, casting crimson across the chewing gum stuck to a rickety metal frame above her. A pair of highly polished boots stomped past her location for the thirty-seventh time.

Four hours ago, hiding under this bunk bed had felt foolproof. Now, it felt like a headache. The carriage windows rattled. An alarm clock ticked somewhere above. Eight hundred miles of railway clacked beneath her. Steam trains were surprisingly noisy when pressed against their foorboards. A change of scene was long overdue.

Vapour’s gaze narrowed on the compartment’s open door. She couldn’t hear any more footsteps but didn’t dare risk crawling out to double-check.

So, Tether slithered loose instead.

With a serpent’s sleekness, he uncoiled from within Vapour’s shawl. His liquid coat bristled with a fuzz of ferrofuid spikes while four inky pincers peeped into the sleeper carriage.

His body rippled in thought to the ticking alarm clock.

Information: This is pointless, Tether clicked. His words drifted across Vapour’s mind like a passing haze, laced with customary disapproval. Note: We’ve spent 33% of this journey hiding under things and a further 18% being found hiding under things. Report: I have located our hunter. He’s near the door.

‘Oh, wizard…’ Vapour whispered. ‘What’s he up to? Can we sneak past?’

Tether shook his pincers. Information: He’s looking.

‘At what?’

Me, mostly. Oh, report: he’s coming over now. Query: Shall I wave, or are we going for the usual scream-andrun approach?

Vapour let loose a fow of steam, the closest she could get to a sigh. A familiar human face lowered into view. It came eyebrows frst, upside-down and bristled for war. Yet also surprisingly unsurprised at fnding Vapour beneath its own bed.

‘Tickets, please,’ the train guard’s tired voice drawled.

‘Do you really have nothing better to do?’ Vapour asked, mimicking the ticket guard’s expression. ‘It’s been six days. Surely there are other people you could ask.’

‘Tickets. Please,’ the guard repeated. It was quite an unreasonable request, given Vapour didn’t have one.

What she did have was a Plan B.

Putting on her widest smile, Vapour stretched her hand out to show the guard a well-read set of crumples. The letter’s scrufy ink was faded beneath regular metallic thumbprints.

The guard’s eyes remained locked onto Vapour.

‘Still not a ticket,’ he said plainly, before pointing to the cardboard tag tied around Vapour’s wrist. ‘That, on the other hand, tells me exactly where you’re supposed to be.’

‘My letter is better than a ticket!’ Vapour insisted. ‘It’s an invite! Well, sort of. More of a politely worded order. C’mon, please? It’s so booooring in that other carriage. If you’d just bother to read—’

‘I’m not paid to read beyond tickets or tags.’ The guard held up a hand to silence further argument. ‘You keep bothering passengers, and I’m tired of complaints. Unless you fancy swimming the rest of the way, get out from under my bed and follow me. This train deserves respect. Things like you should do as they’re told.’

Vapour gave a stif nod. It wasn’t fair. She’d smiled, been polite, hadn’t stolen any of the guard’s chewing gum – surely that was worth a ticket? Humans breathed emotional riddles. She couldn’t go two minutes without discovering another contradiction about them. There was no fner example than their one-sided love of mechanical things.

Humans travelled in them, built them, wore them round their wrists and gave them names. They talked on and on about how they were the future, yet were also endlessly uncomfortable with the notion that one day, something mechanical might want to talk for themselves.

Vapour was that something.

Vapour was an automaton.

And Vapour was quite sick of being one.

With Tether curled snugly round her arm, Vapour was escorted down the clacking corridor of carriages. The guard took his time, pausing frequently to remind passengers that they

neared their destination.

Vapour waved hello to each one. Nobody waved back.

It had been like this all day. Every human gaze was fxed on the compartment windows, watching boring dark skies over a boring dark sea. Yesterday, people had let her ask questions. Sometimes, they even answered. Now, any refection that spotted Vapour spying was flled with downright terror. She had no idea why.

In a vague squint-your-eyes and stand-ffty-feet-back sort of way, she wasn’t all that diferent from the youngest members of humanity. She had hands, feet, arms, legs, a nose, ears, eyes, frizzy hair – even dungarees. The problem was it was all made of diferent stuf, which was frustrating because Vapour didn’t feel very diferent on the inside.

Steam spilt past her lips as the guard dragged her on. Doing what she was told made her internal boil froth, although she had to keep it low to avoid scorching anyone. Humans never slowed the beat of their hearts for her, but they had stupidly burnable skin and rarely seemed to know how to act around her kind.

Steam Automata were supposed to be exactly that, autonomous. No longer servants or soldiers or washing machines of humanity. They were their own species, growing themselves from brass and steam instead of fesh and blood. Each received a purpose at birth, a Tether to guide them and an eternity to achieve it.

Except for Vapour, who had lost her purpose down the side of a sofa somewhere.

Automata claimed she acted too human. Humans claimed she acted too automata. For eight years, she had been sent all over to ft in here or ft in there, performing various odd jobs for increasingly disappointed masters who couldn’t fx her. She was forever someone else’s problem.

And now she’d been sent to ft in afar…

Crossing outside into the thin slither between carriages, Vapour eyed the viaduct fying beneath her brass feet. For six days, her entire world had been contained by its red brickwork, laid over an endless ocean. A human, leaning against a safety railing, was taking in the same view.

It was a woman, thick with soot. Little fragments trailed of her overalls like burnt snow and her hands were shaking, leaving dark smears in the air. Almost ghostly.

The woman took one look at Vapour, then burst into tears.

‘Why are you lot so scared of me?’ Vapour hufed.

Before the woman could answer, the guard pushed Vapour on towards the fnal carriage. The baggage car. He opened a familiar prison of cardboard-tagged crates.

‘Scared of you?’ he scofed, shoving Vapour inside. ‘Can’t you see the clouds? It’s the forecast. They say there’s going to be a light spot of rain.’

This was apparently sufcient explanation, for the door briskly swung shut.

‘Rain?’ Vapour rolled the word across her tongue. ‘… Raaaaiiiin.’

Hmm. Nope. It didn’t make sense. The guard would have to come back and explain.

Seizing the door handle, she gave it a jiggle.

Locked. Vapour tried again. Still locked.

She gave the door a kick, but this didn’t seem to change its mind. Darting across to the carriage’s opposite door, she found that locked too. What an overreaction! Nobody had bothered locking her up the last four times. Doing it now was just plain inconvenient. Perhaps there was a vent in the ceiling she could use…

Suggestion: Give it a rest, Tether clicked. Information: The carriage is locked. Note: It is also late. You should have travelled as I instructed. Skylines are more efcient.

‘You’ve got no sense of adventure,’ Vapour grumbled. Plopping atop an oak chest, she took her place among the luggage. ‘Skylines are boring, Tether. Big ol’ windowless boxes hanging in the clouds. What’s so efcient about that? Besides, this thing’s for trains only.’

She waggled the stupid cardboard tag tied to her wrist, then leant back, drumming her metal fngers across the carriage’s single window. She let loose a steamed sigh. With no humans about, she was fnally free to fare up a decent inner boil, and the window’s grimy glass quickly started to fog. Beyond it, a summit approached on the horizon.

Wentletrap – The Spiralled City.

It sat on the edge of the Nothing and the Nothing sat on the edge of everything else. This waveless ocean was barren. The furthest anyone could go before slipping of the map.

Wentletrap’s crooked spiral was less corkscrew, more upturned ice cream cone, splattered across the Nothing’s surface. A heat rash of red brick towers prickled the city’s porcelain slope. Enormous canvas windmills spun above several buildings.

It would make a terrible helter-skelter.

Vapour mused. ‘But I s’pose it is rather far away.’

examine the sky. The clouds were grey but hardly threatening.

Pressing her cheek against the window, Vapour could see the sooty

hands of the crying woman, still overhanging the carriage’s safety railing. They were shaking.

‘Rain…’ Vapour murmured again. ‘A little rain never hurt anyone. What’s with her?’

Opinion: Nothing beyond the usual human fare, Tether rippled. Suggestion: I could read her if you’d like? Perhaps the shivering is a sign of disease.

‘Stop it,’ Vapour tutted. ‘Pro’bly afraid, that’s all. Say, you reckon fear is worthwhile me picking up? Could be an excellent emotion to collect. Humans might actually talk to us if I perform it correctly.’

No, I don’t. Tether slithered tighter. This absurd hobby of yours will only lead to ruin. Note: Humans never want to talk to you. They don’t even want us on their train.

‘Lies. I got an entire train carriage to myself ‘cos of my charm and personality.’

Vapour crossed her feet atop a suitcase to bolster that indisputable fact.

Tether’s pincers wilted. Charm and personality should not factor into your function. Suggestion: You’ve developed a fault, Three-Eighty-Eight.

‘Vapour!’ Vapour hissed. ‘How many times? Name over number! And it’s not a fault. It’s me. What’s wrong with trying new things?’

You could be you, Tether clicked. Just without the faults. That would be considered “trying a new thing.”

He coiled back under Vapour’s shawl.

Vapour pufed her cheeks. There was no use arguing with someone who saw the world through ones and zeroes. Tether meant well, but he was also always there – that was the problem with having a companion permanently attached to you. Eight years in the same company could be very trying at times.

‘You’ll see,’ she said softly, watching steam spiral past her window. ‘The counterpart who invited us has a name too…’

She scrunched her invite tight. Nobody had written to her personally before. For the frst time, somewhere wanted her. Someone wanted her. Someone named “Sprocket” –an odd name for an automaton counterpart, but she wasn’t complaining.

Tether didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Vapour could feel his doubt trickle into her through their shared connection. She tried to ignore it. Tether wouldn’t take this from her. She was going to make Wentletrap work.

For a little while, anyway.

After all, nowhere ever thought she actually belonged. But it would be nice to pretend for a bit. Only for a bit. If she stayed put, how long would it take until she was just another Steam Automaton? Not Vapour. Simply VPR; Three-Eighty-Eight. Or worse…Updated into someone completely new. That thought made her inner boil shiver.

Updates were like letting someone else fll in your crossword. Vapour much preferred her own way.

A squeal from the train’s brakes cut into her thoughts. The entire baggage car leant sideways with a deep screech. Luggage fung across the compartment, and Vapour shrank back to avoid the suitcases sprawling onto the foor.

This happened several more times until the carriage passed under the tinted shadow of an iron canopy. By the time the train levelled out again, the entire baggage car was in chaos. Vapour winced. They better not blame this on her. If the guards spent less time locking doors, they would have remembered to tie things down. Even she knew that.

At long last, the train lurched to a halt, and the sound of footsteps echoed outside. Vapour quickly sat up, positioning her luggage tag to face forward. Squeezing her invite, a thousand bubbles boiled in her chest. She gave her shawl a few quick prods until Tether lazily uncoiled to fop atop her left shoulder.

‘Did you fall asleep?’

Tether shook his pincers. I am not capable of sleep. Nor do I see the appeal.

‘You should give it a shot before writing it of,’ Vapour said. ‘Could be your new thing. Anywho, we’re here. Wanna take a look?’

On cue, the baggage car’s large side door slid open. Most of the carriage’s fallen contents sloshed onto the platform below and pooled by a pair of polished boots. The ticket guard slowly looked up to Vapour. His eyebrows scrunched into attack formation.

‘They here then?’ Vapour waved her invite. ‘My collectors?’

The guard fxed her with a long glare. Vapour didn’t feel like copying this one.

‘Get of,’ he spat. ‘I need to lock up before rainfall.’

‘I’d rather wait, thanks,’ Vapour said. ‘My invite—’

Climbing aboard, the guard seized Vapour’s shawl. ‘Still not reading it. Six days trying to keep you in here, and now you won’t leave?’

He hauled Vapour towards the doorway. Tether shrunk back, snapping as Vapour scufed her heels against the foorboards. It took all she had to avoid scalding the man.

‘Just look!’ she hissed. ‘I’m s’posed to be collected!’

Uncrumpling her invite, Vapour waggled it in front of the guard’s face. Each time he pushed it aside, she brought it back until, fnally, the guard snatched it from her fngers. His eyebrows lowered to maximum depth as he reluctantly squinted at the printed words.

‘This is an invoice.’

Vapour nodded. ‘That’s better, right? Like an invite, but louder.’

‘It’s a request for collection of payment,’ the guard clarifed. ‘You’ve been bought by a human.’

Vapour blinked, feeling Tether bristle with sudden concern.

‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m being collected. Not some payment. By a counterpart! A Steam Automaton. Who would wanna buy me?’

‘How should I know?’ The guard gave Vapour one last shove of the carriage. ‘Welcome to Wentletrap.’

Edward Powe

Ed is a boy who never left the classroom. By day, he’s a headteacher of a primary school, and having been in education for twelve years, Ed has worked with authors young and old, seeing frsthand the power that well-told stories have to change lives. By night, it’s American sports and pork scratchings. Ed is married to Annabel, his much better half, who together have the privilege of raising three wonderful children by adoption. Of all the things in Ed’s life, this has had the most infuence on his writing.

Deadline Day

Ten-year-old Liv has seen everything in her life change. She has a new house, new school, new football team, and now a new adoptive Mum and Dad to get used to. The only thing that’s stayed the same is her annoying, mystery-obsessed brother, Harvey, who seems more interested in embarrassing her at every opportunity than he does in fnding his feet. So when they become friends with the ghost of a tofee-chewing detective with a score to settle, they have to work together to solve the case of a fading football star. Can they put aside their rivalry to fnd the murderer? Deadline day is approaching…MG contemporary.

ejpowe27@yahoo.co.uk

Deadline Day

Chapter One

The Corridor of Uncertainty

It was the best moment of my life.

The ball spun in mid-air, a blur of mud and leather, orbiting like a white and brown meteor heading straight for the top corner of the goal. The kid was already celebrating as it left his foot, arm in the air, ready for the cheers from the rest of his team and coach. It seemed unstoppable – the net was about to explode. Oak Hill had surely levelled this game.

But I had other ideas.

Like a rocket, I leapt, stretching every muscle that I had, pushing my fngers as high as I could. For a moment I was frozen in time, suspended mid-air. I was a weightless, fying astronaut. The ball was thrown completely of course, tipped over the bar by the tiniest of touches from my index fnger. I heard the clang of the crossbar being struck as I landed to earth with a thud, face down.

‘What a save!’ yelled Joe, our centre-back. He rufed my hair in what felt like slow motion. I wiped the dirt from my face with the back of my goalie gloves. My brown hair was even more brown than usual, but that was the sign of a good goalkeeping performance.

Oak Hill School, still getting over the fact that they weren’t now level, sent their attacking players up for the corner kick. Our team held onto them like gravity.

‘Goal side!’ I commanded, pointing to Tom who was daydreaming at the near post. I clapped my gloves together and bounced on the spot. That save had injected me with

a confdence that I had never felt before. Suddenly I felt invincible. This was not the timid, ten-year-old Liv of the classroom. For forty minutes, I was Queen of St Michael’s school. Well, the football team, at least.

Oak Hill launched another missile towards the penalty box, foating it to the back post where a crowd of players waited. The wind made it swirl and drift,the worst kind of deadball delivery. But I was ready. I took three steps and threw myself into the air, rising higher than the players around me. My arms reached over their heads. I caught the ball safely in the cradle of my arms. Gravity wasn’t a thing at that moment.

Adults cheered on the sidelines. Even Oak Hill’s parents joined in. I caught Maggie’s gaze out of the corner of my eye. She was beaming with pride. She NEVER came to games. She was always busy with Phoenix and Harvey. But she was there for me, for MY moment. Maggie clapped and whooped enthusiastically. My sister and baby brother clung to her coat. They didn’t know a thing about the beautiful game, but they knew a thing or two about me. Maybe having a foster family wasn’t so bad after all.

I held on to the ball for as long as Mr Phillips (the ref) would allow it. The striker whose shot I had so expertly saved was moaning, gesturing to me to get on with the game. I booted the ball as high and as far as I could, belting it towards the other half of the feld like an asteroid. But this game was end-to-end action, and I barely had a minute to breathe before we were defending again.

Oak Hill had a pacey winger and Joe couldn’t keep up with him. He dribbled the ball on the left and didn’t even blink as he darted down the sideline, leaving Joe for dead. I bounced on my toes, looking in thirty directions at once, praying for Mr Phillips to blow his whistle. One last attack, I thought.

The ball fzzed across the goal, skimming along the ground like a pebble across a pond between the defender and me.

The corridor of uncertainty. It was the type of pass across the penalty box where a keeper doesn’t know whether to stay on their line or rush out to try and get the ball. On another day, little Liv might have hesitated, but today I sprinted across the goal and dived on the ball like a cat trying to catch a mouse. The striker, the one having a VERY frustrating day, slid in with his right foot at the same time. He was too late. The ball was safe in my arms again. The crowd cheered once more.

‘Yes, Liv!’ I heard Joe say. But something was wrong. I felt a sharp pain in my leg and screamed, rolling on the foor. Even in agony, I was buying us time and I made sure to hold onto the ball as I rolled around. Clearly, the Oak Hill striker had missed the ball, but he hadn’t missed me.

There was no cheering, no moaning from Oak Hill for time-wasting, and a strange kind of silence. I opened my eyes to see several players from both teams standing over me. Joe had his hands over his mouth. Very quickly, Mr Phillips parted the crowd.

‘OK, OK, Liv, don’t worry…Paul, Paul, you’re on,’ he said to the substitute keeper with some urgency.

I wasn’t concerned until Mr. Phillips said, ‘Don’t worry.’ People only say that when you need to panic. I looked down to see my leg covered in blood and mud. I wish I hadn’t, because suddenly my brain had registered that I should be in pain and decided to give me a healthy dose of agony. I felt like I had been shot. Mr Phillips scooped me into his arms and cradled me like an oversized baby.

‘I think you’re going to have to go to hospital I’m afraid, Liv.’

Maggie and the kids rushed onto the pitch to walk with me. There was now a murmur from all the players and spectators.

‘Liv, your leg!’ said Pheonix with a wobble in her voice. My little sister was literally obsessed with injuries of any kind. Maggie grabbed my hand and squeezed it. She was always the

practical one in a crisis, but my crisis was going on in my head. Paul was a good goalkeeper, but I was jealous that he was going to take my place in goal for the fnal minutes. A ripple of applause began, like when a player in the premier league is taken of on a stretcher. It turned into a full-blown round of cheers, from both sides. Suddenly the pain in my leg felt less. I gave a thumbs-up to everyone, enjoying the attention.

Mr Phillips dropped me gently onto the chair in the frstaid room. I didn’t look as Mrs Davies patched me up.

‘The game’s over…did we win?’ I spoke. Mrs Davies didn’t seem to notice the urgency in my voice.

‘I don’t know, dear. I think you’ve got more important things to be worrying about right now.’

Luckily, a knock on the door arrived with the news. It was Joe. Captain, leader, legend. By the smile on his face, he didn’t need to say anything. He wiped his foppy blonde hair away from his eyes.

‘Did we do it?’ I said.

‘Yep! We did it…mainly thanks to you.’

I blushed. Mrs Davies carried on like we weren’t even in the room.

‘That looks…disgusting,’ Joe managed after a moment’s silence. I took another look to see what looked like a hole in the side of my knee, probably made by a football stud. I nodded in agreement.

‘Pretty sickening I’d say, but worth it to keep a clean sheet.’

Joe laughed.

‘Well, get well soon…fnal in two weeks. Come…on…you… Saints!” He bounced out of the room, swinging his boot bag like a rattle.

I sat back in my chair and looked at the ceiling. I could hardly contain my joy, which was weird as I was about to be carted of to hospital. It would be my frst ever cup fnal, and

the captain of the team thought I was player of the match. This was the high point of the day, the best day of my life. Little did I know that everything was about to come crashing down to earth.

Two hours later, Maggie and I were sitting in a hospital corridor like a mother and daughter. With Auntie Carol looking after Phoenix and Harvey at home, I actually had my carer’s undivided attention for a change.

It was a long wait so we re-lived every moment of the game. Maggie showed me a few pictures on her phone that she’d taken, including one of my spectacular second-half save.

‘My Clive would have loved to have seen these,’ she said. There was still a tinge of pain in her voice. Even though it had been well over ten years, she still missed him – the pipesmoking, tofee-chewing, football-fanatic policeman who had known her as his childhood sweetheart. It was hard to believe that I had never actually met him.

‘Yeah…maybe we could go to the grave next week? We haven’t been for ages?’ I ofered.

Maggie pulled me close to her chest and squeezed gently. Her fur coat felt nice against my skin.

‘I’d like that Liv,’ she said. I was enjoying this moment. Thinking about losing Clive in some way kind of helped me forget about losing Mum.

Suddenly, social worker Sara appeared at the end of the hallway, holding three cups of what I assumed was hot chocolate between her fngers.

‘Hi Liv, hi Maggie. My goodness, Liv, are you ok?’

I nodded gingerly. I’d learned my lesson with social workers. Smile, look sweet and cute, and don’t tell them that anything is wrong. I leant into Maggie and she felt my tension.

‘She’s fne, aren’t you, love?’ said Maggie. ‘I have to tell you, she’s a very brave girl. It looks like she’s only going to need stitches, nothing broken, just a nice little hole in her knee.’

Social worker Sara tried to hide her grimace behind her professional smile, handing us the hot chocolates.

‘Well done Liv. Great job, she said like I’d just fnished painting a picture at pre-school. ‘Pheonix and Henry ok?’

‘Harvey!’ I said into my drink.

‘Sorry…yes, Harvey…I’ve just come back from seeing a Henry, that’s why.’ She seemed embarrassed by the mistake. There was then a boring conversation that I zoned out of about trafc and forms and other grown-up nonsense. I felt tired, but I didn’t have long to relax.

‘Listen, Liv, I’ve got something to tell you,’ said Sara.

My stomach dropped instantly. Social workers never had any good news to tell me, ever. I’d got used to them with all their boring explanations about why they took me away from Mum and about how settled I seemed.

‘It’s good news, Liv,’ said Maggie. The grown-ups grinned at each other. She was in on it too!

I stared at the foor and made the silence as awkward as possible.

Just get on with it, I thought.

‘…You’ve been matched.’

Of all the things that I was expecting, that was NOT it.

‘Matched? But…’ I said, not sure what else I was about to say.

‘Yes, sweetie,’ continued Sara. ‘Remember, it’s my job as your social worker to help you fnd your forever family. Well, all the grown-ups and the Big Wise Judge have found you a new mummy and daddy!’

I said nothing. I didn’t even move. Maggie rubbed my arm.

‘Anyone there?’ she said.

‘They’re really lovely,’ continued Sara, in her patronising tone. ‘In fact, Liv, you’ve already met them.’

‘Wait, what?’

Sara nodded.

‘Wanna see?’ she said.

I didn’t move from my comfy spot in Maggie’s embrace. The phone was placed right in front of my face. I saw a man and a woman standing there, smiling. Their smiles seemed genuine.

‘She has brown eyes,’ I said.

‘Ah yes, you’re right!’ said Sara, pleased that I’d said something. ‘You met them at an activity day a few months ago.’

I searched my brain whilst looking at my new parents’ faces. I had no memory of the man, but I did remember the woman.

‘The trampoline?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said Maggie, ‘You, Phoenix and Harvey were all sitting on the trampoline whilst Abbie jumped up and down. It was so cute.’

‘Abbie?’ I said.

‘Abbie and John, your new mum and dad, Liv. We didn’t want to tell you until things were more defnite. We just know you’re all going to love them,’ said Sara, putting her phone back in her pocket.

Don’t tell me who to love, I thought.

I felt like I had been taken out of orbit. I had so many thoughts that it was hard to know where to start.

‘What team does he support?’ I said.

Sara and Maggie chuckled together.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not sure that he’s a fan of football.’

I put my hood over my head and shut the world out. This was going to change everything. Maggie and Sara left me in my vacuum for a few minutes, letting the news come in to land. They knew that saying any more would just make things worse. How could my new dad not be a fan of football?

I took deep breaths and tried to make sense of the hospital

smells and sounds. There were people who were waiting who seemed in a lot more pain than me. One guy had a heavy bandage on his hand and looked pale from the loss of blood. It was a sorry little crowd of the wounded. The perfect place to fnd out that your whole world was falling apart.

There was a sigh of relief from all three of us when the nurse called us in. Anything to get out of the awkwardness of this situation. Maggie held my hand and I squeezed it a little harder than I needed to. Somehow, I wanted her to feel what I was going through.

‘Just cleaning it up with a bit of iodine,’ said the nurse, undoing another packet of something. I was amazed at how relaxed she seemed, just casually doing her thing. The anaesthetic had worked its magic and I felt the relief almost instantly.

‘You’ll need to get your stitches removed in about a week,’ she said, ‘and be careful to keep your dressing clean.’

‘Maybe a couple of days of school?’ I said, hopefully. The nurse laughed.

‘You’ll be fne, young lady, you can still walk. Oh, and no football for three weeks, please.’

‘What?’

‘Not unless you want to make it worse.’

Finally, I broke down in tears, hitting the hospital bed as hard as I could.

‘Don’t worry, Liv,’ Sara said. ‘You’ll be able to play again soon.’

‘But…you…don’t…understand!’ I wailed into the pillow. ‘The cup fnal!’

Maggie picked me up and cradled me just like Mr Phillips had.

‘I think we better get this one home,’ she said. ‘She’s had quite the day.

Abigail St. John

Abigail St. John is a writer from Chicago with a big imagination. By day, she works as a teaching artist, sharing her love for reading and theatre with students of all ages. At night, she dreams up new ridiculous ideas to put into her stories. When she isn’t teaching or writing, Abigail can be found playing bass with her family band, the St. John Family Hour, or bothering her roommate’s cat.

Emma and the Aliens

Ten-year-old Emma is sure this summer is going to stink. Her mom is sick, she’s got a permanent sunburn, and she’s stuck with her boring grandparents in their boring retirement community. Then, a wanna-be alien hunter crashes into her life. Dorothy May Callahan imagines aliens around every corner. She’s decided to stop their invasion by pulling the biggest pranks Pleasant Rest Retirement Village has ever seen, and she’s dragging Emma along for the ride. Together, they’ll fnd imaginary aliens and genuine friendships that will change their lives forever. Upper MG contemporary.

abirosestjohn@gmail.com

Emma and the Aliens

Chapter Three I Learn the Rules

When I got back inside, Grandma Hastings was lying down on the sofa. I tried to tiptoe by the living room, but she must have heard me because she lifted her head and said, ‘Emma?’

I came in and sat down on the foor next to the couch.

Grandma Hastings smiled at me. ‘Did you have fun playing outside?’

I thought about Dorothy May. I wouldn’t exactly say I’d had fun, but at the very least, it had been more interesting than anything else that had happened since I arrived. I nodded. Grandma Hastings patted my cheek, which burned under her hand. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘You could use the sunshine.’

‘Did you talk to Mom?’ I asked, like I didn’t already know.

‘Yes.’ Grandma Hastings pulled back her hand.

‘Is she OK?’

‘She’s fne, dear. She says hello.’

‘Did she say anything else? Did she want to talk to me?’

‘Of course she did, but she’s so busy, you understand.’

‘Yeah.’

Grandma Hastings closed her eyes. ‘I’m going to take a little nap,’ she said. ‘Will you be alright on your own for an hour?’

‘OK.’

‘You’re such a good girl.’

I got up and tiptoed away.

The guest room in Grandma and Grandpa Hastings’ house was almost entirely white. There was fuzzy white carpet on the foor, white wallpaper on the walls, white sheets on the bed, a white dresser in the corner, white curtains on the window. The only things that weren’t white were the baby blue clock on the white bedside table and my things. My green suitcase in the corner, my blue backpack on the foor, me with my brown hair, my blue tank top, my red face. We all looked like we didn’t belong.

I closed my eyes and fell back onto the white bed, imagining the red from my sunburn running of me onto the sheets. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Mom said right before I got on the plane. ‘It’ll be great, Emmy. You’ll love it. You deserve a break.’ She’d had that too-chipper voice like she was trying not to cry. The words swirled around my head like mosquitoes. I rolled over, and something crinkled in my pocket.

I sat up. I’d forgotten all about the handbook. I pulled it out, smoothing the crumpled edges against my leg. The paper was worn and soft. It was just one page, which I thought was too short to really be called a ‘handbook’. The alien in the top corner frowned up at me. His eyes were lopsided like he’d been drawn in a hurry.

WE ARE ALIEN HUNTERS, the page began, HERE TO PROTECT HUMANITY FROM HOSTILE ALIEN THREATS (H.A.Ts). The handwriting was nicer than the bubble letters at the top, and it didn’t shake, the way the lines in the drawings did. I wondered if somebody had helped Dorothy May write it.

I kept reading. H.A.Ts, the page said, CAN DISGUISE THEMSELVES TO LOOK LIKE ANYBODY. THE DISGUISES ARE PERFECT, SO YOU CAN’T TELL BY LOOKING WHO’S HUMAN AND WHO’S NOT.

THE ONLY WAY TO KNOW IF SOMEBODY’S AN ALIEN IS TO MAKE THEM ANGRY. WHEN ALIENS GET ANGRY, THEY

CAN’T USE THEIR POWERS TO KEEP UP THEIR DISGUISES. THEY STOP LOOKING LIKE PEOPLE AND START LOOKING LIKE ALIENS AGAIN. IF WE CAN MAKE THEM ANGRY, WE CAN FIND THE ALIENS AND STOP THEIR EVIL PLANS. BUT HOW DO WE MAKE THEM ANGRY?

A whole army of arrows pointed at the next sentence, which had been circled about fve times.

‘This is stupid,’ I whispered. ‘This is so stupid.’ The words EPIC PRANK WAR!! stared up at me.

I imagined playing pranks on the people I’d met in Pleasant Rest Retirement Village. Most of them didn’t like me even when I wasn’t doing anything at all. My skin felt too tight imagining doing something to make them mad on purpose.

None of it made sense, either. Aliens wouldn’t care about kids playing pranks. And aliens wouldn’t be hiding in a neighborhood full of sleepy old people. I put down the handbook and slipped of the bed onto the foor. I stretched out my legs, bumping my backpack with my foot. It tipped over, and my beat-up old teddy bear, Mr. Fuzzbutt, fopped out.

‘This is stupid,’ I told him. ‘I’m not getting in trouble for some imaginary aliens.’ Mr. Fuzzbutt stared back at me with his button eyes. I picked him up and rubbed his ear between my fngers.

‘It was kind of nice, actually having someone to talk to,’ I whispered. ‘No ofense.’ I glanced back at the paper on the bed. ‘Do you think I should read the rest of it?’ I asked, then I felt silly for asking a teddy bear anything, and I shoved him back in my backpack before I could talk to him again.

I grabbed the handbook. Under what I had already read, there was a list. The line above declared it was the RULES FOR ALIEN HUNTERS.

I read it, then read it again, then read it a third time.

‘This is so stupid.’

I tossed the paper back onto the bed. Dorothy May had told me to meet her at the pool at exactly 9:21 the next morning. ‘Stupid,’ I said to the empty room. ‘Who says stuf like that? I’m not going.’

It turned out I was right. I didn’t go to the pool at 9:21 the next day.

I got there at 9:15.

Chapter Four

The Alien Defense Force

Dorothy May was already at the pool when I arrived. She sat on the edge of the deep end, swinging her legs under the water. In the shallow end, the Pleasant Rest Lady’s Water Aerobics club was doing their exercises and shooting her angry looks. There were mesh walls around the pool to keep the bugs out and let the sun in. Instead of going inside, I stopped by the door and watched. The water aerobics club moved gently through their stretches, carefully keeping their painted nails and make-up-covered faces in the air.

Dorothy May was still wearing her ugly, striped shirt, this time with lime green shorts covered in smiling cartoon avocados. She was holding a bright pink pool noodle. Each time the class instructor, Marge Mitchem, shouted an order at her students, Dorothy May hit the end against the water, sending little droplets into the air. They didn’t fy far enough across the tiny pool to hit the class, but I could see the ladies jump at the sound every time. Dorothy May tore chunks of foam of the end in her hands, creating a little pile of pink garbage next to her. Some chunks, she dropped into the water by her feet, letting them get caught up in the ripples of the pool noodle and foat away. Others, she tossed at the ladies.

A piece of foam bounced of Marge Mitchem’s swim cap, and she stopped her shouting, letting her hands drop down to hover just above the surface of the water.

‘Young lady!’ Marge Mitchem said sharply ‘That is enough!’ Dorothy May dropped another chunk of pool noodle into the water. Marge rounded on her class and asked, ‘Who is watching this girl?’

One of the women waded towards Dorothy May to get a better look. She wore a fowery purple bathing suit with a matching cap. Her purple fngernails danced nervously above the water like she was worried they might melt. ‘Aren’t you Patricia’s granddaughter?’ she asked Dorothy May. Dorothy May responded by ficking a noodle chunk at her. The water aerobics class gasped and muttered to each other about ‘rude little girls’ with ‘no respect!’ Marge pufed out her cheeks.

‘Children are not allowed in the pool without an adult.’

‘I’m not in the pool,’ Dorothy May said. I sucked in a breath. I would never be able to say something like that to a grown-up, but Dorothy May looked totally calm. In fact, she grinned as Marge’s face turned red.

‘I’m calling Patricia!’ someone said, climbing out of the pool. Marge pushed through the water towards Dorothy May. My stomach lurched like I was on a roller coaster.

‘Little girl, you are disrupting our class. I suggest—’

Whatever Marge was going to suggest was interrupted as Dorothy May lifted both her legs and brought them down hard on the water’s surface, spraying the whole water aerobics class. Marge gasped. The ladies stumbled as they tried to protect their make-up. The one in the purple suit, who had been closest to Dorothy May, shook herself like a wet dog.

‘Get out of here this instant!’ Marge roared. I took a few steps back, my heart squeezing like I was the one being yelled at. Dorothy May stood up nice and slowly, bowed to the class, and blew a world-record length raspberry.

The ladies roared at Dorothy May. There was so much shouting, I couldn’t make out what anyone was saying. Dorothy May ran towards the door, and towards me.

She slammed the screen door open and sped through. I thought she was going to run right over me, but as she got close, she reached out and grabbed my hand, shouting, ‘Let’s go!’

I stumbled into a run. Dorothy May pulled me down the street. We bobbed out of the way of an old couple, and they shouted after us to slow down.

‘Sorry!’ I yelled, but Dorothy May didn’t even pause. We ducked under a fence into someone’s garden, splashed through three diferent sprinklers, and fnally came to a stop in a small, shady yard behind a tiny white house. A squat palm tree sat in the front corner, surrounded by brown grass. At the very back was an ancient-looking wooden castle, just big enough for a kid to crawl inside.

My heart rattled against my ribs, and I panted like Mr. Martin’s dog as I struggled to catch my breath. Dorothy May bounced on her heels, clapped her hands and said, ‘That went well.’

‘It did?’ I wheezed. ‘It looked like you got in trouble!’

‘But didn’t you see them?’ She pulled a nasty face that made her look scarily like Marge Mitchem. ‘They were FURIOUS! And that proves that they’re human.’

‘How?’

‘Didn’t you read the handbook?’

I remembered what it said about aliens losing their human disguises when they got mad. I wondered what that would look like. Would their faces melt of, or peel away like masks? What did aliens even look like?

I couldn’t answer those questions, and I didn’t think Dorothy May could either, so I looked around at the yard and found another one. ‘Are we allowed to be here?’

‘Of course we are.’ Dorothy May had been pretty comfortable cutting through other people’s yards, so I wasn’t sure I believed her. It must have shown on my face because she rolled her eyes and added, ‘It’s mine. Well, my granny’s. So, basically mine. Anyways’ —she put her hands on her hips— ‘you know why I brought you here. We have something to talk about. Are you joining or not?’

I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d thought about it until I went to sleep last night and I’d started thinking about it again the second I woke up. I didn’t want people mad at me. I especially didn’t want them calling my grandparents like the one water aerobics lady had said she would do. Grandma and Grandpa Hastings wouldn’t do much, but they might call Mom, and she had enough to worry about.

I reached for the one-page handbook, which I’d stufed in the pocket of my shorts. As I started to unfold it, Dorothy May snatched it out of my hands and growled, ‘Not here.’

She grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the castle, moving so fast that I barely had time to duck before my head thwacked against it. We squished into the cubbyhole inside. It was obviously meant for kids a lot smaller than us, and we barely ft. Our knees knocked together.

‘What did you do that for?’ I said, rubbing my elbow where it had bumped against the wall. Dorothy May smoothed the handbook out on her knee then shoved it towards me, jabbing her fnger at rule number one: ‘Always assume someone is listening.’

‘You never reveal ADF materials in public,’ she said seriously. ‘If you were seen, your life would be in danger.’

‘But it’s OK in here?’

‘Yeah, here’s fne.’

‘Why?’

Dorothy May rolled her eyes like it was obvious. ‘It just is. Aliens can’t see through wood.’

I looked at the walls around us. Sunlight slipped in through a hole bigger than a baseball behind Dorothy May’s head. It didn’t seem like this castle would be able to keep out a breeze, let alone stop evil aliens. Before I could ask more questions, Dorothy May said, ‘So are you joining the ADF?’

‘ADF?’

‘The Alien Defense Force.’ Dorothy May said the words like they were covered in glitter.

I gulped. ‘I’m not sure I…I mean, do you really believe in all this?’

‘You don’t?’

I didn’t respond. Dorothy May narrowed her eyes at me. ‘You think I’m making it up?’ I squirmed. Dorothy May pushed me to the side and started scooching towards the exit. ‘Guess you can’t join then.’

‘No!’ I surged forward, blocking her way. Dorothy May raised her eyebrows at me, waiting for me to say something. ‘I, um…’ I stopped. I had no idea what to say. She settled back on her heels. A beetle climbed out of a hole in the wall onto my shoulder. Wordlessly, Dorothy May plucked it of.

She looked down at the bug. With her laser blue eyes pointed somewhere else, I could think again. Dorothy May dropped the beetle onto her thigh. It charged down her leg, but before it could escape completely, she caught it and put it back. We both watched it trundle over a cartoon avocado. I wasn’t sure if Dorothy May was still waiting on my answer, or if she had totally forgotten me. I didn’t know which would be worse.

I wanted a friend. I wanted someone to be there, to talk to me, even if it was someone as weird as Dorothy May. I took a deep breath and said, ‘OK.’ Dorothy May looked up. The beetle escaped.

‘OK?’

‘I’ll join the ADF.’

Dorothy May grinned. I don’t think a smile has ever been that scary. I felt like shivering, then I realized I was grinning, too.

‘Well then,’ Dorothy May said in a serious-business voice ‘Welcome, recruit!’ She held out her hand and I shook it. She didn’t let go. ‘But it won’t be that easy,’ she said, digging her fngers into my palm and dragging me forwards again. ‘First, you’ll have to pass the test.’

Imogen Townsend

Imogen writes about the mythical and the magical from her attic in Manchester in the UK. As well as being an aspiring author, Imogen is also a bookseller for independent bookshop, Rossiter Books. She is passionate about the industry and enjoys engaging with readers of all ages and interests. She has plenty of experience with public speaking and would be well-suited to talking at events or festivals.

The Atlanteans

Upper-middle-grade fantasy for fans of Percy Jackson and Amari and the Night Brothers. After nearly blowing up her history classroom, Rhea discovers that she is a descendant of Atlantis. A secret society of Atlanteans awaits where she’ll be taught how to control her powers and, hopefully, make a few friends. But when Rhea starts to uncover the truth about the Atlantean Council, she and her new friends fnd themselves at the centre of an ancient feud dictated by forces greater than they could have imagined. Rhea has an ally on her side though, an ancient power that is calling to her from the depths of the ocean…

imyrt21@gmail.com

The Atlanteans

Chapter One

Let the record show, I absolutely, categorically, indisputably did not…intentionally electrocute Mrs Winthrop. ‘Electrocute’ is too strong a word, really. To be absolutely clear, she’s still alive and (almost) completely uninjured! She’s just a bit… smokier…than she was before.

Maybe I’m cursed? That seems like the only reasonable explanation for how I’ve ended up in this situation: hiding out in the boys’ toilets as a mob of teachers and my hyper thirteen-year-old peers scour the hallways looking for me. I close the lid of the cleanest-looking toilet and sit, playing the last hour back in my head, trying to fgure out where it all started to go wrong.

The lesson had been on Anne Boleyn, and whilst I’m sure she was a very interesting lady, most of my energy was being spent on making sure my eyes did not move away from the whiteboard, and my pen remained frmly in my hand. This was more difcult than it sounds because Peter Smythe and Lindsay Bradshaw were whispering and giggling from the table behind. I was ninety-nine percent sure they were talking about me, but I was determined to pay attention to Mrs W and not get into any more mischief.

I was doing a superb job until Peter and Lindsay started throwing balled-up bits of paper at me. They ricocheted of my back and hit the ground, each one undoubtedly flled with a spiteful comment or rude drawing. My jaw clenched. My pen began to grow very warm in my hand. Soon it was scorching, and I dropped it with a cry. This, of course, made

Mrs Winthrop turn around.

Casting her eyes over the ring of scrunched-up paper surrounding my desk, Mrs W fxed her discerning gaze upon Peter and Lindsay, who were trying very hard to look down at their workbooks and appear exceptionally studious. She approached our desks, smiling kindly at me, bending to retrieve my dropped pen.

The dropped pen that was now lightly smoking.

‘No, don’t!’ I yelped, reaching to grab Mrs Winthrop. As a familiar fzzing sensation made its way from my chest through my shoulder blades and along the length of my wrist, I realised I had made a colossal mistake. I was not quick enough to let go of Mrs Winthrop’s arm before a hot bolt of electricity shot out of my fngertips and into the history teacher.

A BANG rang out across the classroom. I was frozen in place. It was my biggest volt yet.

Peering through the smoke, I saw Mrs Winthrop looking a bit dazed but, thankfully, unharmed. Her long, usually straight hair was frizzed out in a circle around her head, and her glasses were fogged up with soot, but she didn’t appear to be injured. The main casualties were her eyebrows, which were entirely gone. I began to feel a lot of eyes on me. I did the only reasonable thing left to do and ran.

Now, sitting on the toilet seat, I try to breathe. But when you’ve electrifed your teacher in front of the entire class, something like breathing proves quite tricky. I begin to panic as my chest gets tighter and tighter, and the stall gets smaller and smaller. I’m vaguely aware of voices in the hallway – the excited chattering of teenagers and the frantic instructions of teachers. I think I hear the words ‘Rhea Hale’, ‘electrocuted’ and ‘disappeared’. I am on the brink of a full-blown freakout when I am interrupted by an abrupt knocking on the bathroom door.

‘I’m afraid you really must breathe if you want to escape the angry mob of tweens out there,’ a voice says. I freeze. I know that voice. But why would she be here?

‘Would you mind letting me in, Rhea? I do believe I could be an awfully big help!’

At this point, I need all the help I can get. With nothing to lose, I open the door and come face to face with the last person I expect to see at school on a normal day, let alone in these circumstances.

‘Mum?’

Chapter Two

The three saddest days of my mother’s life are as follows:

1. The day my great-grandmother Eirene died.

2. The day she found out the local corner shop had stopped stocking Fruit Winders.

3. The day I started school.

It is the source of one of my parents’ many ongoing arguments that she does little to encourage my education. She’s always mourning the ‘death of my creative soul’ at the hands of the ‘academic overlord’. She doesn’t listen when Dad and I try to tell her that Upton Snodsbury High School and Sixth Form is generally harmless, if a bit creatively stunted. Last year’s production of Cats was certainly memorable, in a horrifying, vomit-inducing sort of way. Needless to say, Dad is frmly in charge of anything school-related – dropping of, picking up, attending parents’ evenings and signing permission slips.

‘Darling! Let’s get you out of here, shall we?’ Mum chirps.

‘Mum, what’s going on? What are you doing here?’ Even if my teachers had called to let my parents know that I’d electrocuted Mrs Winthrop, there’s no way Mum could have got here so quickly. And how did she get into the boys’ bathroom on the third foor without any teachers spotting her?

‘Oh, my brave girl, I promise I’ll explain everything, but I think we should evacuate this stifing institution frst, don’t you think?’ she says, frowning at the grey cubicle doors as if personally insulted by their lack of creative fair.

‘Couldn’t we talk to a teacher and, you know, if you’re here, maybe you could explain…’

I’m not sure why attempting to smooth things over at school is currently at the top of my priorities. There are probably far better questions I should be asking. Some examples include: ‘Why are you here?’, ‘How on earth did you just appear in the boys’ bathroom?’ or perhaps, ‘Are you aware your daughter is slowly turning into a walking, talking electrical conductor?

Mum’s gaze softens.

‘I don’t know how to explain this to your teacher, sweetheart. I’ve not even explained it to you yet,’ she says with a gentle smile. ‘I’ve put it of for too long, and the consequences of that…are starting to catch up with us. But right now, we should probably get out of here, don’t you think?’

I open my mouth to ask how exactly she expects us to evade the gaggle of teachers currently trawling the halls when something so strange, so abnormal, so…otherworldly starts to happen that if I wasn’t seeing it with my very own eyes, I would not believe it.

I spot a small, purple dot, just behind my mother’s left shoulder. It hovers in the air, just in front of the (unused) hand sanitiser dispenser. Then the dot begins to hiss and fzz and spark. At the same time, it grows and swirls with shades of purple and yellow and white. The dot grows to a large oval,

taller than my mother, and a satin-trousered leg emerges from the centre of it. Out of the mysterious purple blob steps a teenager.

I let out something between a yelp and a howl as my mother whirls around to face the blob and the person coming out of it.

‘Sorry! Just got a bit bored waiting around. Figured you must be ready to go by now!’

The fgure who has emerged from the blob looks to be about my age – maybe a year or so older. They wear an oversized, forest green, velvet blazer that matches their eyes perfectly. The blazer is buttoned up, but I glimpse a T-shirt for some obscure band that I am nowhere near cool enough to recognise. Their orange silk trousers are too long for them, brushing the laminated foor beneath like an oddly colourful bridal train. The orange silk complements the fery wave of hair that cascades down their back in a silken, sleek, low ponytail. They grin at me, and their teeth are a rainbow of multicoloured braces.

My mother appears frustrated but not surprised by the stranger’s sudden appearance. She gives them a reproachful look before sighing.

‘Vee, I told you to give me plenty of time to warn her!’ Turning back to me, Mum gives a tentative smile. ‘This is Vee; they’re our ticket out of here.’

I am too busy trying to control my frantic breathing to fully comprehend what she’s talking about. The magical blob has disappeared, but I can’t tear my eyes away from where it materialised, staring at the hand sanitiser dispenser as though it might come to life and explain what’s going on. With the way today’s going, I’m not even sure that would shock me. I’m pulled out of my sanitiser trance by Vee gently tapping me on the shoulder.

‘I was the same way when my powers started to appear,’ they smile sweetly. ‘It totally freaked me out.’

I manage to take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth like the school counsellor taught me. Shakily, I manage to return Vee’s smile.

‘What…what do you mean by…powers?’ I ask, quietly. Although a small, secret part of me already knows what Vee means.

‘Rhea, darling…’

You’d think it would be impossible for me to get any more surprised at this point, but my mother’s eyes flling up with tears truly shocks me.

‘I’ve kept things from you, important things, for far too long. I promise no more secrets. First, though, we need to get out of here. Vee can do that because they’ve got powers. Like you…like me. Both of us. But I can’t explain the truth about our lives in the boys’ bathroom of Upton Snodsbury High School.’ In true Merida Hale fashion, she wrinkles her nose in distaste as she wipes the tears from her cheeks. She turns to Vee, who ofers a hand to each of us.

‘Okay!’ Vee says cheerfully as a swirling, whirling mess of colours starts to form in front of us. ‘Everyone take one last whif of Lynx Africa and one last look at the yellow stain in the corner that is suspiciously far away from the urinal! Because: We. Are. Out of here!’

I try not to faint from fear as the three of us step through the portal.

Chapter Three

Going through a portal is a bit like having a shower in custard, but you don’t get all messy, and it smells like oranges. I appreciate this is quite difcult to imagine, but it’s the most accurate description I can muster.

My stomach gives a sickening lurch as we’re pushed, pulled, squeezed and tickled through the orangey custardy goop, and I’m glad when we’re spat out on a creamcoloured carpet. With my eyes still adjusting from the purple luminescence of the portal, it takes me a moment to realise I know where we are.

Our living room.

Vee immediately fops down onto my father’s squishy green reading chair. I guess portaling three people is a bit draining because they look a bit peaky. Mum and I move into the kitchen to give them some peace and quiet.

Despite the day’s insanity, I fnd comfort in realising we’re home. I close my eyes and let the familiarity wash over me, trying not to focus on the number of unbelievable things that have happened. When I open my eyes, Mum is looking at me sheepishly.

‘I suppose you have some questions…’ she says, avoiding my gaze. The wave of calm that swept over me when we arrived home is replaced by a tidal surge of anger. My mother’s been keeping secrets.

‘Two months ago, I tried to talk to you about my—about whatever was going on with me!’ I feel my eyes welling up with tears that I furiously wipe away. ‘You made me feel like I was crazy!’

‘I wasn’t trying to make things worse, Rhea. Believe me. This situation is…complex,’ Mum sighs before sitting at the kitchen table, rubbing her temples and looking uncharacteristically defeated. ‘I thought it would be better, kinder, for you to be kept in the dark for as long as possible. Will you just let me explain?’

I hold her gaze. I see the lines creasing her forehead, the purple circles under her eyes, and the regret painted clearly across her face. Mum looks uncharacteristically stressed. It’s enough to sway me into hearing her out. I nod.

Vee, seemingly refreshed, joins us in the kitchen. They immediately start rifing through the kitchen cupboards, triumphantly withdrawing three brightly coloured but very wonky-looking mugs that Mum produced during her pottery phase. ‘I’ll make us a pot of tea. I fnd long stories are always better with tea.’

Once the pot is brewed, the three of us take a seat around the kitchen table. Vee munches on biscuits, but my stomach is still queasy from the portal, so I refuse the Jafa Cake they ofer me. Mum begins.

‘Well, I suppose this isn’t exactly news to you, but… you’ve got powers.’ I feel my jaw drop open. Vee gives me a comforting pat on the shoulder. I don’t know what I was expecting Mum to say. Despite all the signs (e.g. nearly blowing up my Mrs Winthrop), hearing that word, powers, spoken aloud like that…doesn’t feel real.

‘And you aren’t the only one, Rhea. Vee has their portals, and I…I have an ability of my own.’ I’m worried my jaw is going to unhinge and fall into my mug of untouched PG Tips.

‘What? What powers? Where do they come from? Are we cursed—or, or, were we, like, experimented on as babies, or—’

‘No, darling, it isn’t anything like that. Your powers are a gift! A blessing from our homeland.’

‘Homeland?’ The word sends a tingle of anticipation shooting down my spine.

‘Yes, Rhea. You, me, Vee—our powers all come from one place.’

Mum is making even less sense than usual. This doesn’t feel like her classic kooky woo-woo stuf she normally comes home spouting. Once she came home followed by a fock of pigeons she wooed with a trail of blueberry mufn crumbs. ‘I fnd birds very calming,’ she said, serenely, before heading up to her art studio. Dad made her get rid of them eventually,

but they argued about it long enough for the birds to begin nesting in his favourite pufer jacket. It’s one of the few arguments they’ve had recently that isn’t about me, though, so it sort of feels like a win.

This feels diferent from the pigeons. Or maybe I’m diferent – I can’t be sure. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t stop clenching and unclenching my hands, so sparks have started to whizz out of my fngertips. Maybe it’s Mum’s cheeks, fushed with excitement, or Vee’s gentle grin, full of anticipation.

‘What do you mean, Mum? What homeland?’

‘Atlantis.’

Lis de Vernal

Lis is Spanish. She’s always been a fan of folklore and mythology. She takes inspiration from her family in the south of Spain to give her stories a personal touch. Feeling she doesn’t always ft in, she also draws from her life as a member of the LGBTQ+ and ND communities. After years of trying to fnd something that created enough serotonin for her ADHD brain, she got a degree in Classical Studies and Creative Writing, an MAWYP and an Oxford course in Writing Fiction for YA.

We Are Not the Chosen Ones

In a realm called Aspin someone has made a mistake because Mischief Ash is NOT the chosen one. Keira Ravencroft should have been. She just wasn’t chosen, and she is NOT happy about it. Finally, Shrimpy, a fearsome dragon designed to be a weapon of war, got his name because he has the inconvenient tendency to shrink during confrontations. Along with a crew of well-intentioned pirates, three teenagers will be forced to fght a war that is not their problem. They will travel across the world in search of the Gods who started it all, hoping it is not too late to make one last wish. Teen sci f / fantasy.

lisdevernal@gmail.com

We Are Not the Chosen Ones

Chapter Three

Old Guy Shoves Me Through a Portal

‘The Gods have spoken,’ the wizard squeaked. ‘The war has almost come to an end. They require one last sacrifce!’

The whole town fell into astounded silence. I couldn’t help but scof. What could they possibly want now? Our houses? Our pets? Our left socks?

‘They require a hero to fght to the death for their honour.’

‘Oh, nothing new then,’ I murmured. Darian elbowed my ribs.

‘Here I have the heart of Physis.’ He raised the golden orb to the sky. ‘It will choose the hero that will save us all.’

‘That’s it?’ I said sarcastically. ‘Just save the world, no pressure.’

I looked at Darian, expecting her to smile at my joke, but she had her eyes stuck to the ball like a seagull to a sandwich.

‘Oh, Physis!’ The wizard proclaimed like a bad actor. ‘Show us who your hero is.’

Silence. The thing didn’t even bother to acknowledge our presence by shaking a little bit in its place. It stayed cold, dead, silent.

It shot up from its comfy cushion to fy directly at the sun far higher than any of us could see, disappearing in the distance until it was nothing more than a sun refection.

‘Was that supposed to happen?’ I asked. Every eye turned to me, including the wizard, who looked like he was about to drop dead from shock.

‘I can’t take it anymore!’ Brawn cried out, scratching his

skin loudly over his clothes. ‘Make it stop! Make it stop!’ He tried to get his shirt of, showing the reaction my poison ivy had caused. He got tangled in his own shirt, stumbled, and fell headfrst into one of the big drums. It was a ridiculous sight, probably why no one saw the orb fall back from the sky and into Darian’s hands.

For a split second we shared a shocked look, before her face scrunched up in pain.

‘Ah, it burns!’ She let it go.

I caught it before it crashed against the ground. For the frst time in my life, I was able to catch a ball, and it just had to be now.

And then, because it was just my luck, someone screamed out. ‘Mischief has the orb! He’s the Chosen One!’ And every single soul in that square looked to me, eyes wide, mouth dropped open.

‘No! No! Darian caught it. I jus—’

‘Bring the boy to me,’ the wizard demanded.

‘NO! Darian! Tell them it was a mistake!’ I struggled against the hands that dragged me towards the old man.

‘It’s true!’ she screamed. ‘It chose me! There was a mistake!’

‘It is very valiant of you to try to help your friend.’ The wizard smiled patronizingly at Darian. ‘But I assure you, he is not in any danger.’

Yeah, not in any danger, we just wanted him to fght to the death for us. They pushed me to the feet of the wizard. He held me by my wrist, forcing me up, raising my arm like a victor. My ears were ringing, the old man was making some dramatic speech, but I couldn’t hear a word he was saying over the sound of my own panic. My eyes looked for Mum in the crowd. Brawn’s dad was holding her still, there were tears rolling down her face, her arm reached towards me.

Mum was crying.

‘Let me go, you old sack of bones.’ I kicked his shin. The wizard screamed, dropping my hand.

I ran to my mum, but before I could brush her fngers, my body stopped responding to me, an invisible force forcing me backwards.

‘MUM!’ I screamed, reaching out to her.

The wizard pulled his spell to him, and before I could do anything about it, I was in his grasp again. He brought a bottle to his mouth, ripping the cork open with his teeth before pouring the liquid to the ground. A puddle grew next to us, but instead of showing the refection of the sun as it should, it refected shining chandeliers and decorated ceilings.

A portal, I realized.

The old man tried to shove me through it, but I held onto his hand, my body on the verge of falling.

‘Wait! My mum, I can’t leave her!’ I begged.

‘You are the Chosen One, you belong to the Gods now,’ he snarled before shaking me of.

‘I am NOT the Chosen One!’ I managed to scream before my body was engulfed by the portal, leaving my family behind.

Chapter Four

I Meet a Man of Great Stature

Being shoved through a portal feels like being fushed down a toilet.

Water pulls you down, spinning you around until you don’t know if you’re up or down anymore. But it wasn’t exactly water, it was thicker, slimier, like snot.

Coming out of a portal feels like you’re being shot out of a troll’s nose when they’re sneezing.

I shot out of the gooey liquid into the room I had seen

in the portal’s refection back home. I slid about two or three meters on the perfectly polished marble foors, covered from head to toe in sticky portal goo, until my back hit the wall with a loud thump! I groaned, allowing myself a couple of seconds to lie on my back and refect on just how terribly my day was going. My mind was still struggling to keep up with what had happened, Darian, Mum, the portal. What was undeniable was that I was no longer in Afor. Nowhere back home did we have a room like this one. It was decorated with pointed arches of sandstone, each of them flled with intricate carvings. Mosaics of diferent shades of blues and greens decorated the lower part of the walls.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ the old man said nonchalantly, shaking the portal goo of his pointy hat and wringing the substance out of his long white moustache. He still looked decent, still had that air of superiority that made me want to rip his moustache of.

Whereas I looked like a drowned rat.

‘Where are we?’ I asked, trying to stand up. My feet were slippery with goo. Not only did I look like a drowned rat, but I also looked like one trying to ice-skate.

‘Almaga, where the King will greet you as the Chosen One and begin your training.’

Time froze, the weight of the world pressed down on my lungs as I realised where I was. Almaga, the capital, on the other side of the kingdom – the furthest I’d ever been from home.

‘But, what about my mum? You can’t just take me away!’ I tried to balance myself to properly glare at the old man.

‘Sure, I can. I am a high priest, I can do as I please if the King allows it.’

‘And what about your dear goddess?’ I snapped ‘How would the Goddess of Life feel knowing you took a kid away from his mother?’

‘Oh, please, at thirteen you are barely a kid anymore,’ he mused, getting closer. ‘Besides, she chose you.’

‘I bet you’re really glad that Chosen Ones can be kids, right? Considering your stupid war has killed most of the adults.’

‘I will not pretend to know the inner workings of our great Lady’s mind.’ The old sack of bones sighed. ‘But rest assured, you will be the perfect Chosen One by the time I’m done with you.’ He clapped his hands, the sound echoing like thunder in the empty room, and the doors burst open. Two guards rushed in, and I was grabbed by the armpits and carried out of the room.

The two guards dragging me along had the biggest arms I had ever seen. They looked like pumpkins piled on top of each other. The guards both had matching snarls, along with their matching uniforms and the matching sun-shaped brands burned into their chest.

‘Well,’ I smiled, trying my best to look charming and kind, like Darian does. ‘This is no way to treat a guest, why don’t you put me down? I am perfectly able to walk on my own.’

I was also perfectly able to run for the hills as soon as they let go of me, but obviously I didn’t tell them that.

I tried to look for exits as we walked down the hallway. There must have been a thousand doors, but I couldn’t tell which one of them led to an exit.

I was kind of used to not knowing what was going on. I didn’t know how to get out, why this was happening to me, or where Spooky and Spookier were taking me.

‘Ah, the Chosen One,’ a man said from inside the room. He was rounder than a rich lady’s cat and, judging by his uniform, he was also important. Not King-important but medal-worthy, I guessed.

‘Welcome to our museum of Magical Marvels. Weapons and artifacts from heroes and saints alike, all the warriors that

came before you! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gloris of Almaga, conqueror of the west islands, of Enaj and Joira. I am—’

‘—Yes, you are important, I get it.’ I sighed.

He laughed from his belly, patting it gently with his hands. I was afraid the buttons on his jacket would burst and take one of my eyes out.

‘Straight to business, I see,’ he said, walking further into the room.

This room was fuller than anything I had seen until now. And not with furniture or decorations, just a lot of random stuf in glass cases or on pedestals. Some of them had grand name tags like The Hand of Kismet, others looked like normal items, maybe a bit glowy.

The guards closed the door and stood in front of it, keeping their distance. They assumed I wasn’t much of a threat. I, on the other hand, assumed that was the perfect opportunity to fll my pockets with any glowy magic stuf that might help me escape.

‘Today, after the ceremony, you will begin your training. At the end of summer there will be a normal, deadly trial to show the people how heroic you are, and then, when The Artisan’s paladin shows up, you fght him to the death.’ The man talked about my potential death as if he was going over his grocery list for the day: eggs, lettuce, milk, sacrifcing children for the Gods and apple juice.

‘I hear you don’t have much experience. But don’t worry. We’ll turn you into a proper killing machine before you know it,’ he continued.

I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t the Chosen One, but the words ‘killing machine’ got tangled in my tongue, and I couldn’t speak. Gods, I could barely even breathe.

‘When you arrive at the ceremony, I will greet you. People will applaud me, they always do. Just like when...’ The man

continued talking.

I didn’t interrupt him. I looked longingly at the door, but the guards didn’t look like they were going to let me through. So, as he talked, I continued to help myself to anything I thought might be useful. First, I took a satchel that was displayed on a fancy tall table, and just casually put it over my shoulder as if it had always belonged to me. Then I just shoved in everything I could ft. The guards seemed content with letting me do anything unless told otherwise, and Gloris didn’t notice. He just kept talking.

The words he’d said before kept running laps in my brain.

Killing Machine,

Deadly trial,

To the death.

I needed to get out of there.

I grabbed a chair to stand on and reached for the Pretty Pink Sword, a name that made little sense because it looked like a normal steel sword. I didn’t know how to use it, but I fgured I’d look scarier with it, so I placed it in its scabbard and hung it around my waist.

And through it all, the man just...kept talking. He was barely breathing. I wondered if all his military success had been won by just talking his enemy to death. Once I was sure I couldn’t ft anything else on my person, I jumped of the chair and interrupted him.

‘Well, it was...an experience to meet you, sir.’

‘Of course it is! I’m great, and you haven’t even heard the story of—’

‘—But I am afraid I must go now.’ I bowed my head, making my way to one of the big windows at the end of the room.

‘You are not going anywhere,’ Gloris said. Something in his expression changed. It became darker, sour.

‘There was a mistake,’ I tried explaining as I walked

backwards. ‘I’m not the Chosen One. So, I’m gonna leave.’

Now, I don’t know if you’ve seen a middle-aged man turn the shade of a pomegranate, but let me tell you, the speed Gloris’ face changed colours was impressive.

‘The Gods chose you, you have a destiny to fulfl.’ The duke stepped up to me, putting his hand to the sword hanging by his side. I hadn’t even noticed it.

‘If I were you, I wouldn’t grab that sword.’ I tried to sound threatening, it was probably not working.

‘And why is that?’ he mocked.

‘Well, I’m not sure what this sword does, but I’m sure you do.’ I lifted the Pretty Pink Sword.

The duke’s eyes widened, and he slowly put his hands up. ‘Put that down, kid. I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘I am not the Chosen One,’ I repeated. ‘This is not my fght.’

‘Okay, I believe you, just put the sword down.’ His voice sounded softer, like he was trying to calm a wild beast. ‘There will be no fghting.’

‘You promise?’ I asked, lowering my sword just a little. I made the mistake of hoping that this nightmare was over.

‘Of course, as long as you put your sword down!’ he screamed as he jumped me. I stepped away. He cut his arm on the sword. The moment his blood touched the blade it turned pink. The duke gasped, horrifed, and stepped back. I stumbled over my feet, tumbling forward, making a second cut in his arm. Just a nick, barely a paper cut. But enough.

There was an explosion of light, he gasped deep in his chest and his skin started hardening, crackling and clicking. He’d turned to a greyish-pink stone.

For a second the guards at the door and I made eye contact. The three of us wide-eyed, a little bit scared and incredibly confused.

And as I stared down at that pinkish statue, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach I was very familiar with. ‘Oh, I’m going to get in so much trouble.’

As if agreeing with me, the guards sprinted towards me, full speed. I did what any sane person would do. I ran.

Alyson Williams

Born and bred in the Welsh valleys, Alyson works there now as a psychotherapist, still seeing the generational consequences of what happened at Aberfan. Alyson is a mother of one and lives in Cardif with her wife Sarah and dachshund Merlin. A lifelong reader, Alyson thought book writing was only for posh people with lots of money. In the pandemic she decided to take her writing seriously and has just achieved a distinction in the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University. Find her on X @ WelshWriterWill

The Secret Lamb of Aberfan

In the village of Aberfan it is fve months since an avalanche of coal slurry engulfed the school, killing 116 children and 28 adults. Ten-year-old Gwenni Morgan’s seven-year-old brother Bryn is one of the dead. Gwenni’s guilt about shouting at Bryn on the way to school that terrible morning is overwhelming. With the 60th anniversary of the disaster coming in 2026, this Upper MG historical novel considers how, in a world where everything seems broken, a stray lamb will help Gwenni heal?

poppywinsletts@yahoo.co.uk

The Secret Lamb of Aberfan

Prologue

21 October 1966

‘Right class!’ Mr Williams stood in front of the blackboard. Behind him was a list of sums. He dusted a shower of chalk of his hands and glanced up at the clock.

‘First one to get them all right wins a gold star,’ he said, smiling.

Gwenni Morgan opened her notebook to a fresh, clean page. It was the last day of term, and she was excited. Mam had promised them a trip to Cardif on the train. Bryn needed new shoes and there might be cake afterwards in Howells Department Store.

‘Psst!’ Her friend Diane elbowed her. ‘Look!’

Gwenni looked under the desk. However hard Diane tried to get full marks, she could never remember her eight times table. Diane wiggled her fngers, and Gwenni saw a line of tiny numbers inked between them. Gwenni frowned, worried. She struggled with arithmetic too, but would never cheat.

‘Sir!’ one of the boys shouted. ‘What’s that noise?’

Gwenni stilled. A deep grumbling roar was coming from outside. Lights suspended from the ceiling began to tremble. She followed Mr Williams’s eyes as he stared out the window, up towards the mountain, his face frozen in horror. Gwenni felt hot, then cold. She grabbed Diane’s hand as the classroom darkened, a black ocean roaring down the mountain towards them.

Mr Williams screamed, ‘Get down!’ BANG!

Gwenni’s eyes fickered open to pitch black darkness. Where was she? Warm liquid trickled along the side of her

face. Her leg was trapped, and as she tried to move it, hot nuggets of pain exploded in her knee. What was happening? There was something heavy pressing her down. She spotted a tiny chink of light and pushed her hand into it. A trickle of dust fell into her eyes. Gwenni brushed it away and reached again, then again, clearing the muck, until the light was enough for her to see where she was.

She was half buried in muck. Gwenni moved her eyes. A boy was next to her. His face was bloody, and his eyes were wide open and staring, like marbles. She knew, but she didn’t want to know, so she said hello, and he didn’t answer.

Splintered roof beams stuck up like bones. The sky was grey with coal dust. Gwenni listened for Diane’s voice but couldn’t hear it. She moved her head, brushing her cheek against a naked arm that was hanging through the wall of solid muck. Gwenni pinched it to see if it was alive, but the arm was cold, and it didn’t move.

Suddenly, the panicked shouts of men punctured the air. Gwenni saw one coal-streaked face peer down at her. He shouted for her to close her eyes. She could hear him digging. When she opened her eyes, a body was being posted out through a broken window.

She slammed her eyes shut. It was a nightmare, that’s what it was. She would wake up and the world would be normal. She tried it – still black, all the same.

And then the most wonderful sight of all. Gwenni’s heart lifted. There was her grandfather, carefully making his way over the slurry towards her.

‘Oh, Gwenni bach.’ Tee-top had tears in his eyes. ‘l’ve got you,’ he said, looping her arm around his neck, ‘I’ve got you.’

He dragged her out as carefully as he could. Gwenni felt empty, like there was nothing left of her, like she was made of air. Tee-top gathered her in his arms.

‘You’re safe now, cariad, you’re safe.’

Chapter One

The Midnight Sheep Six Months Later

She woke around midnight, eyes popping open as she jolted from a nightmare. The bed was damp with sweat, the thin cotton sheets stuck to her trembling legs. Gwenni threw of her blankets and staggered to the bedroom window.

Breathe. Just breathe.

She lifted the catch and stuck her head out, sucking in great mouthfuls of ice-cream cold air.

The night sky over the valley was a black roof of stars. Most houses were in darkness, but a few of the bedrooms still had their lights on. Gwenni counted the glowing yellow windows as her breathing settled. Her grandparents’ house was three doors down on the same side. There was no light shining out on their pavement.

Crash!

What was that? A movement in the shadows. Gwenni blinked the last remaining sleep from her eyes. As the darkness shifted, she could just about see. There!

A dustbin lid rattled against the pavement, and standing next to it was a sheep, staring up at her. Gwenni was used to seeing sheep in the streets of Aberfan, but she had never seen one in the middle of the night before. She made to call out when suddenly Mamgu’s bedroom window few open.

‘Blasted sheep! Shoo!’

Gwenni jumped back behind the curtains, breath held. Why did Mamgu have to spoil things? The sheep wasn’t harming anyone. She heard her grandmother shout a few more times before the squeal of the closing window told Gwenni to relax. Relieved, she leaned back out, but it was too late – the sheep had gone.

The street was empty. Up ahead, moonlight silvered

the wreckage of the school. Gwenni sank down on the windowsill, curling herself into a ball and watched the shadows.

The sheep crept slowly back, her big round belly hanging low. Gwenni tapped on the window and the sheep looked up.

‘Are you having a baby?’ she whispered. ‘You look like you are. Are you hungry?’

The sheep looked longingly at the bin.

Gwenni got up on her knees and gripped the window frame. She checked the street left and right. It was silent, not a soul about.

‘Don’t move! I’ll be there now. Don’t go.’

The house was cold and dark as Gwenni tiptoed down the stairs. Finding her shoes by the front door, she slipped them on, before getting her coat from the hook on the wall and letting herself out.

The sheep looked even more rounded close up. Gwenni checked to see that Mamgu’s window was still in darkness. Seeing that it was, she grabbed the edge of the bin and quickly tipped it over, spilling the tumbled contents over the pavement.

‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Eat up.’

The sheep lumbered towards the unexpected feast.

‘There,’ said Gwenni, sitting on the doorstep. ‘That’s better, isn’t it.’

The street was silent. Nothing stirred. It was just her and the sheep. Gwenni propped her head on her hands. ‘I’m going to tell you something important now. Are you listening?’

The sheep’s ears ficked forwards and back.

‘Something terrible happened here last year,’ said Gwenni. ‘October it was, before Halloween.’

She shivered. The dark street looked diferent now she was out in it. The sheep didn’t seem afraid though. She was

busy munching through the tasty rubbish. Gwenni leaned forwards.

‘The tip fell down,’ she whispered.

The sheep lifted her head and looked Gwenni straight in the eye. Gwenni nodded.

‘Loads of people died. One of them was Diane – she was my best friend, and one of them was Bryn – he was my brother.’

A breeze rufed the hem of her nightdress. Gwenni pulled her coat tighter and listened to the night. The village was silent. There was no one around. She drew in a big deep breath and sighed.

‘That’s why you need to know all about me, see, in case it happens again, and next time I disappear too.’

The sheep moved a little closer. Gwenni yawned and rubbed her sleepy eyes.

‘My name is Gwenni Morgan and I’m ten years old. I used to be a sister, but now—’

The sheep held still, waiting. Gwenni’s eyes flled with tears. It was all so hard to talk about. She reached out and patted the sheep’s belly. ‘I’m lucky to be alive, that’s all. That’s what everyone says anyway.’

The dark night felt suddenly too big. Gwenni got to her feet. ‘I’m going in now sheep,’ she said, pulling the key from her pocket. ‘I’ll see you again.’

Without a sound, the sheep dipped her head for goodbye.

Before she closed the front door, Gwenni paused, listening to the silence of her house. She held her fnger to her lips. ‘You won’t forget me, will you?’ she whispered to the sheep. ‘Please don’t forget me.’

Chapter Two

Patron Saint of Ladybirds

When Gwenni woke again it was morning. Had she really seen a sheep in the night, or was it one of her strange dreams? She would get dressed and go out to investigate.

Gwenni lived in Moy Road with her mam and dad and her grandparents Mamgu and Tee-top. Their houses were so close together that Gwenni could smell Mamgu’s cooking from her own front door. The street was smaller than it used to be. The slurry had fattened ten whole houses when it came down. Gwenni knew how lucky they were that theirs was still standing.

‘Knock knock.’ Mam poked her head around the bedroom door. ‘Any accidents last night, love?’

‘Stop asking that,’ said Gwenni, getting up. ‘I’m not a baby!’

Her mother put an enamel bowl of water on the dressing table. ‘The soap is on the bottom,’ she said, passing Gwenni a fannel. ‘Do it while it’s hot.’

Mam pulled back the sheets and felt them. Sighing, she stripped the bed. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed about, Gwen.’

Gwenni stood in the gap between the two beds and crossed her arms. ‘I can’t help it.’

Her mother bundled the sheets into a ball. ‘I know that, but if you could try a bit harder.’

The wave of embarrassment threatened to knock Gwenni off her feet. Who ever heard of a ten-year-old wetting the bed? Not even Bryn, who was seven, had done that – it wasn’t fair.

‘I’ve made porridge,’ said Mam, carrying away the stinky sheets. ‘Have a wash and bring that nightdress down with you.’

Gwenni said nothing, worried about upsetting her mother by crying. Dad said the parents of Aberfan had done enough crying of their own without the children carrying on.

She listened to Mam’s footsteps going down the stairs then tugged of her damp nightdress and threw it on the foor. How was she supposed to try harder? It wasn’t like she planned on wetting the bed.

Gwenni slapped the fannel in the water and lathered up. None of this would be happening if Bryn was alive. She looked at Bryn’s half of the room. The bed was clean and tidy, his three favourite teddies like statues on the pillow. Gwenni turned away. Seeing his things made her too sad.

Scrubbing her body clean, she decided to concentrate on the sheep. Where had it come from? Where had it gone? The minute she was dressed she was determined to fnd out.

Downstairs Mam was hunched at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette.

‘I’m not hungry yet,’ said Gwenni, ‘I’m going out frst.’

‘Out where?’ Mam’s face turned white as salt. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea love.’

‘Just the street,’ said Gwenni, buckling her shoes. ‘I won’t be gone far. My leg is better now.’

‘I know,’ said Mam, thin fngers knotting her apron. ‘Just stay where I can see you and don’t be long.’

Gwenni nodded. It was hard being the only one left. It felt tight, like a polo neck jumper.

The street was busy. It was a chilly day, but the sun was out. Gwenni noticed some of the neighbours out on their doorsteps. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, so she crossed the road, keeping her eyes to the ground, trying to make herself as small as possible.

‘Hiya!’

The unexpected word made Gwenni jump. The boy was crouched by the edge of the pavement, gazing up at her, his broken glasses held together with plasters. He wrinkled his nose to push them up his face. ‘Do you know who the patron saint of ladybirds is?’

Gwenni remembered him from school. His name was Ivor. She frowned, impatient. ‘How would I know?’

‘Keep your hair on,’ he said, ‘I’m only asking.’

Gwenni wondered what he was doing.

‘Well, who is it then?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘I dunno, that’s why I’m asking you.’

She walked past him then turned back. ‘Have you seen a sheep around here anywhere?’

‘What kind of a sheep, like?’

The boy was impossible. Gwenni sighed. ‘Just a sheep kind of sheep. You know— sheepy.’

Just then, another shout, this one harsher.

‘Oh no,’ Ivor mumbled, ‘not her.’

A girl was hurrying up the street. Gwenni wondered if it was too late to run home and decided that it was. She would have to act brave even though she didn’t feel it. The truth was that Gwenni had always been a little afraid of Mary Ellis. Taking a deep breath, she swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled.

‘Hiya, Mary.’

Mary stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Why haven’t you been in school then?’

The mention of school made Gwenni feel sick. The council had put up temporary buildings on a feld in the village. Most of the survivors had gone back months ago but, with her leg in plaster, Gwenni had stayed home.

She pointed at her scar. ‘I couldn’t walk.’

Mary rolled her eyes. ‘You had a wheelchair, didn’t you? I’ve seen you out here showing of.’

Gwenni finched. ‘I haven’t been showing of.’

‘I’ve seen you,’ snapped Mary, ‘with that big doll, all fancy, like.’

Gwenni had shoved the doll in the back of her wardrobe. Princess Margaret had asked the world to send them toys and

Gwenni didn’t like the way the doll stared at her.

‘Leave her alone, Mary,’ said Ivor. He had a ladybird crawling along his fnger. He slid open an empty matchbox.

Mary looked disgusted. ‘Proper stinking you are, Ivor Davies.’

His cheeks turned red as radish. Gwenni stared at her shoes, wanting to run away, wanting to hide. Her hands were sweating. She gulped down her fear.

‘Stop it, Mary!’

Mary glared at her. ‘What did you say?’

Gwenni pressed her toes down hard in her shoes. ‘I said stop it,’ she repeated.

Mary laughed. ‘Gone mouthy all of a sudden, have you?’

There was a tense silence. Mary stared at Gwenni. Gwenni’s mouth was as dry as dust. She stared back at Mary, willing herself not to look away.

Ivor stepped between them. ‘Just buzz of and leave us alone,’ he said, pocketing his matchbox.

Mary shrugged like she couldn’t care less. ‘I didn’t want to bother with you two anyway.’ She stomped of.

‘Good riddance.’ Ivor pulled two mints from his pocket and gave one to Gwenni. ‘So, what was she doing then? Your sheep I mean.’

‘Thanks.’ Gwenni popped the sweet in her mouth. ‘Looking for food she was, and making a right racket about it too.’

Tamara Wolcough

Tamara is a highly skilled wrangler of four teenagers who wistfully thinks back to her old life working in flm. Embracing her new role as a Mum taxi/delivery driver outside of Windsor she watches new releases on her iPad whilst waiting in her car. Always keen to see the humour in her surroundings, Tamara sees making her children laugh as an irresistible challenge (that she always wins) whilst feeding them copious amounts of homemade fudge in the process.

Seamus Blunt’s Monster Hunt

Ten-year-old Seamus Blunt is terrifed when his grandparents disappear from Carriage Cottage and are replaced by three fudge obsessed monsters. Can Seamus and his new friend, Casper, help the monsters get home and rescue his grandparents before the owner of the village petting zoo catches the furry trio and makes his fortune? Lower MG magical adventure.

tamarawolcough@hotmail.com

Seamus Blunt’s Monster Hunt

Chapter One

Things That Monsters Don’t Like

1. Monster Hunts

‘What’s going on, Grandpa?’

Seamus Blunt leaned out of the passenger window of the moving car to get a better look at Little Hollow’s village green. He squinted at the crowd and sucked in his breath. This was his WORST nightmare. Monsters were everywhere! Vampires, yetis and zombies stood shoulder to shoulder while banshees queued for ice cream. Seamus ducked when he spotted a purple monster with eyes like fre, selling helium balloons, who looked exactly like the one he imagined lived in his cupboard at night. How did he get here?

Could there be a monster fancy dress party? Seamus had turned ten last week and reaching double digits was a big deal. As he was staying with his grandparents, maybe Nanny and Grandpa had organised a surprise birthday party…with monsters???

‘Bloomin Monster Hunt Week,’ harrumphed Grandpa as he slowed down the car. He pointed a fnger towards a fgure in a suit covered in mini monsters. ‘And that idiot over there, Mr Jagger, is responsible. All the villagers know there is NO such thing as monsters in Little Hollow. Every year, Mr Jagger insists on this fancy dress nonsense to fund the petting zoo!’

Seamus chewed on his lower lip as he looked at the crowd swelling around Mr Jagger. He hoped not. He was terrifed of monsters, even if they weren’t real. Mr. Jagger stood in the centre of a makeshift stage, holding a megaphone as a blue

and yellow parrot hopped up and down his arms. His jet-black hair was greasy and limp, snaking over his shoulders. He held a fshing rod in his hand and Seamus could just about read ‘Colin Jagger, Monster Snagger’ on the long pole.

‘Can you all hear me?’ Mr Jagger shouted. ‘Welcome to the Nineteenth Annual Monster Hunt! Thanks to all who have turned up in your costumes – brilliant efort! Now, which one of you wants to fnd a real monster?’

‘WE DO!!’ shouted the crowd.

Seamus squeezed his eyes shut. He wished he could go home. Then Seamus remembered the “monster” living in his house, who had taken over his bedroom and stolen his parents. This was all baby Ernie’s fault for being born! Ernie was only two months old, but Seamus had been sent away because his parents were too “busy” with the baby.

Grandpa shouted out of his window, ‘Go Home! No Monster Hunters In Little Hollow!’

Seamus saw Mr Jagger shake his head angrily, and the crowd shouted back.

‘Spoilsport!’

‘Boo!’

‘Killjoy!’

‘Go to Loch Ness if you want to search for a monster!’ Grandpa growled. He put his foot on the accelerator, muttering under his breath about dropped rubbish and general chaos in the village during Monster Hunt Week. Not paying attention, Grandpa almost knocked over a lady with perfectly set curls, wearing a bright purple, furry jacket and carrying a Tupperware box of cupcakes with a Crumbles sticker on the top. Turning to look out of the back window, Seamus could see the fecks of mud now splattered on her once pristine lilac slacks.

Little Hollow wasn’t a big village, but it was set in the dip of a large valley where most of the houses, Crumbles Fudge Shop, the library and Jagger’s Petting Zoo were all centred

around the village green.

They passed the sign for Blunt Hill, which said ‘KEEP OUT’, where his grandparents lived in a converted train carriage, and the rusty white car started the steep climb. Carriage Cottage had the best view of the whole valley and Seamus was pretty sure that’s why Nanny was such an expert on village gossip. She missed absolutely nothing from her front garden.

‘Come on, old girl!’ Grandpa said to the car. ‘You can rest at the top.’

The engine strained and the clutch groaned until they reached the old-fashioned train carriage, with its serial number still on its side and the brown paint faking.

‘We’re home!’ Grandpa shouted as they turned into the driveway. Nanny appeared on the doorstep, waving, in her sensible lace-ups, her silk scarf tied around her neck. Grandpa continued, ‘Mr Jagger is mad if he thinks I’m going to let him use our garden as a viewing platform for his Monster Hunt.’

‘Stop harping on about that, dear. That horrible man asked weeks ago, and we said no, so that should be the end of that,’ Nanny called.

Seamus loved Nanny and her Crumbles fudge creations in equal measure. Grandpa had told him in the car about another boy staying with them this week, but Seamus was confdent that he would still be the favourite.

‘Nanny!’ Seamus cried as he launched himself into her arms. He was immediately squeezed into her chest and resorted to gulping like an oxygen-starved goldfsh.

‘Let Seamus breathe!’ Grandpa grumbled as he shufed up the garden path past a bright blue two-man tent. ‘Where is he? I can see his tent is up. Casper, come and say hello.’

Seamus saw a bright yellow, furry-looking monster clamber out of the tent, clutching a book to his chest.

‘For goodness sake, Casper,’ Grandpa grumbled. ‘You know how we feel about monsters up here’

‘But I’m a monster hunter,’ Casper said, struggling with the zip on his costume. ‘And this year, I’m going to fnd a monster!’

Seamus watched as the boy pulled at his hairy head, and suddenly the monster was gone! Instead, there was a shaggy white fringe, pale complexion and a pair of orange-framed glasses.

‘What are you looking at?’ Casper asked Seamus, who had his mouth open.

Seamus couldn’t think of anything sensible to say and replied, ‘Monsters don’t wear glasses.’

Casper laughed and slapped Seamus on the shoulder, which made him wince. Opening his book, Casper ficked through the pages. ‘You’re funny! I think we’re going to get on alright. My book, 1000 Monster Truths, says that 3% of people think that the Loch Ness monster is real. Do you think it’s the same in Little Hollow?’

Seamus shufed away. He certainly didn’t mean to be funny and he didn’t want to talk about whether monsters were real or not. Seamus wasn’t so sure he wanted to be friends with Casper. He looked exactly like the kind of person who might want to go on a monster hunt.

‘Sorry,’ Seamus said with a grin that was supposed to be friendly but not too friendly. I need to unpack INSIDE the house.’

But then Seamus watched in horror as Grandpa walked over to Casper’s two-man tent, lopped Seamus’s rucksack through the opening fap and gave him two thumbs up.

‘Come on, boys,’ Nanny shouted from the front door. ‘Tea’s ready.’

Seamus wasn’t going to wait for a second invitation to get away from this weird boy. He rushed up the wooden steps and into the carriage through one of the old train doors. If the tent wanted to keep his belongings for the week, then that was fne, but he was staying inside, where it was warm, and he’d have a comfortable bed.

Nanny and Grandpa liked old things. The foorboards had gaps, the sofas were threadbare and the cushions saggy. The TV wasn’t hanging on the wall; it was a box on legs in the corner, and the open fre belched smoke out into the room. On every surface, there were photos, books and plants. Seamus was surprised to see there was already a picture of Ernie with his parents in pride of place on top of the battered old piano. Why wasn’t he in the photo? Hadn’t Nanny just said he was the favourite grandchild?

Walking into the kitchen, Seamus snifed the aroma of toasted bread mixed with fudge. Nanny’s kitchen had the best smell in the world and Seamus smiled, knowing that only good things happened in this house.

‘Casper, have you flled Seamus in on what you’re doing this week?’ Grandpa said.

‘We’re going to camp and fnd monsters, obviously!’ Casper said, jabbing Seamus in the side with his elbow.

Seamus looked from Casper to Grandpa. Did Nanny and Grandpa really think they would be friends?

Nanny brought out a plate of crumpets covered in Fudgey Crumble spread balanced in a gooey pyramid. Seamus eyed the table for a seat as far away from Casper as possible and sat on the edge of his seat just in case he needed a quick getaway. Casper placed his book on the table, took a crumpet from the plate and squeezed strawberry jam over the fudgecovered crumpet.

‘Looks like I’ve murdered my food,’ Casper said and chuckled.

‘Fudge and strawberry jam is revolting,’ Seamus muttered.

‘Don’t knock it until you try it,’ said Casper, putting his jammy knife onto Seamus’s plate to try.

Seamus rolled his eyes, pushed the knife onto the tablecloth and bit into the warm dough, creating a fudge

moustache on his top lip. Maybe Casper wasn’t a monster, but he was defnitely weird and he might be an axe murderer.

‘Casper, stop playing with your food,’ Nanny said as she squeezed into her chair. ‘And Seamus, don’t you ruin my new tablecloth with the dirty knife.’

‘Casper’s parents are away for work this week, so he and his tent have come to stay with us, and he needs a tent mate.’

Grandpa nudged Seamus as he spread some more Fudgey Crumble onto his crumpet. ‘That’s why we’ve volunteered you.’

‘But what about the monsters?’ Seamus asked. ‘ Monsters don’t exist.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Grandpa laughed as he grabbed a tuft of Seamus’s dark hair. ‘As soon as the moon comes out, Nanny and I go to bed. If you’re asleep, you won’t see them, and I don’t believe in things I can’t see!’

Chapter Two

Things That Monsters Don’t Like 2. Flash Lights

Whatever Grandpa had said, Seamus believed in everything that he couldn’t see and sitting in Casper’s tent wasn’t making him feel any safer. He knew it was silly, but sometimes his imagination screamed louder than what he knew to be true. Casper had already wriggled into camoufage pyjamas, but there was NO WAY Seamus wanted to get changed in front of someone he didn’t know. Putting his legs into his stripey pyjamas, Seamus decided that the extra layer over his jeans would give him some warmth, and then he put his Wellington boots on just in case he needed a quick exit. What would his parents think if they could see him now?

‘Look at you, Seamus! Camping for the frst time! We’re so proud of you!’ his mum would say.

But would she? Seamus sighed. Since his mum had had baby Ernie, no one noticed what Seamus got up to. His mum called her time with Ernie “bonding with the baby”, but Seamus was sure he was just being ignored.

Holding up his bag, Casper said, ‘I’ve got some antimonster spray, a fart balloon and a really good head torch. My mum said I could use my torch any time, but I couldn’t annoy anyone with the other two. Have you got something cool to show me?’

Casper fashed his head torch into Seamus’s eyes and he swatted the light away.

‘Stop!’ Seamus croaked. There was no way he was going to show Casper what was in his bag. He wondered whether Nanny would let him sleep in the house if he knocked on their door now.

‘Want to tell some monster stories?’ Casper asked, moving his shoulders further into the cocoon of his sleeping bag. ‘Monster week is my favourite week of the whole year!’

Seamus shook his head and stared at the zip on the opening. Could he tell Casper that he was frightened of the dark as well? They really weren’t going to be best friends.

‘There’s a big reward this year,’ Casper carried on, pulling his book out and ficking through the pages.

Seamus scowled. Didn’t Casper realise that he didn’t want to talk about any monsters even if there was a reward?

‘Jagger’s Petting Zoo is going to give the person who fnds the monster actual money this year. Mr Jagger makes every monster hunter sign a contract saying they’ll give the monster to him – otherwise, they can’t take part. I think that’s a bit unfair, but his family have been organising this hunt for years and haven’t found one yet. My mum said she hoped I found the monster, as then she wouldn’t have to pay me any more pocket money.’

‘But you’re not on a monster hunt,’ Seamus reminded him, ‘because you’re hanging out with me, and I don’t want to fnd any. I can decide to stay with my Nanny and Grandpa in the carriage, and you won’t be allowed to sleep alone in your tent.’

Seamus saw Casper’s eyes narrow, and, without saying another word, he ficked the switch on his head torch and plunged them into darkness.

‘Did you know 61% of children are scared of the dark?’ Seamus heard him say.

Kate Allison

Kate grew up in Birmingham and spent her childhood exploring the same patch of boggy woodland that is said to have inspired Tolkien. An avid reader and writer since childhood, Kate left a career in web content management to become a carer to her youngest daughter who has a rare genetic condition that causes learning disabilities. When not writing, she can be found running ultramarathons, playing board games, or helping at her local food bank. Kate lives in the Malvern Hills with her family.

The Mycelium Network

Welcome to the near future where mycelium-powered plants have reclaimed the planet…Trapped inside by a deadly spore allergy, sixteen-year-old Alice thinks she will fnally regain her freedom with a move to the high-tech, spore-proof Artemis Research Centre. But Alice is about to discover that a dark secret lurks at the heart of Artemis. With time ticking towards a catastrophic act of war against the natural world, can Alice put her dreams of a cure aside to uncover the truth? And are her new friends with her or against her? A YA thriller for readers who enjoyed the menacing setting of HappyHead and the speculative/eco theme of Green Rising.

kate@allison.net

The Mycelium Network

BBC Cumbria News 20 April 2026

Destructive fungi baffle scientists

Botanists are racing to identify several types of fungus that have been wreaking havoc on residents of the town of Applemere. Locals say hundreds of the mushrooms have appeared in the past week, cracking tarmac and lifting paving slabs as they push their way up from below ground.

‘It’s like something out of a sci-fi film,’ said Abigail Brown, who can no longer park her car on the driveway of her house on Church Street because of the invasive fungi. ‘They grow so quickly. I’ve tried cutting them down and digging them up – but they just grow back.’

Applemere resident Rav Pandhi, a plant sciences and mycology lecturer at Carlisle University, explained that certain fungi have been known to generate explosive force.

‘Some fungi can absorb water from their surroundings and build up enough pressure to break through tough substances,’ said Pandhi, whose road has been destroyed by the fungi. ‘What’s unusual is seeing it on this scale. It’s unprecedented.’

Brown reported seeing vehicles from the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (Defra) in the area.

‘And I’ve seen scientists out taking samples. But no-one’s said anything to us about it. There’s been no communication with residents.’

Defra said they were aware of the problem but could provide no further information at this time.

Comments

bighouseinthecountry

It’s happening here in Devon too welshben here too – but now plants have colonised all the cracks the fungi made in the roads. and everything’s growing. a lot.

sticktothefacts

It’s spring. Stuff grows. welshben not like this tracy_at_home23

My friend’s wife works for Defra, and she said they’re really worried. They don’t know how to stop it. Seems pretty scary to me.

truthisoutthere

It worries me that the powers that be are keeping quiet. Media reporting has been only regional, not national. Nobody appears to be joining the dots, which probably means that they are but that the truth is deemed too much for us mere mortals to handle. And that means something big is coming. Mark my words.

Part One – May 2030

Chapter One

I’ve been stuck inside for 427 days when the woman approaches across the leafy quad. She stands out, even from my vantage point up here on the tenth foor, in a widebrimmed hat, and fowing clothes that ripple around her. Those kinds of outfts are impractical these days, and I feel a sudden twinge of nostalgia. I close my eyes and see Mum in a yellow foral dress and woven sun hat sitting in a garden chair before all this started. She’s beautiful and relaxed, and

it makes me smile just to see her. She puts her book down and says something to me. I can’t hear her, so I lean closer, trying to read her lips.

I blink away the memory. Across the quad, a groundsman is wrestling with the jungle of leaves, trying to keep a path clear. The woman stops to talk to him, then he turns and points upwards and the woman lifts her head and stares right at me. I melt backwards, my heart thumping. I stand motionless, invisible, waiting until it’s safe to go back to the window. I’ve got fve minutes until my next online lesson. Five minutes that I could spend looking out of the window, imagining I’m out in the world, breathing the summer air. I’ve forgotten what hot tarmac smells like. Cut grass. Campfres and barbecues.

A computer ping makes me glance at my desk. For three hours a day, this is my world. My laptop is open – two monitors above it and keyboard in front. A notebook and pen. A halfempty mug of tea. A reminder about my lesson has popped up, but I don’t have to log on yet. It’s maths next – not my favourite but the teacher is really patient with me, and I’m making progress.

I turn my head back to the window. The buildings opposite cower beneath the trees, their sides covered in leafy creepers dotted with yellow fowers. The windows are dark blemishes, smudges on a beautiful facade. Above the buildings rise sprawling branches and webs of leaves. The trees are relatively sparse here but become more frequent in the distance before the city blends seamlessly into the surrounding forest.

When the knocking starts, it is so loud and unexpected I cover my ears with my hands and shrink into a crouching position. Someone is at the door. The woman? How did she get in? My heart bangs against my chest as I grab my tablet of the sofa and open the security app.

There she is. Looking calmly at the camera from beneath the brim of her hat. Eyes intent and searching. She could be Mum’s

age, or maybe younger, it’s hard to tell. I grab a screenshot and send it to Mum. I swipe at the keyboard in panic.

Me: Who is this?

Me: She’s knocking on the door!

I wait. The woman knocks again. Sweat pricks my palms.

Me: What do I do?

Thank goodness: Mum has seen the messages. I stare at the screen, willing her to type faster.

Mum: (typing...)

Mum: Wait there. On my way!

Wait here? Where does she think I could possibly go?

Mum: Oh god, sorry love, but you’d better let her in! I’ll be as quick as I can!

I sit on the sofa for a moment. Mum never leaves work early, not even when I’ve rung her when I’m freaking out, which I’ve done plenty of times before, begging through a mess of tears. But she doesn’t rush home, just talks to me, calms me down, continues with work. Whoever the woman is, she must be important.

Why is she here?

Maybe something to do with Mum’s TV appearance the other day? Interviewed on BBC News. Smartly dressed, sitting on the studio sofa. It was kind of a big deal – they even sent a drone for her rather than doing the interview remotely.

I stare at the screen for a bit longer. I’ll let her wait, give Mum more time to get here. If she starts to leave, I’ll let her in.

Then I hear her voice – soft yet confdent – drifting through the speaker like a wisp of smoke.

‘Alice? Shall we talk?’

I grip the tablet like a lifeline. How does she know my name? ‘My mum will be back in a minute!’ I call, tapping the talk button on the app. My voice sounds harsh and discordant.

‘I know that. But we can chat in the meantime, can’t we? I’m sure your mum would like you to show some hospitality to your guest while we wait.’

My fnger hovers over the unlock button on the screen. It normally takes Mum ffteen minutes to walk back from the lab. Fingers crossed she’s running.

Oh god. Deep breaths. I can do this.

Chapter Two

The woman pushes through the heavy outer door, and it shuts softly behind her. She takes of her hat, hangs it on the peg then steps forward to the allergen scanner. An automatic door closes behind her, and the green light travels down her from head to toe. There’s a reassuring beep and then the inner door opens. I watch her progress from the hallway, biting my nails.

‘Hello, Alice,’ she says when she’s clear of the entry. She strides towards me, her hand outstretched. I take an automatic step backwards and bump into the door frame, then retreat into the living room. She lowers her hand and follows me, but pauses in the doorway.

‘That’s OK, I understand,’ she says, smiling warmly. ‘My name is Sophie Harper, I’m a friend of your mother’s. Or at least I hope we’ll become friends. May I?’

She gestures to the sofa and I nod, backing towards the desk. I perch on the edge of the swivel chair, wheeling it backwards so I’m as far away from her as I can be. My throat feels tight, and I pull at the collar of my t-shirt. I reach for my phone while the woman sits down. No new messages from Mum.

‘It’s the spores, isn’t it? That you’re allergic to?’

I nod again. On closer inspection, the woman’s outft is a long fowing jumpsuit. The fabric is light and colourful –reds and pinks melting seamlessly into one another, and tiny cream swallows futtering all over. Her hair is mid-brown and falls in waves around her shoulders; her eyes are intense, her cheekbones high and confdent. She doesn’t appear to have anything with her except the hat – no phone, keys or purse. She looks like a celebrity, or royalty.

‘It must be hard for you, having to stay inside.’

She doesn’t phrase it as a question, but I shrug in reply. She looks around. I see her taking in my desk and the bookshelves, which are full of a mix of school books and fction, and I follow her gaze. It all suddenly looks messy and childish. I feel my cheeks reddening. I wish I’d never let her in.

‘Ah, Great Expectations,’ she says, tilting her chin towards the books. ‘A classic tale of changing one’s situation for the better.’

She looks at me keenly, but I’ve no idea what I’m meant to say.

‘Let me ask you, Alice, would you like to change your situation?’

What does she think? Of course I want to change my situation. I’m stuck in a fat on the tenth foor of a staf block on the university campus. I haven’t set foot outside for over a year, and even then it was inside a protective suit. I meet her gaze and search it for any sign of mocking, but she just looks purposeful. ‘Yes,’ I reply weakly.

‘What if I told you that I could do that for you? Ofer you a new life, somewhere you wouldn’t have to worry about your allergies anymore. Somewhere spore-proof.’

I stare back at her, my heart leaping at the thought of freedom. Of hanging out with friends and being normal again, even going to school. There were things I didn’t enjoy about school, of course – PE, for example, and freezing our butts of outside every lunchtime – but I’d happily accept those now if it meant I could get back the things I loved: choir, English and history lessons, long dawdling walks home with friends.

‘Alice?’ Sophie leans towards me as if she’s about to tell me something confdential.

But then the outer door swooshes open and, at last, Mum is here.

Chapter Three

Mum’s hands are shaking as she fumbles her shoes of and comes through the allergen scanner airlock. Her cheeks are red, and she’s out of breath. She’s wearing combat trousers and a linen long-sleeved shirt which she tries to smooth down. Sophie gets up and stands ready to meet her, her face breaking into a warm smile. I stay by the desk, swivelling nervously on my chair, unsure of what to do with my hands.

‘Dr Brody, delighted to meet you,’ Sophie says, shaking Mum’s hand.

‘Dr Harper,’ Mum says, ‘I…’

‘Call me Sophie, please,’ she says, gesturing Mum towards the sofa as if it’s her fat, not ours. Mum obediently sits down, but only on the edge of the seat as if ready to leap up. Sophie sits next to her but turns so that she’s facing Mum. Mum looks over at me, eyebrows furrowed in concern,

but I shake my head slightly in reply. I’ve no idea what’s going on.

‘I’ll get right to the point, Dr Brody. As you know, I’m director of the Artemis Centre,’ Sophie says, while Mum looks back at her warily. If the Artemis Centre means anything to Mum, it doesn’t show on her face. ‘We’ve been monitoring your work for some time now. Your theories on mycelium networks are of particular interest to us, and your recent discovery on hormones and gene activation was nothing short of ground-breaking.’

She pauses, but there’s no reaction from Mum, who either doesn’t realise she’s being praised or is too busy trying to work out what Dr Harper is going to say next.

Get to the point then, I think. And then she does.

‘We’d like you to come and work for us at the Artemis Centre.’

Mum’s mouth opens and a barely audible ‘oh’ whispers from it, like a gasp in reverse.

‘Of course that would mean both of you coming to live at the Centre, but I think that would beneft Alice as much as yourself.’ Sophie smiles at me and adds, ‘It’s entirely sporeproof. You’d have the run of the whole Centre – restaurants, cinema, indoor parks. You can even attend classes.’

A rush of excitement starts in my stomach. I see myself strolling down a wide, sunny corridor, maybe chatting with friends on the way to classes. It almost sounds too good to be true.

Mum looks at me with a puzzled frown as if suddenly remembering I’m there.

‘I…we…my work…’

‘We can sort all of that, and you can continue your work in our state-of-the-art laboratories. I think you’ll fnd we have everything you need, but if not, all you have to do is ask.’

‘What about my team?’

‘I’m afraid the invitation is just for you and Alice, but we have some of the best researchers in the world at the Centre, and a team of them will be at your disposal. We also have a team working on a solution to the spore allergy that Alice sufers from, and she’ll be well-placed to receive any benefts.’

Mum nods mechanically. I try to catch her eye, but she’s taken on a faraway look like she can’t focus on the conversation while her mind is working overtime trying to process everything.

‘When would we…’

‘Tomorrow. There’s no point wasting time now, is there? We’ll send a drone for you at midday. There’ll be a protective suit on board for Alice. We can provide anything you need once you arrive, so pack lightly.’ She smiles again and stands as if there’s nothing else to discuss.

Tomorrow. I could be out in the world tomorrow. It’s too much to take in.

‘We’ll need to talk about it,’ Mum says, fnally fnding her voice. I stay as quiet and still as possible, waiting and hoping for Sophie to knock Mum’s doubts out of the air.

‘Well, of course,’ Sophie says, giving me another smile. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less. But the ofer ends at midday tomorrow. If you’re not on the drone, I’ll know you decided not to come.’

She foats towards the door and steps into the airlock.

‘This could be the start of something amazing for you both,’ she says as the internal door closes, and she gives me a wave. I fnd myself raising my hand as if hypnotised, and I wave back.

Sally Ashworth

Sally is a journalist-turned-teacher from Hebden Bridge, West Yorkshire, where she lives in a 400-year-old house with her large blended family and the world’s best cat, Frida. She enjoys reading (obviously), playing the piano, building Lego plants (she can’t keep real ones alive) and walking in the beautiful Pennine countryside on her doorstep. She is also a huge Doris Day fan. A few years ago, she discovered she’s autistic and is passionate about positive representation in children’s books – and everywhere else, for that matter! She graduates with distinction.

What a Popular Girl Would Do

GEEK GIRL meets GLOW UP, LARA BLOOM. Awkward fourteenyear-old Lola wonders if she was of sick the day they handed out the manuals on how to be a teenager. But when she fnds a blog post called How to be Popular in 10 Simple Steps by teen infuencer Jessa Baines, she sets out to reinvent herself at her new school – with unexpected and life-changing results. Funny contemporary teen.

sallyashworth1@gmail.com

What a Popular Girl Would Do

Chapter One

Me: Is everyone still talking about it?

I paced up and down my new bedroom in the XXL Stranger Things T-shirt I wore for bed, hair a giant tumbleweed from my night spent tossing and turning. One hand gripped my phone as the other tapped out a tune (Für Elise, to be precise) on my thigh.

There were only two possible answers to the question I’d just asked – and both of them were bad: either people at St Cecilia’s Academy were still laughing about what a loser I was, or they’d forgotten about me entirely. And I wasn’t sure which was worse.

Three blinking dots appeared. Max was such a reliable replier.

Max: Nobody’s mentioned it yet. Honest. Anyway, you shouldn’t care what they think. You and I both know yours was the best costume

I fopped onto my dinosaur-themed bedding and groaned. When the posters for the end-of-year dance had gone up and I saw the theme was famous people, how was I supposed to know that meant nobody older than Taylor Swift or Harry Styles? There should have been small print!

I’d planned my outft meticulously and it was perfect, right down to the last detail. I was actually quite excited –even though I dislike loud music and crowds – but when I

walked through the gym door dressed as Nellie Bly, nineteenth century investigative journalist and round-the-world adventurer, it was obvious I’d got it wrong. Big shouty capitals WRONG. Because while my outft was historically accurate and defnitely ft the famous person brief, it was clear within a millisecond that foor-length, pufed-shouldered gown (with fancy lace collar made from charity shop tablecloth) was not the vibe.

I was a lone female explorer in a sea of Lycra and bodycon.

And although it was now six weeks since the dance and I should have been over it, the memory of Brooke Taylor accidentally tripping and covering me in fruit punch while her ladies-in-waiting snapped photos on their iPhones still stung. It was a good job I didn’t have social media because, apparently, I went viral.

Me: Nobody’s said anything? At all?

The reason I wasn’t at St Cecilia’s facing up to my epic social blunder was that we’d moved a million miles away (well, 122, to be exact) to be closer to Grandma. It had all happened very quickly, and I still didn’t know how I felt about it. Because even though I dreaded school, and the dance fasco had made it abundantly clear that I actually was an alien from a distant planet, there were some things I’d miss: my best (only) friend Max, of course, but also the excellent cheese paninis (I ate one every single day for three years); my English teacher Mr Choudhary, who loved books as much as I did and let me sit in his comfy chair when things got too much; and helping out at Dungeons & Dragons club, where I could actually relax and be myself (or at least myself in half-elf form).

Max: It’s only 9.14, Loles, so give them time…but no, not yet. Brooke and her minions have short memories, remember. Like goldfish. They’ve moved on. It’s Nathan’s turn now

Me: Ugh. How come?

Max: He got acne in the holidays

I’d spent all summer trying to erase the dance from my mind, but hearing my humiliation was not even worth a mention on the frst morning back was strangely…hurtful? Which was very confusing when all I’d wanted was for everyone to forget my Nellie Bly moment ever happened. Was being remembered as a weirdo better than not being remembered at all?

Me: So…it’s kind of like I was never at St Cecilia’s then…

That sounded self-pitying but it was too late to take it back. And why did I care what Brooke and co. thought of me anyway?

Max: Erm, hello?? This place already sucks without you

Me: I’m sorry, Maxie Moo. I miss you too

Max and I had known each other since before we were born. Well, sort of . Our mums met at pregnancy aquarobics and became friends. It was funny to imagine the pair of us turning somersaults in our amniotic sacs while they splashed about to pop hits. I probably had my tiny baby

hands over my ears while Max busted moves. And, even though he was due almost a month before me, we’d ended up making our ofcial appearances only two days apart. There’s a photograph of us side by side in a plastic hospital crib – me crying (because what was this too-bright, noisy place?) and Max fast asleep.

After a start like that, I suppose it was inevitable that he and I would end up being friends too – although I did sometimes worry that Max, who was universally liked, had not had much say in the matter and could have done much better for himself in the BFF department. Anyway, he had remained by my side through thick and thin, sticking up for me hundreds of times when I’d accidentally said the wrong thing or pulled the wrong face or put my unsuspecting foot in it some other way. And while I knew he would make a brilliant virtual friend, because he was a) a great listener, b) clever and kind, and c) highly entertaining, how could it possibly be the same when we were so far apart?

Max: Mr Choudhary says hi btw – and to keep reading! See, another person who misses you

Me: Teachers don’t count but say hi back pls. His lessons were the best thing about St Cecilia’s

Max: Charming

Me: Except for your scintillating company ofc

Max: Ofc. Anyway, back to goldfish. That threesecond thing is a myth. They can remember stuff for months – which must be really traumatic for the one in my brother’s bedroom…

We joked back and forth until Max suddenly disappeared mid-sentence. He was in form time and Señora Rowntree must have spotted his phone. I didn’t know what to do with myself then. I felt all jumpy, as if a panicked bird was loose inside me. My new school, Millstone High, started tomorrow, and I’d been trying not to think about it. Too scary. It’s not that I wanted to be back at St Cecilia’s, exactly, because most of the time I hated it: people there acted as if I had a contagious disease. But the idea of starting over at a brandnew school full of kids I’d never met and random rules to fgure out (‘walking on the left is only permitted on Tuesdays’ or ‘ties must have six and a half stripes showing at all times’) made me shudder.

A stif and scratchy Millstone uniform taunted me from where I’d left it on my chair. (Would our brains really stop working if we all wore joggers?) Mum took me to buy it yesterday and in the car on the way home, when I’d been silent for an hour, she said, ‘It’ll be fne, love. All you have to do is be yourself.’

Now, I know she was only trying to be nice, but it was the sort of advice which would turn me into an outcast by the end of week one. I’d tried being myself at St Cecilia’s – because who knows any better when they’re a naïve Year Seven –and what did that get me? The nickname Loopy Lola and a reputation as a socially-awkward, panini-munching loser, that’s what!

I stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling (which weren’t glowing because it was 9.28 a.m. and sunny) and tried to empty my mind. When that didn’t work, I picked up Around the World in Seventy-Two Days by Nellie Bly (because one day I was going to be a trailblazing journalist exactly like her), but the usually calming words were like grasshoppers on the page. Chatting with Max had brought it all back. I couldn’t risk things at Millstone being as bad as

they were at St Cecilia’s. I couldn’t risk turning up as me. If I was going to survive, I needed a plan. And I needed a good one.

I reached for my phone and opened a new search window. My fngers fzzed as I stared at the blinking cursor. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, there were approximately 600,000 words in the English language – a fact which made me feel conficted. With so many words, how did anybody ever choose the right ones? But, also, like, wow…maybe if I learned more of them, I wouldn’t tie myself up in conversational knots every time I opened my mouth.

I’d only typed the words ‘how’ and ‘to’ before a whole list of suggestions popped up. Among them were ‘How to Train Your Dragon’, ‘How to boil an egg’, and ‘How to become a pilot’, which all sounded like handy life skills and/or things I’d like to know more about. But as much as I loved a good research rabbit hole, I resisted and fnished my query: ‘How to be a normal girl’.

There were over four billion results in 0.4 seconds, which was both overwhelming and reassuring. I had no idea what to click on frst, so I scrolled up and down until one in particular caught my eye. It was a link to a blog post called ‘How to be Popular in 10 Simple Steps’, and it was immediately so obvious and so perfect because a) I loved simple steps and b) I wanted nothing more than to make a good impression on my new classmates.

I sat bolt upright, a warm feeling – possibly hope? –spreading through my body.

St Cecila’s had been a disaster. But Millstone was going to be diferent.

I was going to be normal.

Chapter Two

I clicked through to a glossy website with Always Jessa emblazoned across the top in a swirly pink handwriting font. It belonged to a seventeen-year-old girl called Jessa Baines, who beamed out at me from a photograph captioned, ‘Just a regular teenager sharing her thoughts on life’.

Seventeen! That was only three years older than me!

Jessa was one of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen. She had lustrous auburn waves (nothing like the knotty ones I had to contend with), wide hazel eyes and the straightest, most sparkly teeth in history. And as soon as I started reading ‘How to be Popular in 10 Simple Steps’ I knew I’d found exactly what I needed: a step-by-step guide to becoming a successful teenager written by somebody who was one! I nodded along to the frst few paragraphs, and it was spooky, in a way, because it felt as if Jessa Baines was looking right into my soul.

‘Have you ever looked at the most popular girl in your school and tried to fgure out how she does it?’ Yes, Jessa, yes, I have! ‘Do you wish you knew her secret to breezing through the day looking fresh, put-together and completely unrufed by anything life has to throw at her?’ Again, Jessa, that’s a yes from me!

I’d known since at least Year Seven that pretty much everything I did was wrong, but I’d never understood why. It always felt as if the other kids had been given some sort of manual on how to be a regular human and my copy had got lost in the post. And yet, all this time, the answer had been one quick google away. Quite frankly, for a girl who was supposed to be smart, I could be spectacularly dense sometimes. Why on earth hadn’t I thought of fnding some instructions before?

This was my chance to start over. To launch a new and

improved Lola Jean Bunting on the world.

Giddy with the prospect of life fnally taking a turn for the better, I scrolled to the main section of the blog post where Jessa outlined each of the 10 Simple Steps.

They were:

1. Smile!

2. Be friendly!

3. Master the art of small talk!

4. Learn how to listen!

5. Have a relaxed and appealing personality!

6. Have a great sense of humour!

7. Get involved!

8. Get sporty!

9. Be social media savvy!

10. Glow up!

It was all quite overwhelming and some of the steps sounded much harder than others (I doubted I’d get the hang of small talk if I lived to be a thousand, for example), but after I’d skimmed each section, I took a moment to gather myself and started again from the top.

Step #1: Smile!

Popular girls smile. A lot. If this is something you’re not used to doing, it might help to practise in front of a mirror in the comfort of your own bedroom. That way, you can perfect an expression that’s warm and natural before trying it out on others.

When you’re confident you’ve mastered a winning smile (and given it extra sparkle with a whitening toothpaste), remember to use it! Smile every chance you get and you’ll soon draw new friends into your orbit!

Jessa didn’t say if the steps should be followed in sequence, all at once, or at random, but smiling seemed like a sensible place to start – and there was no time like the present.

I sat at my old pine dressing table and breathed deeply. Relax, I told myself. Nobody’s watching. Feeling excited but also a bit silly, I uncurled my shoulders and smiled at myself in the mirror. I blinked and tried again. What the heck!? It was the same expression I pulled whenever Mum and Dad made me pose for a photo, and it felt as if I was using the right muscles, but my refection bore a striking resemblance to a particularly stressed-out frog and there wasn’t a tooth – sparkling or otherwise – in sight.

I sighed. Was this really what I looked like when I thought I was radiating happiness? No wonder I couldn’t make friends. If I failed to master a simple smile I was doomed. But then I heard a soft voice in my ear. Jessa.

‘You’ll get there,’ she whispered. ‘Try again.’ She was right, of course: if I gave up at the frst hurdle, my new school would be St Cecilia’s all over again – and there was absolutely no way I could let that happen.

Caitlin Clements

Caitlin grew up in Oklahoma, exploring dusty corners of cowboy ghost towns and the kitschy neon trappings of Route 66. By day, she’s a Tony and Olivier Award-winning theater producer with Broadway/West End credits including the musical Dear Evan Hansen and the recent revival of Sunset Boulevard. Caitlin lives in New York City with her dog Gatsby, where she spends her free time mentoring teen storytellers, amassing too many library cards, and dreaming up convoluted meet-cutes for the colorful cast of strangers she shares the subway with each day.

The Nostalgia Train

This festive upper YA time slip romance features the allure of a teenage The Time Traveler’s Wife mixed with the urban holiday cheer of Dash and Lily’s Book of Dares. The arrival of the Nostalgia Train, a Christmas tradition running annually in the New York City subway, sparks a collision of eras and a whirlwind romance between Nat, a 1940s boy suspended in time, and Abbie, a modern-day teen. As Abbie and Nat unravel the mysteries binding them across decades, they’re faced with a poignant choice: embrace the enchantment of their once-a-year rendezvous or pursue truths that could fnally ofer Nat closure, but forever force them apart.

caitlinskellyclements@gmail.com

The Nostalgia Train

Nat: Arrival Day

I never know quite what to expect on Arrival Day, but I do know this: on the frst of December, no matter the year, an eighteen-year-old boy will make his triumphant return on the southbound F Train.

OK, I take back the “triumphant” bit. Seven decades as a teenager isn’t much to brag about. But like it or not, every December, there he’ll be. And “he,” of course, is me.

The sounds of a jazz band ring out as I emerge from the train car into the Delancey Street station. The jaunty Glenn Miller tune weaves through the platform packed with revelers wearing vintage garments like one might don a Halloween costume. It’s all borrowed tweed, dainty plaid dresses, shiny saddle shoes. They’re a bit baggy in the arms or too tight around the belly, but easy enough to make do for one festive day.

‘What’s going on here anyway?’ a passerby grumbles to the costumed conductor, dapper in his white gloves and crisp blue uniform.

‘Why, it’s Nostalgia Train Day,’ the conductor replies jovially. ‘Makes it all the more festive to venture out for your holiday shopping by way of the 1940s, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Debatable,’ murmurs the man as he pushes through some swing dancers, nearly thwacking one with his bulging laptop bag as he hurries towards the exit.

Hurrying is what the city’s good at. I should be doing it, too. Making the most of my time. But for now…I linger,

embracing this rare chance to revel in the almost familiar.

People love to tell you how New York is always changing. The bodega guy, the diner waitress, the chatty old gent on a park bench. They ofer unsolicited anecdotes about the ways they’ve seen the city evolve. And they’re right. Every single one of them. I’ve watched it unfold over seven decades now. Buildings razed, then raised. Mom-and-pop shops that thrive for years then shutter with a whisper. Faces that are a familiar feature of one’s days until suddenly they’ve gone, and you can’t quite pinpoint when it happened. As it turns out, I’m the only thing about New York that hasn’t managed to change during all that time.

The band shifts into a lively jive, and the dancers respond accordingly. The East Coast Swing was always a favorite, and my toe taps, instinctively recalling the steps.

That’s when she catches my eye. Hand in hand with another girl, she’s smiling, uninhibited as they dance, her chestnut curls bouncing in time. They’re both in their late teens, I’d guess. Not much younger than me.

Well, some version of me.

The version who would have undoubtedly tossed of a witty remark in exchange for a dance. I make a point not to interact on Arrival Day, though. Not till I’m sure I won’t make some newcomer’s slip-up. Instead, I listen. And I watch. Taking in all that might have been.

The girl wears her crimson vintage dress with ease, and it’s better tailored than most, more than a persona she’s adopted for the day. She whispers in her friend’s ear before they both giggle, gesturing to someone in the crowd. I attempt to follow their gaze, scanning the onlookers for whatever – or whoever – might have prompted that lovely smile.

And then, as the song reaches its crescendo, she spins right into me. As I falter from the impact, her startled green eyes fick up to meet mine.

Abbie:

One Week Prior

Fumbling for the NYU ID in my stufed wallet, I swipe into my dorm and wave to our overnight security guy, Calvin. He extends his hand for a quick fst bump as I pass his desk, hardly looking up from the Knicks game on his phone.

When I enter Room 502, there’s only the steady whir of Tess’s dehumidifer to greet me. Last one home, yet again. I slink past Tess and Harper’s bunk towards my own lofted bed. I’m unquestionably the third wheel in our cramped room.

“Overcrowd” is university-speak for “missed the room deposit deadline.” Thankfully the housing ofce cut me some slack.

The library-to-dorm commute is brief, and my bundling might have been a bit much, despite the snow. I’m tempted to hoist myself into bed as-is, but begrudgingly begin shedding layers as rustling begins in the bottom bunk.

‘Look who’s back.’ Harper’s voice is mufed by the comforter pulled fully over her head.

‘Sorry.’ If I don’t engage her in real conversation, I fgure it won’t actually count as having woken her up. Again.

‘Calvin had that for you.’ She thrusts a fnger in the vague direction of my desk.

I ofer a thumbs up, which I realize will go wholly unnoticed in the dark room, so I follow it up with, ‘Cool.’

I’m a sucker for snail mail. My roommates subsist on a steady stream of texting and the occasional Starbucks e-card from their folks, but my family has always done our part to keep the postal service afoat. Mom was the uncontested queen of the care package. As for Dad – he’s doing his best to keep up tradition. Using my phone’s fashlight, I examine the manila envelope bearing his familiar scrawl across the front: ABBIE’S EXAM SEASON SURVIVAL KIT . All my life I’ve received notes in his imperfect yet deliberate penmanship, from birthday

Clements | The Nostalgia Train cards to more-than-I-bargained-for commentary on my college essays.

I hoist myself into bed and gently tear open the envelope, trying not to further disturb my softly snoring roomies.

Merry (early) Christmas, my dear Abbie.

I know it’s a fool’s errand to say I hope you don’t spend too much time in the library. But I figured a change of scenery couldn’t hurt.

Miss you endlessly.

Love, Your Old Man

PS: I know what you’re thinking, but the Upper East Side isn’t THAT far away. Take the 6 Train, silly.

In his twenties, Dad lived here for a research position at the Museum of Natural History, back when he sported a scrufer-than-now beard and Thin Lizzy t-shirts. He later retreated to the wilds of Vermont, lured by the promise of tenure, a backyard, and goat ownership (oh, how I wish I was kidding), but he still knows the city like the back of his hand. And he knows where to fnd its treasures.

A smaller envelope is also enclosed. It’s made of crisp linen stationery emblazoned with a cursive logo – THE NEW YORK SOCIETY LIBRARY – along with an accompanying note.

Dear Ms. Abigail Arnold,

Dr. Amos Arnold has purchased a one-year gift membership to the New York Society Library in your name. We look forward to welcoming you for a tour of the facilities.

The brochure features foor-to-ceiling bookshelves brimming with elegant leather volumes, all accented by gleaming wooden ladders. Other photos present cozy reading rooms peppered with silver-haired patrons and a workshop where conservators hunch over their paper patients.

I feel a tingle of excitement. It’s the sensation my roommates have dubbed an “Abbie Arnold bookgasm,” a term usually reserved for my weekly wanderings in the infnite aisles of Strand Bookstore.

I turn over the brochure to study the detailed history on the back when there’s a mufed moan from across the room.

‘Abbie, that light, c’mon!’ Harper hisses. ‘It’s like two a.m. and I have Calc at an ungodly hour.’

‘Sorry!’ I whisper, shutting of my phone’s fashlight and dangling over the side of my bed to drop Dad’s package onto my desk below. I’m usually bad at sleep without reading a bit frst, but exam season fatigue is certain to win out tonight. I roll over onto my cold pillow and soon drift of to visions of bountiful bookshelves dancing in my head.

The next day, I cross Washington Square, dodging slushy puddles en route to my now-regular corner of the NYU library. I consider the line of catatonic undergrads passing through the turnstiles, and my stomach twists at the thought of joining their ranks. With crowds like these, I doubt I’ll even fnd an open desk. I hesitate in front of the entrance, then reach for last night’s envelope in my bag, running a fnger over the embossed return address – 53 E. 79th Street.

As expected, the subway ride is slow, with ‘this train is being held’ messages punctuating every few stops. Nearly an hour later, I emerge from the balmy subway into the chilly air of the Upper East Side. I hurry past wrought iron

gates and high-end brownstones until I reach an unassuming white townhouse, fronted by a stately set of granite steps. Only the bronze plaque assures me I’ve reached the right place.

Passing through the gilded doors into the main foyer, the lobby is empty apart from two boys about my age behind the circulation desk. They’re distracted by something on the computer, so I choose the path of least resistance and linger in silence, shifting uncomfortably until my soggy shoe squeaks against the marble.

‘Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there.’ The taller boy, a curlyhaired brunette, fnally greets me.

‘All good. I could tell you were busy,’ I reply.

His shorter friend snort-laughs, and the tall guy elbows him in the ribs.

‘Nah. This loser was just forcing me to watch that video of the West Side Yodeler. Again. Save me from this lunacy, truly.’ He comes out from behind the desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Umm, my dad sent me this …’ I pull the letter from my bag and hand it over. He smiles as he reads, revealing twin dimples.

‘How cool. These memberships aren’t cheap or anything. That’s why this place is flled with retirees. They’re solvent.’

His nerdy kindness emboldens me a bit. ‘I’ll admit, you’re not quite what I pictured. I was expecting a Colonel Mustard type to show me around. Or at least a kindly grandma.’

‘Oh, fear not – we’ve got plenty of those. Grandmas, that is. I don’t know about kindly.’

‘Why, thank you, Patrick, for that lovely introduction.’ A sharp voice echoes down the corridor, followed by a primly dressed older woman with a brass name badge on her gray cardigan. ‘How old do you think I am, anyway?’

The shorter boy takes this moment to scurry into the back room with a stack of books. Meanwhile, Patrick attempts a recovery, voice saccharine. ‘Oh, but a gentleman never discusses a lady’s age in polite company.’

The hint of a smile peeks through the woman’s stoic façade. ‘And your charm is why we keep you.’

‘Well, someone’s got to make a good frst impression,’ Patrick quips, straightening his slightly rumpled blazer for efect.

She turns my way. ‘And has he succeeded on that front?’

‘What? Oh. Yes,’ I stammer, fustered by her steely gaze. ‘He’s been very helpful. All sorts of scintillating details about… yodeling…and…whatnot.’

Patrick’s eyes widen, but the woman just shakes her head then extends her hand to me. ‘Lydia Peck, Head Librarian.’

My membership letter slips from my grasp and futters to the foor as I accept Lydia’s hand. ‘Abigail Arnold…foundering undergraduate.’

Patrick bends to grab the letter. ‘Her dad got her a membership—’

‘Ah! You must be Amos’s girl,’ Lydia states more than asks. ‘He contacted us over the summer. To be honest, we don’t get many—’

‘—any,’ Patrick waves the letter for efect before handing it back to me.

‘—requests for gift memberships these days,’ Lydia concedes. ‘Mostly just renewals from our old guard. Our Membership Coordinator was quite taken by surprise.’

‘Sorry,’ is all I can think to reply.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Lydia scofs. ‘Now it’s just up to us to actually make a good frst impression.’ She shoots a pointed look at Patrick. ‘So, how about a grand tour?’

I nod eagerly, and Lydia motions for me to follow, not even waiting for me to catch up before she begins. ‘Patrick will have a membership card made for you by the time we’re

done. That’s what you’ll use to check in, though we tend to recognize our regulars. We’re open every day, but not terribly late, I’m afraid. Probably not the best suited for a college student’s schedule, but there you have it.’ She doesn’t seem to have even taken a breath.

We turn the corner into a room of the foyer. It’s lined by polished wooden chests of card catalog drawers. Above them, the walls display portraits and sepia photographs, all in gilded frames. Stoic men and women stare back at me – faces from another era. Lydia notices my gaze.

‘This is where it all began.’ She points to a pencil sketch of some young men in tri-cornered hats and billowing white shirts. Her tone’s hushed, almost reverential. ‘Our six founders, who set out to establish a library that was “useful as well as ornamental.”’

‘Well, I can certainly see they succeeded in that last goal,’ I murmur, taking in the opulent trappings around me as Lydia moves down the line of paintings.

‘That one’s John Watts, another founding trustee. And then of course there’s Elizabeth DeMilt. The gift from her estate helped make this building our permanent home.’

Lydia pivots towards another frame, this one a black and white photograph depicting a family that looks vaguely familiar. Mother, father, two children – one a mere infant in the woman’s arms. The son is tall, lanky, bespectacled. His messy hair is dark and nearly shoulder-length. He’s the kind of guy my roommate, Tess, would instantly label as ‘hot,’ as she does with half of the men depicted in her hefty art history textbooks. She wouldn’t be wrong, but I’m more interested in the hint of mischief in his eyes.

I expect more narration but Lydia immediately passes it by. ‘Shall we move on to the reading rooms?’ She gestures to my bulging book bag. ‘Make sure we leave you time to actually settle in for a bit.’

I know I should oblige, but I can’t quite pull myself away. Something about this little family framed in a room full of stufy portraiture intrigues me. ‘How about this one? More trustees?’

Lydia rejoins me. ‘No, actually.’ Her voice has softened. ‘That’s the longtime superintendent. And his family. They resided here some time ago, back in the forties. In an annex apartment almost directly above where you’re standing.’

My eyes instinctively fick towards the ornate ceiling. ‘Libraries have superintendents? Like, the live-in kind?’

‘This one sure did,’ Lydia confrms, her voice laden with enough wistfulness that I fully expect her to follow up with something about the good old days. Perhaps jealous that her work perks no longer include a rent-free existence in Manhattan.

Lydia shakes her head as if rousing herself from a brief mental wander. ‘Anyway, we should move along. As you might imagine, the card catalog doesn’t get much use nowadays. Mostly for show – and sentimentality…’ She proceeds out of the room and I follow, giving one last glance at the family portrait and the boy with the glint in his eye.

Clare Harlow

Once upon a time, Clare was an actor. A few years ago, she turned her love of storytelling from stage to page and became a writer too. Her debut MG novel, Tidemagic: The Many Faces of Ista Flit, was published by Pufn in 2024, and the sequel comes out in May 2025. Now based in London, Clare grew up in Dorset, in a village of fewer than a hundred people and surrounded by some seriously spooky woodland. Wispinwood marks a return to her love of creepy YA.

Wispinwood

Sixteen-year-old Cass wants nothing to do with the legends about the local forest – until charismatic newcomer Elliot dares her to fnd out once and for all whether magic is real. When Cass’s attempt to perform a ritual accidentally creates her own doppelganger, she must destroy them before they take over her life. But Elliot is not all he seems, the forest’s ancient magic is deeper under Cass’s skin than she could possibly have imagined, and Cass Two isn’t going anywhere without a fght. YA horror.

amber@skylark-literary.com

Wispinwood

Chapter One

I used to love the stories about the Otherwoods. I believed in them with my whole heart – once upon a time.

Now, I know better. The forest is just a forest, no matter what the tourists who swarm to Wispin in the summer believe. There’s no magic out here between the trees. No tourists either, at this time of year. January’s always bleak, and this one’s been brutal. The air is sour with leaf-rot and so sharp with cold that my fngers are icy claws inside my gloves. But you have to sufer for your art sometimes – or in my case, for my drama coursework. So, on we trudge through the brittle brown ferns, the school camera bag bumping my hip with every step, and Nisha scowling beside me, wielding the tripod like a weapon.

‘Cass, seriously,’ she says. ‘We’re going to lose the light if you don’t choose a spot.’

‘It needs to be perfect, or there’s no point.’

‘Right.’ Her reply is so clenched that my own teeth grit in response.

Bickering about light levels is safer than poking at the thing we’re not talking about. It’s been a week and a day of talking about literally anything else, and all the stuf we aren’t saying is like an extra set of footsteps crunching along behind us. We get like this sometimes – quite a lot, lately, if I’m honest – Nisha fuming and brewing, and me unable to fnd the right words, waiting to see if the storm will simply pass over. At least she kept her promise to help this afternoon.

‘What about there?’ She points.

Ahead is a clearing. In the centre, a large tree stump waits, like an island in the sea of dead leaves. Nisha strides towards it, abandoning the tripod, the silvery winter sunshine spilling down onto her long green coat – well, my long green coat. My design, my late nights coaxing the delicate, mosscoloured velvet. She sits, regal as a queen on her throne. Turns back to me, one eyebrow cocked.

‘Perfect enough for you?’

‘Yes, actually.’

Trust the girl who wants to be an actor to know how to fnd her light. I can’t help smiling. All worth it. Every hour of missed sleep. Every last stitch. I peel of my mittens and set up as fast as I can, fngers clumsy from the cold, then peer through the viewfnder.

But before I can press the shutter, she leans forward, an emotion I can’t read fashing across her face, as if something’s caught her eye through the trees.

‘What?’ I track her gaze.

‘I don’t know, I…’ She stands up. ‘I think it’s an ofering.’

An ofering – those words might have lost their magic, but they still have power. I hate the way they make my body tense, how they food my head with memories.

‘Oh,’ I say. Inside I’m all thorns and shards of glass, but my voice comes out smooth and light. ‘Must be old. From last summer.’ I swallow. It’s too early – way too early in the year for the weirdness to start.

‘Maybe.’ Nisha shrugs. People say that if you live in Wispin, you either believe all the stories or none of them. She’s a cynic down to her bones. The oferings have never been more than a game to her.

Whereas to me…it’s my gran’s fault. She was the one who stufed my head with the stories, dripping them into my bedtime hot chocolate whenever Mum was working late. Even now, after everything, I can’t stop the prickle of awareness

that crawls over me. Nisha goes to investigate, and I fnd myself trailing after her. She halts in front of another tree stump. Rot has crumbled this one down to a hollow shell. Inside are fve copper coins, a burnt-out tealight and a brooch shaped like a dragonfy, its wings studded with beads of bright green glass.

Money, a fame…and something precious.

My throat tightens. That’s an ofering, no question about it. And not like the half-jokey ones some of the tourists make. The coins are polished to a shine, the brooch angled just so, resting on a scrap of feecy yellow fabric, patterned with berries and leaves. I picture trembling fngers arranging everything, fumbling with matches for the tealight.

‘Looks recent,’ Nisha says.

It does. Really recent, barely marked by the forest. Perhaps whoever left this couldn’t wait till summer. Perhaps they were desperate.

Gran’s voice rises like mist in my mind. The tree folk will always answer, if your need is great enough.

Vinegary anger swirls through me. The tree folk won’t answer, no matter how badly that person needs them to, because the tree folk don’t exist. I know that better than anyone. I know how it feels when the last ficker of hope dies.

I felt it six months ago, the night I made an ofering of my own.

Nisha draws her arms round herself. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t be here.’

She’s the only one who knows what I did. She was waiting by the chestnut tree when I got back to the village. By then everyone was looking for me, and it was her who had to tell me that Gran had died while I was gone, that I’d missed my chance to say goodbye.

‘Let’s just leave it alone,’ I say. ‘I’m fne.’

But I’m not fne. Seeing the ofering is making me feel

all the things with jagged edges that I normally wrap up as tightly as I can. I can’t stop thinking about that night. The heat and the greenness and the pollen-heavy air. The way the match hissed when I struck it. How the smell of the coins clung to my palms on the walk home.

We need to get started. The light is losing its silver. Soon it will dim to grey. But though I know, I know, how ridiculous, how dangerous, the stories are, the memory has wiggled under my skin, and a treacherous spark of belief has snuck back in with it.

The tree folk will always answer. Just for a second, it feels true again.

Of in the trees, there’s a noise – the snap of a twig under someone’s foot – and I start so suddenly that I make Nisha jump too, my panic mirrored in her eyes as we reel round to see who’s there.

Chapter Two

The footsteps come closer. Nisha and I stand statue-still, ears pricked like deer.

‘Hello?’ A voice calls. A woman’s voice, edged with the kind of steel that I might use if I was out here alone. Its owner comes into view. She’s probably about my mum’s age; white and pale and tall and blonde. She stops at the edge of the clearing, her gaze ficking from us to the ofering to the camera.

Nisha’s sleeve brushes mine as she lifts a hand in greeting. ‘Hi.’

‘Are you lost?’ I ask, taking in the woman’s blow-dry and her immaculate leather ankle-boots. Defnitely not a hiker. More like one of the podcasters or YouTubers we fnd poking

around sometimes, hunting for inspiration or ‘the facts behind the legend of Wispin Otherwoods’. They always get lost.

She shakes her head. ‘No, not lost exactly. Apologies if I startled you. I didn’t mean to interrupt your…photo shoot?’

‘It’s for school,’ I explain. ‘Just the coat. It’s my drama coursework.’ I wouldn’t normally be chatty with a stranger, but she keeps glancing at the ofering. If she’s the one who left it and she’s come back for some reason, I don’t want her thinking we’ve been messing with it. The same worry must have struck Nisha. She edges away from the tree stump.

‘Drama coursework?’ Curiosity glitters in the woman’s eyes. ‘Ah, then our paths may cross again tomorrow. If you’re at Burling High, that is?’

‘Um, yeah.’ It’s Burling Academy these days, and it’s where everyone in Wispin goes, but there doesn’t seem much point saying that.

‘In that case, I’ll see you in class.’ The woman smiles, showing a sliver of perfect teeth. ‘That’s a good piece you’ve made there,’ she says to me, nodding at the coat. ‘Very… appropriate for the setting.’

With that, she makes her exit, fancy boots and all, not back towards the village but deeper into the forest.

Okaaay, I mouth. That was more than a little odd.

‘I guess she’s the new Mr Croft,’ I whisper once it feels like we’re alone again.

‘Yeah.’ A crease stitches itself between Nisha’s eyebrows. We’re only a few feet apart, but I can tell that some crucial part of her is miles away.

‘Weird not to just say so,’ I press on, because she’s been frantic for updates about who might replace our head of drama, and if there was ever a chance to free the pair of us from the tension we’re stewing in, this is defnitely it. ‘Hey, what do you think she meant about the coat being appropriate for the setting? She doesn’t even know what play it’s for.’

Nisha’s frown deepens. ‘She didn’t mean that. She meant it was appropriate for this setting. Here, with…with the ofering. God, Cass.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, stung.

‘No, I’m sorry.’

It isn’t the apology I want. I don’t care about her snapping at me. I care about last weekend.

Tell her that, then, Gran would say. No sense letting bad feelings fester. But I have this awful churning feeling that if I don’t fnd the exact right words, I’ll only make things worse.

‘Right, let’s get on with this,’ I say instead. ‘Nisha?’

‘I don’t know.’ Nisha isn’t even looking at me. She gazes down at the ofering. ‘I don’t like this. It feels…wrong, being here. Reiko said…’ She cuts herself of with a click of her tongue.

‘No, please tell me. What did Reiko say?’ My question slices out more sharply than I mean it to. I have nothing against Reiko Davies. Well, besides how she thinks she’s too cool for everyone and the fact I once heard her laughing with some of the other Year Thirteens about Nisha’s extremely unsubtle crush on her. But she’s so tied up in what happened last weekend that the mere mention of her makes everything we’ve been studiously burying since then start pushing its way towards the light.

Whatever Reiko said has clearly dug its roots in. Nisha glances round, and there’s panic in her eyes. Wild, inexplicable panic, futtering like a trapped bird. When she speaks again, her voice is a whisper.

‘Just…that you’ve got to be careful if you fnd an ofering. That if it isn’t good enough – if the tree folk decide they’ve been cheated, they take what they feel they’re owed from… from the next person who comes along.’

My laugh streaks out, white in the cold. ‘But you know that’s crap, right? I mean, it’s all crap.’

She gives a shrug. ‘You didn’t used to think so.’

‘No, but you did.’ Who is this Nisha, and what has she done with my best friend? I take a big step back, spreading my arms wide. ‘Hey, tree folk! Hello! We’re right here. If you’re not happy, come and—’

‘Don’t, Cass.’ Nisha looks as if she wants to wriggle out of her own skin.

A tiny bit of me, a poisonous microscopic night-beetle part that would immediately disintegrate if I held it up to the sunlight, wants her to squirm. ‘I’m waiting,’ I call, in a singsong voice. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’

‘Cass, stop,’ Nisha hisses. ‘Seriously. Reiko said—’

‘What does Reiko know? She doesn’t even live in Wispin.’

Another laugh twists out of me. ‘Oh my God, is this what the two of you were talking about at the wedding?’

The word wedding lands on the dead leaves like a spark on tinder.

Nisha’s eyes snap to meet mine. ‘I knew you weren’t over that.’

‘You abandoned me.’ Here it is, the anger I’ve kept bottled inside me, pouring out, hot and red. ‘At my mum’s wedding. You missed half my speech.’

She makes a tiny noise of exasperation. ‘I just went to talk to Reiko. You could’ve waited.’

‘And you just had to talk to her right then?’ Reiko wasn’t even a guest; she works weekends at the pub where we had the reception.

I’m ready for this now, ready to drag everything out into the open, but Nisha sighs, as if all the fght has left her.

‘Oh my God, this is so petty.’ She drops my gaze, shoving her hands into her pockets, into the pockets of the coat I made. ‘Do you sometimes think maybe we’re a bit…insular?’

‘Insular?’ Since when does Nisha use words like insular?

‘We spend all our time together, just you and me.’ She sighs again, and I have this peculiar plunging sensation, as if I’ve put

my feet down after treading water only to fnd I’ve drifted from shore and there’s nothing solid below. ‘I just think…’

‘What, that we should see other people?’ This is ridiculous. It’s like she’s breaking up with me.

‘It’s a lot sometimes, being the only person you like,’ she says, and I can tell that she’s rehearsed these words, that this isn’t about this afternoon or last weekend. This is a fuse that was lit months ago, fnally burning down.

Nisha takes a shuddery breath. ‘Since your gran died, I know…I know it’s been difcult. But sometimes—sometimes I just want…’

‘Less of me.’ I fnd the words for her.

‘No, I…I want you to need me less.’

All the air drains from the day. She is breaking up with me. She is un-best-friending me, here in the forest. It takes a second for the humiliation to wash in, then it laps over me in hot little waves.

We stare at each other.

‘Shit,’ Nisha says. ‘That came out so, so wrong.’

‘No, I think you said it perfectly.’ I am not going to cry. I focus on that, on clinging to my last sliver of dignity.

‘Cass…’ she begins, then trails of, which makes sense because what else is there to possibly say?

‘You should go,’ I tell her. ‘Yeah, would you go. Please.’

And for once she lets me have the last word.

Then she’s gone, and I’m alone. Alone in the forest for the frst time in six months, with a ringing in my ears and adrenaline surging through me like lava.

I whirl to face the ofering. I don’t know what I’m thinking, maybe that I’ll scatter every pathetic, lonely piece of it into the rot and the dirt. But I end up simply standing, the chill burrowing into my bones, watching the fading tatters of sunlight brush the glass beads in the dragonfy’s wings.

Jake Hayes

Jake has always been obsessed with children’s books. As a TV producer he created the BBC Four series Picture Book and worked on documentaries including The Big Read. He can often be found pottering about on his small corner of the internet, tending to the Tyger Tale blog and podcast or selling vintage children’s books. He has a head full of stories and has written for Scoop magazine and the Golden Egg Academy. Jake is also an audio-describer for visually impaired theatre audiences and lives in Wiltshire with his family.

At Home with the Scapegraces

Born into Britain’s most famous YouTube family, thirteen-year-old Lunar Scapegrace is trapped in a life he never wanted. With every milestone and mishap viewed by millions of strangers, he longs to get away from the prying eye of the phone camera. After one too many humiliating videos, Lunar teams up with his rebellious older sister Billie, to plot the cancellation of their vlog. But as the public turns on the Scapegraces and the family appears to be on the brink of disaster, he must discover his own voice and tell his story to save the people he loves. Teen contemporary drama for fans of Nathanael Lessore and Tamsin Winter.

taletyger@gmail.com

At Home with the Scapegraces

Chapter One

You won’t BELIEVE what happened when Santa visited on Christmas morning

In the Scapegrace house not a creature is stirring, apart from my stepdad. He’s standing next to my bed dressed in a Santa outft and beard, pointing a 4K camera in my bleary face.

‘It’s Vlogmas Day at last, Lunar! Time to go to work.’

My feet haven’t even found their slippers before he passes me the camcorder. I look longingly at the bulging stocking at the end of the bed. But a glance is all I get – Danny’s already herding me, half asleep, onto the landing.

‘Remember what I said,’ he whispers as we approach my little sister’s bedroom. ‘Quiet as we go in. I don’t want Tyger waking up before we’re both in position. This is going to be epic!’

He eases open the door to my little sister’s bedroom. It’s pitch-black inside – Tyger’s never been one for night lights. The blazing hall light shows the way, and I carefully negotiate shards of Lego until I’m next to Tyger’s bed.

Danny takes his phone out and presses play on a tinny recording of sleigh bells.

I switch to night vision mode and brace myself for Tyger’s reaction.

But after thirty seconds of jingling bells, she’s still dead to the world. This is unusual. My sister normally sleeps like a rabbit, ready to leap into action at the slightest disturbance.

‘Pull the covers back,’ Danny whispers.

Hesitantly, I take hold of the duvet. It’s a bit stubborn

– she must be lying on it – so I give it a tug. As I do this, something clicks above me.

Then several things happen in quick succession. The duvet comes loose.

Light foods the room.

Tyger jumps out from behind the curtain. A bucket flled with glitter pours down on my head.

‘Got yoooo!’ Tyger howls.

Danny high-fves his daughter. ‘Right, behind the curtain again, Tyger. Lunar, brush that glitter out of your hair. We’re going to need some close-ups.’

I glance at my watch.

05:12.

Christmas has only just begun and I’m already done with it.

Chapter Two

STALKED by our fans, a family FALLOUT, and breakfast is burned

Three hours later I’m at the kitchen island, munching on my second almond croissant of the day and still picking glitter from my teeth.

‘Have the twins stopped doing Christmas now?’ Danny looks around as though he’s only just noticed Billie and Miley aren’t here.

‘Let them lie in; seventeen-year-olds are allowed an extra hour on Christmas morning,’ Mum brushes his comment aside. ‘Although, the twins never let me sleep when I was their age.’

She turns from the hob and whips of her apron. ‘OK, I’m ready for my close-up.’

‘One sec.’ Danny swivels on his stool and looks at his phone.

‘This was your idea, Daniel,’ Mum says. ‘What are you looking at, anyway?’

‘Just checking something. Aren’t you going to tidy up frst?’ He puts the phone down and nods at the work surface, which is littered with dirty Jamie Oliver pots and pans.

‘Just keep it tight on my beautiful face.’ Mum twists her mouth into a grimace.

Danny holds up the camera. ‘You might want to redo your mascara Shawna, the lens on this camera picks up everything.’

Mum winks at the camera and raises a half-empty glass of Bucks Fizz. ‘This is what a hardworking mum of fve looks like on Christmas morning. No flter!’

She kisses Lalla on the head. My baby sister’s oblivious to all of this, strapped to Mum’s chest and fast asleep. Lucky her. Mum pours another Prosecco, not bothering to add orange juice this time. Danny stops flming and her smile vanishes.

‘I could do with some help, actually.’

‘Me too.’ Danny frowns at the camera that was an early Christmas present to himself. ‘I think some glitter’s got inside the lens. I need to fx it, or Vlogmas is cancelled.’

‘Wouldn’t that be a tragedy,’ I mutter.

‘Go and fnd Miley,’ Danny snaps. ‘She’s in the sauna. Tell her your mum needs help.’

Happy to escape their bickering, I hurry from the kitchen and cross the hall into the utility room. Stepping into my feece-lined Crocs, I head outside, propping the door open with a broom.

A cold wind blows through the narrow side passage, which is packed with fattened Amazon boxes. We could shelter Swindon’s entire homeless community with all this cardboard. I’ll keep that thought to myself in case it turns into a video called, We solved homelessness through conspicuous consumption.

Like and subscribe.

The sauna at the bottom of the garden hasn’t worked

since it broke during February’s controversial vlog, 24 hours in the sauna – who’ll last the longest? That earned us top ranking on MailOnline and a visit from social services. Danny says the clicks it generated paid for the sauna seven times over.

Inside, Miley’s lying on the top bench wrapped in a duvet. Her face is encased in the hood of a fufy dressing gown. A copy of The Handmaid’s Tale sits unopened on her chest but her eyes are glued to a laptop.

‘Yes?’ she says, without looking around.

‘Mum needs you to help.’

‘Why can’t you help?’

‘Danny told me to—’

‘DON’T CARE. I need to rest, or I won’t survive today.’

She is looking a bit pale, even with the fake tan.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

Miley just sighs and puts her AirPods in, signalling the end of our conversation. I stay and watch the laptop, drawn in by the calming glow of a Hallmark Christmas movie. A family is gathered around a Christmas tree. It’s massive like ours but with a normal number of presents underneath. Everyone’s cooing over a basketful of kittens. It’s fake as hell but I still fnd myself smiling. I wonder if our stupid videos have the same efect on people.

‘LEAVE!’ Miley snaps and I scurry away.

In the side passage, the wind is howling. It’s blown the broom over and the door has shut. I’m locked out. I knock. As I wait to be let in, I notice some people through the bars of the gate that leads onto the drive.

‘Happy Christmas, Lunar!’ A woman with purple hair waves from the pavement. I recognise her immediately as ItsmeBekka1969, a member of the ScapeFam, our most hardcore followers. She’s with two other women and they’re all wearing last year’s ofcial Scapegrace Vlogmas jumpers, the ones we recalled because of the rashes.

The women are all flming me. I hammer on the door again and pull my dressing gown tight. Despite the cold wind, my face burns red hot, skin prickling with embarrassment. I still grin like a fool. It’s an involuntary reaction when I’m faced with a camera.

‘Any chance you could open the curtains in the living room, my lovely?’ Bekka says, scratching her neck. ‘Give us a sneak peek of the pressies under the tree!’

This is extra, even for the ScapeFam. Haven’t they got their own presents to open? Their own families to annoy?

‘Can you say Merry Vlogmas to our followers darling?’ A younger woman bellows. ‘You’re live on Insta.’

‘Come on, Lunar, give us a wave!’ the third fan shouts.

‘WOULD YOU SHUT UP!’

Above me, Billie is hanging out of her bedroom window. The last time I saw her was at 03:47 after she barged into my room and woke me up, drunkenly shouting, ‘ Ho, ho, ho! It’s me, Santa! Merry Christmas! ’ Her eyes are smeared with last night’s mascara and her hair is pointing in all directions.

‘I’ve got a banging hangover, and I could do without listening to you fshwives whanging on!’ She looks down and notices me. ‘Lunar, why are you talking to these weirdos?’

Before I can answer, the door fies open. Mum grabs my hand and yanks me inside.

‘Those bloody people,’ she says. ‘We need to get a proper solid gate or a new dog. Something big this time…Oh, sorry love.’

My rictus grin vanishes as I remember our lovely French Bulldog, Squidward, who vanished in June. I guess I’m not getting a puppy for Christmas then.

‘BILLIE, BREAKFAST!’ Mum shouts up the stairs in a singsong voice, the one that means, ‘We’re all going to have a wonderful time – or else.’

In the kitchen, the French doors are wide open and the extractor fan’s going full blast. There’s no sign of the delicious Eggs Benedict that we taste tested in The Perfect Christmas Breakfast, on day fourteen of Vlogmas. Instead, Mum has dumped M&S pastries into a large bowl and is flling highball glasses with Tropicana.

‘Where are the girls?’ Danny says.

‘Currently unavailable,’ I reply.

‘I told you to get them, Lunar. We all need to be here for our Christmas message,’ says Danny, like he’s the king of the internet.

‘I’ll text them.’

Scapegrace: TNG

Billie, Miley, Tyger…

You are uncordially invited to a beige breakfast buffet 08:28

Miley: I’ll pass 08:30

Billie: 08:31

At the kitchen island, Lalla’s in her highchair, Tyger’s stacking pain au chocolat like they’re Lego bricks and Mum’s swapped her Prosecco for an espresso. I’ve barely had a sip of my juice when Danny looks up from his phone.

‘We’re going to have to move our live forward,’ he says. ‘The Spender family are already opening their presents.’

‘Bugger the Spenders,’ says Mum. ‘We’re having a proper family breakfast.’

Danny shifts in his seat. ‘But they’re already at 30k! Come on, Lunar, I need your help setting up.’

‘Danny, no,’ Mum says frmly.

He stands. ‘Shawna, we talked about this. I can’t aford to lose any more viewers, particularly at Christmas.’

‘At least fnish your breakfast,’ Mum hufs.

Danny grabs a croissant and stands. ‘I’ll eat while we work. Lunar, come on.’

‘Give him a break,’ says Billie, ambling into the kitchen. ‘It’s not fair that Lunar has to work this early on Christmas morning.’

I look at Mum with big eyes, willing her to agree.

She smiles and opens her mouth to speak, but Danny talks over her. ‘Lunar, come on. The lighting cables are all tangled up and it was your job to put them away.’

I glare at Tyger , who I know has been using the cables to tie up her friend, Ronika. She smiles sweetly. There’s no point arguing; she’ll just deny it and Danny always takes her side.

Mum’s given up anyway. She wanders to the fridge and retrieves the Prosecco. ‘You’d better help, Lunar, breakfast’s a bust anyway.’

Billie glares at Mum, eyes narrowed.

‘It’s fne.’ I throw my hands up, wanting to avoid a blowup this early on.

Perhaps if I show willing now, I can talk Danny into letting me work second camera during the live. Then I can avoid being on screen too much. That’s all I really want for Christmas.

Chapter Three

Scapegrace Family Vlogmas: LIVE and UNWRAPPED!!!

58,702 watching now 09:44

Started streaming 30 minutes ago

(Tyger, centre frame, surrounded by piles of

Hayes | At Home with the Scapegraces gifts and wrapping paper)

Mum: Wow! What a frantic fourteen minutes –record time, Tyger! What’s your favourite present?

Tyger: (doesn’t look up) This rapid-fire NORF gun. I thought they were banned.

Danny: That was an earlier model. Hasbré tweaked the velocity so it doesn’t puncture skin.

Tyger: (disappointed) Oh.

Danny: But don’t worry, it still fires 600 darts per minute.

Tyger: Cool. Check this out (points gun at Lunar’s camera – picture cuts for a second)

Mum: (wide shot, wrestling the weapon from Tyger’s grip). Ach! This was such a bad idea.

Danny: Moving on. Lunar, it’s safe to come on out from behind the camera and unwrap your pressies. But can you beat Tyger’s time?

Lunar: (puts down camera). Where do I start? (picks up a large box)

Mum: I hope you like it!

Lunar: What can it be? (flatly) Another Xbox. Thanks, Mum, thanks, Danny.

Billie: (out of shot) Thanks, Microsoft.

Danny: It’s not just another Xbox – that’s the Xbox XL! The ultimate gaming experience.

Billie: (leans into shot) I read that the chips in those things are produced by seven-yearolds in China. They’ve got tiny hands and are cheaper to run than machines. There was this one kid who committed sui–

Danny: (speaks over Billie) NEXT PRESENT, LUNAR!

Lunar: (unwraps something circular) What’s this? Captain Marvel’s shield?

Tyger: It’s Captain America’s, idiot. (fires NORF darts, which ping off the shield). Can I have it? Lunar doesn’t even like Marvel.

Lunar: No, I love it. Wakanda forever!

Mum: We thought it might be good for your fancy dress.

Lunar: Cosplay. Sure, it’s perfect.

Billie: (tuts) He likes Doctor Who.

Danny: Yes, we know that. But there’s no harm in expanding into other, cooler franchises.

Billie: (straight to camera) But NOT the Snyderverse.

72,239 watching now 10:16 Started streaming an hour ago

(Billie opens a present from Miley – a set of spray paints. Doorbell chimes.)

Mum: Who’s visiting on Christmas morning?

Billie: Probably one of those freaks from outside.

Mum: Shhh!

Miley: (hurrying from room) I’ll get it!

Danny: Miley’s answering the front door. It’s a Christmas miracle!

Miley: (returning) Look who’s popped in to say hello.

Mum: Kel! (gets up to hug Miley’s boyfriend) Happy Christmas, love.

Everyone: Happy Christmas, Kel!

Kel: Happy Christmas, everyone!

Mum: We weren’t expecting you.

Danny: Come in mate, the more the merrier. (to camera) Excuse the madness!

Kel: (mumbles) Er, no. It’s great.

Miley: (manoeuvres Kel in front of the tree). I asked Kel over because we, er, wanted to announce…there’s, um, something we need to tell you.

Tyger: Get on with it.

Miley: We’ve got some big news for you (to camera). For everyone.

Billie: (appalled) Miley, no – we’re live!

Kel: (puts an arm around her shoulder) I’ll tell them if you want?

Tyger: Can I open my big Toblerone?

Mum: Tyger, shush. Let your sister speak.

Billie: (head in hands) Please don’t do this.

Danny: What’s going on?

Miley: We’re…

Kel: You sure you don’t want me to say?

Miley: It’s fine (takes a deep breath, then nervously). We’re… having a baby!

(Silence. Lunar zooms in on Miley’s face.)

Mum: What?!

Kel: And we’re really excited about it.

Mum: (panicked look to Danny) But…

Danny: (fixed grin) That’s INCREDIBLE news. Congratulations, you two!

Billie: This is beyond stupid.

Mum: (passes Lalla to Danny, and goes to Miley) Are you sure? How long?

Miley: I’m sure (hugs Mum and begins to cry). Eight weeks.

Kel: We’ve really thought about this, Mrs. Scapegrace – I can’t wait. Miley’s going to make such a great mum.

Danny: Well, we promised surprises! This is better than the Eastenders Christmas special.

Mum: (to Lunar) Stop filming, love, it’s time for a break. Happy Christmas everyone, and thanks for watching.

LIVE STREAM ENDS

Shannon E. Langan

Raised by the wild Devon coast, Shannon grew up steeped in fantasy but never intended to write. Unsure of her calling, she studied Sociology and qualifed in Integrative Counselling. Collecting books and imagining worlds remained her constants, and as her stories grew too vast to contain, she began jotting them down. Approaching thirty, she answered the call to write, studying a Writing for Young People MA—since then, she’s been shortlisted for the 2024 Searchlight Awards. Working with teenage girls, Shannon crafts ferce female protagonists, hoping to amplify their voices.

Spell Souls

When smoke coils from Rae Brennan’s fngertips, engulfng her family’s motorhome, her life is torn apart. Banished by her father, Rae discovers she’s Magicae, not Human, and is thrust into a secret world of magic. Attending a veiled Magicae school, she faces monstrous bullies, vicious lessons, and unearths the bloody history that divides Humans and Magicae. Rae struggles to bridge the two worlds of her home and school, but refuses to abandon her sister. Can she keep a foot in both realms without drawing dangerous attention to Elle? A YA fantasy brimming with betrayal, sacrifce, and the perilous power of magic.

shannonlangan11@gmail.com

Spell Souls

Chapter One

No Smoke Without Fire

Fingers dug into Rae’s shoulders. She jerked awake, hearing a scream nearby.

Dad’s face was inches from hers, eyes wide and accusing. ‘What have you done?’

She’d been having the same dream. Smoky shadows surging from her body, twisting and writhing. Morphing into birds and foxes, soldiers and weapons. It hurt. It always hurt.

Rae was sitting up in the bed she shared with Elle. Their motorhome was dark. Her body felt as heavy as a Douglas fr, the mighty tree that grew in her mother’s hometown. Tears spilled over Rae’s cheeks. Undeterred, Dad shook her. The look on his face was terrifying. ‘Where’s the fre?’ he demanded.

‘Stop. Please.’ Rae’s throat felt raw, like she’d been shouting. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He grabbed her hands. ‘Look at your fngers. Stop lying. I know you’ve done something!’ The stronger Dad’s emotions, the stronger his Irish accent.

The tips of Rae’s fngers were ashy, as though she’d swirled them through the charcoal Dad sketched with. The motorhome was flled with fading wisps of blackness – like the shadows from her dreams.

‘What happened?’ Her teeth chattered from fear and the chill in the air that hadn’t been there when she’d gone to sleep.

‘You tell me,’ snapped Dad.

Rae didn’t have an answer.

‘You’re unwell or cursed. Fomoire,’ he growled. Chaos creatures. Dad never strayed far from his beloved myths. He gripped her hands tightly, eyeing her as though she was an adder – wild and dangerous. ‘Something’s wrong with you.’

Dad was the adder, thought Rae, as his words pierced her like a venomous bite. She looked away, noting the smoky tendrils dissipating through the fung open windows. In the growing light of dawn, she saw people in nightwear gathered around their motorhome. All staring at her. Rae’s gaze caught on Elle, and she knew it was her thirteen-year-old sister she’d heard screaming.

Rae studied her hands, perplexed. Did I sleepwalk and start a fre? But her stomach flled with ice that matched the chill in the air. Fire isn’t cold. Then she thought something that should be ridiculous, but somehow didn’t feel it. Did the shadows from my dreams travel through me?

Seizing her wrist, Dad pulled her through the motorhome and out the door.

The other campers outside clutched buckets and pans brimming with water. They’d thought it was smoke from a fre. The grass was wet beneath Rae’s bare feet.

Dad released her. ‘I don’t want you in our home.’

‘What?’ Rae’s chin wobbled.

He pointed at her. ‘There’s something bad inside you. I don’t want you staying here tonight.’

‘It’s my home. Elle wants me—’ She turned to her sister, but Elle shrank back. Rae froze. Elle had never moved away from her. They were all each other had. ‘You don’t want me here either?’

Elle bit her lip and looked at the ground. Before falling asleep last night, they’d whispered excitedly about their hopeful scholarships. Each rubbing the dot Elle had on her cheek for good fortune – her lucky freckle. This

wasn’t part of the plan. They were meant to be getting their own life together.

A barb fung from her lips, striking Elle. ‘I didn’t think you were a coward like Dad.’ Rae’s fngers danced at her sides as they always did with any strong emotion. Happiness, sorrow, fear – it didn’t matter. She had no control over them. Her father noticed and put his arm in front of Elle.

Anger rushed up from Rae’s stomach and exploded out of her mouth. ‘Like you’ve ever protected her!’

‘Don’t make this worse.’ He kept his arm before Elle.

An awkward hush weaved through the gathered campers.

Rae looked at her remaining family and her imagination conjured the image of her mother. Would she have also stood behind Dad’s undependable arm?

‘You can have the beach tent,’ he said, turning away.

‘I’ll go get it,’ whispered Elle.

For a moment there was only the sound of water dripping of their motorhome’s faded awning.

Chapter Two

The Faerie Tree

Dad allowed Rae back into the motorhome a day later when a storm whipped up a wind that had the tent poles bowing under its force.

The gale had granted Rae access to her home again, but not to Dad. He’d said two sentences to her since her return. ‘If it happens again, you’re out. I need to protect my family.’

Rae was his family. But before she could remind Dad, he’d grabbed his paint box and instructed Elle to go with him.

Elle hadn’t looked at Rae as the motorhome door clicked shut behind them. The silence crashed across Rae like a

savage wave. But there was no point sitting on the worn cream seats that doubled as their sofa and dining chairs, waiting for someone to save her. Mum was gone. Dad had shunned her. Elle was pulling away.

Rae grabbed her wallet and got a bus into the city. She needed to fnd the answers herself.

In the science section of the library, she pulled medical textbooks from the shelves, searching meticulously through them. The only cause for blackened fngers was frostbite –severely unlikely in late summer, and it didn’t explain the smoky shadows.

As the day drifted on answerless, Rae too, drifted through the rows of books, ending up in the mythology area.

At her table, she scanned the books. Some new, with crackling fresh spines. Others old, their pages as soft as moth wings. The more she read, the more ridiculous it felt. The only writing on smoke and shadows was associated with demons and the underworld. Then, when she searched for the symptom she’d somehow managed to keep to herself, the only explanation for something happening in increased cycles was lycanthropy. Werewolves.

Rae’s skin prickled across her shoulder blades, and she slammed the book closed, her fngers tapping uncontrollably on the cover. Leaving the other books scattered on her table, she bolted from the library. She was desperate and clueless, but she wasn’t going to believe the myths – that was something Dad would do.

Rae was already in bed, feigning sleep, when Elle and Dad returned.

‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Elle as she crawled in beside Rae. Woven in with her signature scent of blueberry shampoo, was the lingering salty smell of chips, and Rae knew they’d eaten at the restaurant over the hill. With everything going

on, that shouldn’t have hurt, but it did – Rae loved the tifn sundae they did there.

She didn’t know how to respond. Her sister usually peppered her with questions, always wanting to uncover an answer. But maybe Elle already had her answer. Rae couldn’t stomach the thought of Elle’s love souring like Dad’s. All Rae wanted was for their scholarships to come through. They needed to get away and start again before she lost Elle, too. Maybe someone at school might have the answer to her strange symptoms.

Rae reached out from under the duvet and lifted the window blind. The full moon cast a silvery glow across everything. Her gaze roamed over a lonely camp chair cloaked in an abandoned towel. It was that time of night – the early hours – when it felt like the whole world was asleep.

The whole world but Rae.

Her thoughts ricocheted like bullets. I’m being destroyed from the inside out. How can I close my eyes when I’m terrifed the shadows will pour from me again? What if something worse comes out of me next time?

Rae implored the moon to calm her racing heart.

The memory came quick and painful, like the nip from a thorn on an otherwise delicate rose. Rae was ten, begging Mum not to leave. Cradled in her mother’s arms, she wanted to feel the soft curls of her hair envelop her, but instead, only the ends of her new head scarf tickled across Rae’s cheek. Mum hushed and rocked Rae whilst pointing towards the sky with an arm trailing medical wires.

‘My Rae-Rae, look at the moon with me. It comes to us even on the darkest of nights. After each sunset, it’s there. If there’s a moon, you are not alone.’

But having the moon as a companion couldn’t fx whatever was happening inside of her. Rae felt like a ticking bomb.

She shook her head against her pillow and turned over, trying to banish the thoughts of her mother. Instead, Rae came face to face with a sleeping Elle, her mouth ajar and plaits messy. Elle had been gifted all of Mum. Rae only pieces – she had Mum’s wavy, chestnut hair and round chin, but Dad’s eyes. Apparently, the exact shade the ocean turned during a storm where he grew up in County Sligo.

Rae was certain Mum would know what to do if she was here. Or if she didn’t, she’d envelop Rae in her arms and protect her from Dad’s growing distrust.

Rae slipped from under the duvet. She didn’t have to move quietly. Elle slept like a log. As for Dad, you only had to breathe near him, and his eyes cracked open. She didn’t want to risk waking him from where he slept in the pull-down bed over the driver’s seat, so she grabbed a hoodie, slid her feet into her sandals and lifted their bedroom window latch. Hopping out onto the grass, Rae walked through the campsite, sticking to the path instead of weaving through the pitched tents. She didn’t want to manoeuvre guy lines and a potential catapult onto a tent of sleeping people at 2 a.m.

The woods wrapped around her as she cut onto a wellknown track. Trees and shrubs were limned in the moon’s silvery glow, and an owl hooted softly from the limbs of an ash. So, I’m not the only one awake. As Rae walked deeper into the forest, the woody scent of damp moss flled her nose and dry twigs snapped loudly under her sandals. She knew girls weren’t supposed to be alone in forests at night – but she’d trodden these paths so many times it felt like an extension of her home. Plus, she didn’t have much farther to go.

The tree stood on its own. Dad said that was the sign of a faerie tree. A warning because nothing else wanted to grow near it. The lone hawthorn resembled a shadow; all its colour inhaled by the night. Dad’s words came back to her, ‘Careful

what you say about the wee folk. They can curse you as easily as they can bless you.’ If he knew she was here, standing beneath its thorny boughs, he’d tell her to leave a gift or move on quickly. Rae had brought nothing of value with her. She doubted they’d want her paint-stained hoodie. But when she looked down, her gaze caught on her hand. On the ring that had been her mother’s – a simple, silver band embellished with crescent moons. It meant the world to Rae, but she was here because she desired something no longer a part of this world. It would be an exchange.

The myths were rooted in Rae, no matter how much she scorned them. And tonight, she was desperate, hoping there was a drop of truth to what her father said about faerie trees – that they were gateways to other worlds.

Rae placed the ring at the base of the gnarled trunk. She buried it along with her doubts and looked up through the lattice of branches. She wanted to believe. ‘Take me to a world with my mum in it.’

Nothing happened.

A gust of wind stirred the forest, and Rae placed her hand against the trunk, the bark rough under her palm. She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Please.’ It was a beg. A plea. A prayer.

Rae opened her eyes. Still nothing. Her fngers started to tremble.

‘Damn it!’ Rae slid down the trunk, her head resting against the knotted bark. Her father’s warning about faerie curses fashed in her mind. But if the good didn’t work, then neither would the bad. So, she would sit. To hell with Dad’s superstitions.

It didn’t matter that every wish on birthday candles, shooting stars seen from the motorhome roof, and eyelashes she found on her cheek were always about her mother. It didn’t matter if she begged a stupid tree, Mum wasn’t coming

back. Because people always leave, thought Rae bitterly. She knew Dad wanted to leave her, and now Elle couldn’t even look at her.

‘I only came here because nothing else was working!’ Rae shouted to the cloudless night sky and fung a handful of dirt. She buried her head in her knees. Tears slipped from her eyes as her fngers shuddered and twitched.

Snifng, Rae noticed how quiet it was. No scuttling hedgehogs in the undergrowth, chirruping of crickets, or a breeze brushing over leaves. This was a silence she’d never experienced in the forest before.

Lifting her head, a chill dived down Rae’s spine. In the clearing stood two small silhouettes. The breath caught in her throat, and she edged closer to the tree trunk, desperate to blend in with the shadows.

But one silhouette moved towards her, and Rae stumbled to her feet. Her heart was beating so hard it felt like it would crack through her ribs.

The second fgure glided forward, and a small orb of light appeared above them, ofering enough illumination to see their true form – two children with large eyes and short, lavender hair.

‘Hello, Rae,’ their voices rippled as one. ‘We’re here to help.’

Clare M cCarron

Clare grew up exploring Edinburgh’s wild edges, studied botany at Aberdeen University, and became a biology teacher before her love of drama led her to retrain as an actor at The Bristol Old Vic Theatre School. She went on to play Shakespearean heroines – and nearly crashed a Lamborghini in Taggart. Clare’s writing refects the chaos of classrooms and the lore of the landscape she loves. Her debut novel draws on her experience growing up with an alcoholic parent. She graduates with distinction. Guppy 2024 LL. CNPK 2025 Top 100.

You Have My Heart

This YA verse combines the lyrical sensitivity of Sarah Crossan’s Tofee, with the unfinching exploration of parental addiction from Douglas Stuart’s Shuggie Bain. In a haze of angst and anger, city teens collide with the wild Scottish Highlands. Seventeen-yearold Torin seizes the chance to escape his father’s drinking by joining a school trip to the Highlands. But the shadow of alcohol follows him. While Torin refuses to drink, his frenemy thinks it’s hilarious to spike him, and he loses control. One reckless night, he revenge pranks—and the aftermath is devastating. An ancient woodland goes up in fames, witnessed by Amira, the enigmatic new girl Torin’s been desperate to impress.

claremccarronwrites@gmail.com

You Have My Heart On the Edge

I lean over the ridge, searching, searching. The wind literally slaps my face, but I lean out further, searching, searching.

It’s a long way

What if he’s slipped and gone over?

My knees shoogle. I stagger back from the edge, and my bum hits the ground hard.

I don’t think there was anything Dad-shaped there.

The ancient, volcanic rock is solid under me.

If I was a rock, I’d be volcanic.

I was hot and explosive and moving. Now I’m cold and hard and stuck.

Mum

I’ve climbed Arthur’s Seat with my mum and dad so many times over the last seventeen years. Through thick and thin.

The three of us hugged the cairn and counted the tiny, tough boats that battled up the choppy estuary of the Firth of Forth, used our coats as sails in the wind, and pretended to fy.

We’d shout to the sea, ‘We are unsinkable, my boat and me!’

My favourite line from my favourite book, The Little Boat, from when I was my favourite age, four.

No school, no homework and Mum seemed

Dad comes up Arthur’s Seat a lot since Mum’s funeral. Trouble is he drinks, like, loads.

It’s Sunday afternoon. Cherry from next door’ll be at the Women’s Institute.

Recently there’s been more thin than thick.

He might have gone to see her for company and cake to soak up the booze.

I roll onto my knees and get another slap from the wind.

(Thanks wind that’s very helpful.)

I rub my bruised bum cheek and fsh out my phone.

I hate involving anyone else in my crap but…

I fick through and open my chat with Chez.

You have to love an oldie on Snapchat. Lowkey mortifying.

I peer through the cracks on my screen. and private message her.

Me: Is my dad there?

I scan Dunsapie Loch below. A grey smirr hangs over the shallow, muddy water choked with duck poo.

Maybe he’s there, slugging vodka and singing to the geese. He’s got form. Pure, dead embarrassment.

A Possible

There’s scrambling behind me. Dad!

I turn, but it’s a girl.

Girls my age amaze me. It’s like, they’ve got to the next rung of the micro-evolution ladder before me and my mates. Respect.

This girl has a huge smile. She’s in running gear, breathless with a gleam of sweat on her face.

Did she just run up the hill?

I wouldn’t fancy my chances in a race with her.

Very ft legs. She’s tall, carries her height well… not like me with my slumped shoulders and scraggy limbs wrapped permanently around my body, like a waterlogged spider.

I reckon she’s about sixteen or seventeen, same as me. We make eye contact.

Looking into her brown eyes is like a stop-and-search, as though every bit of me is being patted down and my secrets revealed, which makes me want to run away cos I need to fnd Dad when…

‘Are you OK?’ she sings

above the banshee wind. Her hair whips around her solid shoulders. She’s stunning.

I’m blown away. My self-regulation seems to be switched of. I just stare at her.

She frowns, then smiles, ‘Can I call someone for you?’

The wind uses her hair like windscreen wipers, brushing roughly across her cheekbones.

I touch the hairband holding my top knot. If I ofer it to her it’ll unleash my unwashed mess of Viking-ginger curls.

She steps towards me and holds out tissues. We’re quite close now, so it seems best to focus on the packet. ‘Would you like one?’ she says.

It’s only then I realise I’ve been crying and my face is wet with tears and snot. ‘Thanks,’ I manage.

I fumble to take it from her, but the wind grabs it and the tissue blows of the edge of the clif, fung upwards spinning happily in its burst of freedom.

A gallous gull dips and snatches it from the sky.

Together, we watch this life-of-an-escaped-tissue drama. Fascinated.

‘That went well!’ she snorts.

I laugh and nod too much like the Shaun the Sheep on our car dashboard.

‘I’m Amira,’ she says, at the same time as I say, ‘Terrible weather.’

‘Weather chat? Brave choice,’ she says.

‘Yeah,’ I say. (Quality comeback Torin.)

‘We’re quite close to the edge, just— with it being so windy,’ she says. She steps back.

Oh, God! She thinks I’m going to jump. I move away from the clif.

I don’t want to tell her about my dad.

‘I’m Torin,’ I say.

‘I’m looking for my dad.’ Torin, you’re an eejit.

‘Oh!’ she says. ‘Here?’ Her gaze goes to the edge of the clif.

‘Fancied the panoramic view.’ She shrugs.

‘I’ve just moved from Aberdeen.’

‘Why did you come up Arthur’s Seat?’ I defect.

‘Oh yeah…your accent.’ (Your voice is sexy as hell.)

‘I start a new school tomorrow. I’m shittin’ bricks!’ She laughs at herself and another wind wheech makes me stumble even closer to her, and it’s bizarre, but it’s like for a moment… I literally, actually, feel the world tilt onto a diferent path.

My phone pings. Dad.

Cherry: yeh he’s here pet bit worse 4 wear!!!!! i’ll hang on 2 him till u get here xx”

He’s safe.

I look up. Amira tugs strands of windswept hair out of her kissable mouth. I could stay a bit longer…

I look back down at my phone. My fnger hesitates over the thumbs-up icon. Then I tap a reply.

Me: thx on my way 15 mins max

I raise my phone to Amira, with a gotta go gesture and head of.

What I really want to say is, ‘Do you fancy an ice cream? There’s a van at the bottom of the hill,’ and to sit and chat about what school she’s going to and what subjects will she be doing and what music does she like and... and... and... like people without drunk fathers do.

McCarron | You Have My Heart

But I don’t say any of that because I have to walk away from a possible, to sort out an actual because I can’t aford to add a complication to my already at-capacity complicated life.

un down Jacob’s Ladder, all two hundred and nine steps, which I’ve counted with my mum and dad so many times since they carried me up here as a baby seventeen years ago.

Now it’s just me and my dad.

Nostalgia

At the church hall, I push through the heavy, double doors, still thinking about the girl.

Her worried look when I ran of wasn’t judgey but, like… botheredness.

No one clocks me. I take a moment to calm my heavy breathing from the run in case I sound like a sexual predator with a thing for the ladies of the WI.

You can’t beat the mellow hum of a tea urn or the warm waft of home baking to make the world seem OK for a moment.

This hall was like my mum’s second home.

She ran playgroups here with a bunch of other parents.

I toddled around with my tiny toy boats, transporting freight from the book corner to the home corner along blue, chalk-drawn rivers.

I met my best mate here, Bird’s Eye. Now the tallest seventeen-year-old boy in the universe.

We bonded when we were three. We both had red hair and an obsession with dinosaurs.

I’m not sure I remember it, but my mum used to tell me that at playgroup, I ran up to him and shouted, ‘I am ankylosaurus!’ – which apparently, I did a lot –and instead of running away, he roared back at me, ‘I am triceratops!’

We’ve been best friends ever since.

We’ve both still got a bucket of dinosaurs under our beds.

In the middle of the room, at a small table on his own is my dad.

I want to wrap him in my duvet of nostalgia, go back to when he was bigger and I was smaller and I tucked under his arm and he put me over his shoulders and carried me home to where Mum was.

Cherry goes to fll his cup, but it’s still full.

‘Bill, it’ll be cold, love.’ My dad looks up at her vaguely like he can’t take in what she’s saying, then drifts back to his thoughts.

I loiter uselessly at the edges, cracking my knuckles cos I need to give my hands something to do.

‘Try and eat something, love,’ Cherry says.

They move away. My mum always said he’d have ended up with Cherry if she hadn’t got him frst.

Guess Cherry dodged that bullet.

I sit down beside him. A moment later they move in on me. Cherry on one side with a pot of fresh brew, Rona on the other with a plate of brownies.

‘It’s a job lookin’ after him these days. Isn’t it, Torin, love,’ Cherry says.

She gives him a quick peck on the cheek then moves away. Leaves me to deal with my dad because seventeen-year-olds with their massive life experience know what to do with drunk, grief-stricken fathers.

My dad looks up and focuses when he sees it’s me.

He looks so pleased it breaks me a little bit.

‘Torin! My man,’ he slurs.

‘How much booze did they put in that tea, Dad?’ I joke.

He stands, sways a little, knows it’s time to go and heads towards the exit.

Heads turn. A few smiles. A few frowns.

Half gazes ficked at me.

I follow him. Chin up. Shoulders back.

‘Own your shit,’ Bird’s Eye always says.

Cherry holds the door open for him.

Rona presses a bag of cakes into my hands.

‘Bless!’ Cherry says. She’s only got eyes for him. He’s ffty-one and can still pull of a leather jacket.

She sees the young man in my dad, but she doesn’t see me, the young man next to him.

Dad staggers, and shimmies shakily out into the chill of the evening singing “Everybody’s got a hungry heart.”

True that. I follow him out. The evening light is doing its red-orange, sunset thing over the loch. I think of the girl on the clif and the shitness of my life because I could be watching the sunset with her. Amira. That was her name. Amira.

George Rainford

George grew up in the Cornish countryside where he was raised on Greek myths and his father’s eclectic music taste of Clannad and Walter Trout. During his years working with children, George learnt there is a story out there for every young person. He also learnt he is too tall for primary school chairs. He loves surfng, getting lost on mountains (twice so far) and spontaneous karaoke. George is a graduate of the MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University and lives with his wife in Falmouth.

The Asp

Seventeen-year-old Destria lives by one golden rule: keep Helen of Sparta alive. Destria is trained as an efcient warrior but is disenchanted with brutal Sparta. For seventeen-year-old Paris, Prince of Troy, a visit to Sparta means distance from his cruel father and a chance at love. Paris and Helen begin a forbidden relationship in secret, while Destria investigates a series of bloody murders that point to a mysterious organisation known as the Asp—their ultimate target: Helen. But things are not as they seem… Destria, Paris and Helen are pulled into a journey of love, secrets and betrayal that will have consequences for the rest of Hellas. YA myths and legends.

george.a.rainford@gmail.com

The Asp

Chapter One

Destria

Three ships. Three sails hunted for meagre tailwinds that had carried them this far. Their oarsmen worked hard, fghting against the Eurotas’ unrelenting fow.

From the rocky perch, Destria traced the fnal part of the ships’ journey – along the bright thread of the river, up the tributary to the city below.

Sparta.

The city where death followed her like an old stench set into a robe.

‘Another foreign trade delegation?’ She looked across at her friend, distracting herself with the question. This hunting trip was a welcome excuse to share some quality time together before Destria plunged herself back into that bloody life with the Guard of Athena – at least for one more afternoon.

‘A Trojan prince and his ofcials.’ Helen waved her hand dismissively. ‘As if Menelaus’ absence wasn’t enough of a challenge. Now I’ve got to put on my best smile.’ She shook her head, fddling with the bronze end to one of her long brown curls.

A cool breeze nipped at Destria’s exposed skin on its way through the dense forest of olive, oak and sycamore. Autumn had arrived. A sweeping hue of golden brown bled into the huge valley that sloped up on either side of Sparta like a gilded crown. Below, the river murmured, driving its chill waters away from the mountains towards the warmth of the Aegean.

‘How are things with the king?’ Destria asked.

‘It’s complicated.’ Helen wove the curl around a fnger. ‘Menelaus is a great man. But I’m still getting to know him…’ As usual, she kept her true emotions shrouded behind high cheekbones, thick eyebrows and eyes like crushed blue ice. Helen swept her gaze across the valley, giving nothing away. Destria smiled sympathetically. Whatever Helen thought about him, the king was an intimidating fgure, and she couldn’t imagine having a meaningful conversation with him.

Helen fnally released the curl. ‘At least the wedding should be a night to remember.’ The tension in her shoulders eased a little.

‘I know I’m expected to dance, but do I have to wear a chiton?’ Destria grinned and gently elbowed her friend.

‘You can wear what you want. I just want you with me on the day.’ Helen reached around, pulling Destria into a hug.

‘Wait, when is the wedding? Two months from now?’ Destria sucked in air through her teeth. ‘I think I’ve already got plans…’ She prodded Helen in the ribs.

Helen knitted her eyebrows into a mock frown. ‘Don’t. I could make things difcult – banish you to live in the hills with the sheep.’

Something tugged inside. Helen didn’t realise, but the quiet life of a shepherdess would be no punishment. A life of exile in the hills would be an escape from the memories of Sparta, and even – to her shame – the awful fear she might lose Helen one day. Destria disguised her own emotion with a hasty grin. ‘Fine, but there better be good wine. I’m going to need it.’

Helen nodded. ‘I’ve decided. I want the wedding to be a celebration for the people too. Since my father died, they haven’t had a lot to enjoy. I’m going to open the festivities up to the city. There’ll be enough good food and wine for everyone. And dancing late into the night.’ She winked at Destria and laughed.

The sound reminded Destria of her younger years – every day of from training in the Guard of Athena had been spent with Helen exploring the royal gardens or throwing olives at the soldiers from the palace roof. Now they were both seventeen, and Helen stood several inches taller. Like Destria, she was lean and athletic, but Helen had curves in the areas that inevitably drew the male gaze. There was a cruelty to her looks, though. They had defned her life and shaped her choices – all because of the desires of men. Men could be like the wild dogs that roamed this forest. They obsessed over something as a pack and then fought amongst themselves for it. At the end of the day, they just wanted to drool over a bone.

What men didn’t see when they looked at Helen was her selfessness. Opening her wedding up to the city was just one small example. She used her seat in the Senate for the needs of the people. She fought for them, even if it sometimes made her unpopular amongst the senators. It was this goodness Destria admired above all.

Destria pulled the bow of her back and nodded at the ships. ‘Do we still have time to hunt? You’ve also got the Senate vote.’ And the Guard has one last job waiting for me. She chewed on her lip.

Helen nodded. ‘I have time.’ She pulled her own bow of and fumbled with the string, dropping it. It clattered across the rocky perch and Destria dived, catching the bow before it fell over the edge. She stood up and dusted grit from her scraped hands.

Helen had vanished. ‘Helen!’ No sound.

Why had she dropped the bow? Helen was a good archer and had strung it hundreds of times. She wants a head start. Hide and seek was a favourite from their childhood. Helen still liked to surprise her with a game if she was in the mood, but

Destria no longer found it fun.

She scrambled forwards, strapping Helen’s bow to her back. Her feet rustled on dead leaves – the fallen glory of a heady summer left behind. Helen couldn’t be far.

It’s just a game. Don’t panic.

But it was hard not to. She had one more assignment to complete for the Guard of Athena that afternoon. After that, Helen’s safety would ultimately be her responsibility. The Guard was the elite military order that was tasked with protecting the city from internal threats. They had trained her and been her home since she was a child, but she was taking up her new role as Helen’s head of security. It was more than just a new beginning – though Helen could be infuriating at times, Destria loved her like a sister. But she had never thought protecting her would be as stressful as doing assignments for the Guard.

She softened her steps, opening her senses to the forest. Birdsong sounded more prominently, and small animals shufed through the undergrowth. She squeezed her cold hands. Bandits inhabited this forest. If the stories were to be believed, they were feral, murderous criminals that resorted to cannibalism. That was certainly exaggerated, but only weeks before, a Spartan patrol had clashed with one of their camps nearby. There were lots of casualties… Nope. Destria defnitely wasn’t enjoying herself.

A crag lurched out of the hillside, and she started to climb, looking for a better vantage point.

The dry crack of a branch drew her head around. She nearly lost her footing and only just managed to keep her body on the rock face with the strength of her handholds. There was no sign of anyone. Just the heavy gold and green foliage between branches. Sweat tickled the back of her neck, and she blew a lock of hair from her face. A nauseating panic began clawing at her insides. She cursed and pushed on.

When they were children, Helen had often wound her up, and only the thought of drenching her in sheep’s fat as an ofering to Cerberus, three-headed guardian of the underworld, had stopped her tearing her own eyes out.

Some things don’t change.

She reached the top of the crag. Beyond was the fat upland of the hillside. The thinning autumn canopy surrounded her. Gaps in the trees. No Helen.

A shrill scream sounded in the distance.

Her nerves frayed with hot, sharp terror. She sprinted. Thankfully, the crag was less steep on the far side, and she was back on the forest foor in seconds, cutting her legs on brambles and stumbling over hidden roots. After ffty yards, she stopped. There was no sign of Helen. Surely, this was just her bad idea of a joke. She has to be okay.

‘Help!’

Close. To her right.

Destria ftted an arrow on her bow as she ran. The trees fell away into a gully that cut through the hillside like a deep furrow from a farmer’s plough. It would take minutes for her to descend and scale the other side safely.

Movement on the other side of the gully.

Helen appeared from behind a tree laughing, holding her sides and trying to catch her breath. ‘Oh, Des…your face!’

Destria screeched. ‘You goat-brained, pig-loving daughter of a Gorgon witch. I hope the gods make your hair smell like piss!’

Helen laughed harder. ‘Careful what you wish for. You’ll have to follow that stench around.’

‘A small price to pay.’

Helen walked to the edge of the gully and looked down at the open space between them. ‘Oh, stop complaining. Can I enjoy some time of for once?’

‘Why couldn’t we just go hunting? You had to turn it into

a game – fnd the next queen of Sparta before the bandits, wild dogs or a roaming cyclops.’

Something moved ten yards to Helen’s left near a thicket. A doe. Its engorged belly indicated it was pregnant.

Helen jumped a little, spotting it.

‘Helen, don’t move.’

‘It’s just a doe.’

But Destria wasn’t worried about the doe. Fifteen yards to Helen’s right stood a large red stag. She quickly counted fourteen points on its antlers – it must have weighed the same as three grown men, and it was facing Helen down. She was too close to the pregnant doe. The nausea returned with a violent intensity. Helen didn’t have the protection of the trees, and she couldn’t outrun the stag.

The stag broke towards Helen, faring its nostrils and tilting its head forwards in a sprint. Destria pulled her notched arrow back to her chin, feeling the years of muscle memory awaken in her body as her back and arms spread to bear the load.

It’s just another shot. She tracked the stag, aiming low on its fank near the front legs. I’ve done this a thousand times.

She released, but her eyes darted to Helen – she couldn’t help it.

The arrow missed.

It dropped below the fank, passing between the creature’s blurred legs. There was no time to notch another arrow. Helen was defenceless. Destria stood in complete despair. This is it. I’ve failed you.

With less than two yards to go, Helen feigned to her left before leaping right. The stag’s body obscured her as it passed, and Destria didn’t know if the antlers had made contact.

The stag ran on fve yards before it slowed, and Helen reappeared face down on the ground.

Destria notched another arrow and fred. This time her arrow burrowed deep between the creature’s ribs at its heart. It cried out, toppled over and shuddered before going still.

‘Helen!’ Destria recklessly threw herself down the edge of the gully, jumping, scrambling from crumbling ledges and slipping on a clump of moss that sent her rolling into the long grass at the bottom. She got up and ran, clambering up the other side with any handhold that would take her weight. Tears blurred her vision as she dragged herself over the top.

‘I’m fne.’ Helen was sitting, calmly inspecting herself. She looked unharmed apart from a few scratches on her arms.

Fine?! You nearly died. I couldn’t stop it. Destria ran to her and reached down to help.

Helen ignored the ofer and pulled herself up. There was no sign of shaking in her legs, and she showed no emotion as she took in Destria’s shock. Her face remained a veil to her thoughts.

Was this just a continuation of the game to her? Was she annoyed at how close she came to death? Or glad she got herself out of danger? Helen looked at the stag. ‘Another successful hunt.’ She laughed and set of, following the gully down the valley, leaving Destria trembling with the scent of death.

Charlotte Taylor

Charlotte loves all things ghostly and gothic, and her favourite genre is the ghost story. She spent her childhood in a mysterious old house full of books, which was rumoured to be haunted. Now calling London home, she lives with her husband, sons, and two cats who keep her company as she writes supernatural tales. When not writing on her laptop or teaching, she likes to escape to the wilds of North Wales where she walks on empty beaches, swims in freezing water and curls up with a book.

The Hidden Letters of Abigail Goode

YA Supernatural. In 1644 Abigail Goode is drowned for witchcraft and adultery. Her wealthy lover, Edward Howth, betrays her when he fears their afair has been discovered. Four hundred years later, Jen moves into the ancient cottage where Abigail once lived and fnds herself fending of the advances of Marcus Howth, who tries to seduce and then humiliate her through a bitter social media campaign. Abigail reaches across the centuries to help Jen fght back and lift the lid on witch-hunts old and new. They form an unlikely bond to challenge those who try to destroy them. A YA ghost story for those who like a supernatural twist.

charlotte52taylor@gmail.com

The Hidden Letters of Abigail Goode

Prologue

Swimming The Witch

They came this morning, early. They came to swim the witch. I was in the yard feeding the hens when Ma called from the scullery. I dropped to my knees in the dust because I knew who it was. King James’ men come for me. I scrambled around in the narrow yard, looking for somewhere, anywhere to hide with the chickens squawking and clattering around me. Panic made my heart knock at my ribs because there was nowhere to fee. Instead, I curled into a ball, held my head in my hands, and prayed silently that they would leave me be. Bless them, my chooks came pecking around me. I wanted to crawl into their henhouse and lie in the warm straw where no one could fnd me.

It was Ma that showed them where I was. Looking up through my fngers, I saw her at the kitchen door, pointing to where I lay in the dust. Her face was pure fear. She wasn’t brave enough to send them away, nor brave enough to protect me. She thought they had come for her. My little sister Floss hid her face and cried in mother’s skirts as two of King James’ men wrenched me to my feet, stripped me to my shift, and marched me to the front door. As for Ma, she couldn’t meet my eye, couldn’t admit her betrayal. The Elder stood waiting with the ducking chair. His doughy pink face was sweaty, and his mean button eyes glanced at me in disgust and then away.

‘Take of the bonnet,’ he ordered. ‘Let the crowd see the shame of her bare head.’

And so here I sit, in the ducking chair to be paraded through the village for all to see. Abigail Goode, of Meadows Green End, aged seventeen years, accused of adultery and witchcraft. The straps slice my wrists and ankles. I’m bound so tight I can’t move my arms and legs, even a little. My back is pressed against the wooden struts, and my head is held upright by a strap, so I can’t hang my head even if I want to. I must look them all in the eye.

The pond where I am to be ducked is close by, but frst I must be paraded through the village for all to see. As we set of, a crowd gathers. Doors slide open and sly faces appear. Faces that I have known all my life are set hard, accusation blazing in their eyes. I’m seen diferently now, and their fear and loathing sticks like mud. The village street is long and narrow, the gabled windows wink in the spring sunshine, and it seems every resident of Meadows Green End is outside watching me. Every inch of the street is lined by hostile faces, who turn away or shout as I bump and jolt along the cobbled lane on the ducking chair.

‘Witch!’

‘Kill her!’

‘Drown the bitch!’

I shut my eyes against their faces, but I can’t close of my ears. The sounds become amplifed and blurred, so all I can hear is a menacing wall of jangling noise. Something strikes my shoulder with a dull thump and then a smeary mess. An egg. Thank God it’s just an egg. When they swam Constance Jay, she was pelted with rocks and stones, so by the time she reached the pond she was half dead.

There’s hot, stale breath on my face. My eyes snap open to see the Howth’s servant, Clary, right in front of me. She has climbed onto the long strut of the ducking chair and is clinging to the pole, her face an inch from mine, her mouth a twisted snarl.

‘We need to swim the witch because she is a flthy wench who tempted my master and bewitched my mistress. She wants a wash!’

She smears my face with something foul. The unmistakable stench and rankness of chicken shit dribbles down my cheeks and onto my shift. Then she’s away, back into the safety of the crowd who jeer and howl with laughter. This street never seemed so long, and I know when I get to the end, I will be paraded all the way back again.

I close my eyes and take myself somewhere else. I take myself back to when I was with him in the darkness of the apple store behind Howth’s orchard. It’s dusk and Edward Howth is in the gathering dark with me. I’ve come to collect the fruit for making apple jelly, and in return, I bring soothing herbs for Ann, who has a stomach sickness. My mother has sent a note with instructions of how to mix the tisane to cure the illness. Edward opens the door because the servant, he says, is upstairs with his wife, who is abed.

He brings me here to the apple shed. He says he’ll show me where the fruit is stored as I might lose my way. We’ve met many times before, but I have never been to the farmhouse alone. He’s handsome alright. He’s one and twenty and married to Ann. They have two children, both little ’uns, and talk of another on the way. He says that’s no matter, that I’m his little feather hen.

I keep my eyes tight shut as we turn back up the street. I count backward from one hundred to busy my mind from thinking about the pond. The village pond. As a girl, I brought scraps of bread to feed the ducks and caught tadpoles in the water with my bare hands. It was a pretty place to play, it was.

The chair comes to a standstill, and I jolt to a stop in my seat. The smell of the weeds and the tang of the water stirs in my nostrils. I know I must open my eyes and face this, but

I am so frightened, my face is frozen. I saw what they did to Connie; I can’t unsee it. The dough-faced man jerks my chin upwards, so I look straight ahead. The crowd mutters and chatters but falls silent as he raises his hand.

‘Abigail Goode. In the year 1644 of our Lorde, you are charged with the most serious crime of witchcraft.’

There is a barely audible sigh from the crowd, who are listening, hushed with fear and anticipation.

‘You are charged twice over by our fellow daughter of god, Goodwife Ann Howth, for bewitching her husband into the crime of adultery and for preparing to poison her with devil’s brew.’

My mouth opens to protest, but the look of the Elder makes it clear that my words are not wanted.

‘You shall not have say here, Abigail Goode. We judge you by King James’ law from the book of Daemonologie. We shall use two methods; we shall duck you and then swim you. The frst punishment is for your sinful adultery, and the second is to see if you are an instrument of Satan.’

I look around the crowd. I see my mother, head hung low in shame. I can’t see Floss. I hope she stays at home. I see Ann and Edward Howth dressed in their fnest silks for the occasion. Ann’s beautiful face is a mask of mute disdain. I cry out, ‘Edward! Tell them! Tell them!’

He won’t utter a word. I see him turn his face away. He won’t tell them, it was he who put his fngers through my hair and breathed into my neck. He won’t tell them it was him who pressed me against the wall, with my skirts askew. He won’t tell them about the ring he gave me. He has said that I bewitched him, it was I who led him to that dark, charged place from which I was never the same.

They push me on the chair out over the surface of the water. Dragonfies skirt around me and a duck foats past. It’s oddly calm.

Then, I’m under.

My breath quickens and my heart races. Water rushes past me, and I’m in the muddy pond itself. It’s deeper than I knew, and the chair is dipped right down so my bare feet graze the mud and slime at the bottom. I look around and see only fashes of weed and fsh. Water rushes into my mouth and nose and roars in my ears. I try to wrench myself free of the seat, but I am bound tight. What can I do? How can I escape? I am going to die. I am going to die!

My lungs are bursting as I feel the chair lurch and push me upwards. My head breaks the surface, and I am fung skywards, like a sodden rag doll. Dripping, gasping, choking but alive. My eyes refocus to see people gathered around the edge of the pond. They haven’t had a ducking yet this year, so I’m fair game, a spectacle for all to see. They cheer and laugh. I care not. At least I’m alive. Punished I am, but I am breathing God’s air still.

They swing me back to the bank. I see Margaret the Elder at the edge. Our neighbour for my full seventeen years. Her cold, grey eyes match her cold, grey hair. Even as a small child, she judged me for every tiny mistake I made. I gasp as I see she is gripping Flossie’s hand and pointing at me.

I am still horrifed that Floss has seen this when I’m yanked from the chair and pushed to my feet. I can hardly stand, but the men hold me upright. I can feel the welts in my skin where the straps bound me to the seat, and they sting in the cold air. I am held upright, like a broken stick. My ears are full of muddy water, but the Elder’s voice cuts straight through.

‘Abigail Goode. You have been ducked for your lust and sinfulness. Now that you have been punished, we will swim you. If you foat, then we will know that you are one of Satan’s followers. If you sink, then you are no witch but an innocent. God will decide.’

It is then that I know I am doomed. To sink or swim, I cannot win in the eyes of King James. My hands are yanked in front of my body. The men tie them with rough, wet rope. Still, I can kick with my feet – there is hope. This is dashed away as I am roughly bent forward, my hands tied to my feet, like a hoop of fesh. My face is pressed into my muddy shift as four, strong men lift and carry me to the water. A chant begins, quiet at frst, but grows into a deafening chorus of hate.

‘Swim the Witch! Swim the Witch!’

These are the last words I hear on this earth. They will swim me. I will be done to. I am hoisted and thrown. Sky. Trees. Clouds. Faces. Water. Weeds. Mud.

Water chokes me once again. My eyes strain in the darkness. I am bound hand to foot at the bottom of Meadows Green End Pond. This is the opposite of swimming, that freedom that once felt like fying. This is the end. The witch will not swim. She will die. The Lorde has spoken.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for joining us in Inkland. Before you go, we want to acknowledge those around us who have helped our authors reach this point in their journey.

Our above-and-beyond MA Writing for Young People tutors have led writing workshops and shepherded our manuscripts. We would like to thank: Sam Beckbessinger, Gina Blaxill, Alex Campbell, Dr Alexia Casale, Lucy Cuthew, Mel Darbon, Annalie Grainger, Karen Gregory, Rachel Hamilton, Anna McKerrow, Louisa Reid, Dashe Roberts and CJ Skuse. The word ‘tutor’ does not fully encompass their role as mentor, friend, and experienced author. They have molded and shaped our writing, and – more importantly – us as writers, steering us to become resourceful, confdent, and resilient.

In addition to our tutors, many experiences inspired us. Corsham Court with its peacocks, Newton Park with its lake views, and online workshops, connecting us internationally, are the places that brought us together. There were delightful Summer Days with colleagues from Norway and Vermont; Literature Across Borders discussions on children’s literature with Meghaa Gupta and Ashoka University; articles and conference proceedings for Leaf Journal , supported by Elen Caldecott and Lucy Cuthew; exciting and nerve-wracking opportunities to read our stories at the Bath Children’s Literature Festival alongside published alumni; Wild Muse workshops, using nature to infuence our writing; and chances to render our words in a unique, historical style through letterpress lessons with Tim Jollands. Our writing practices and concepts about children’s literature were honed through our lecture series with authors, agents, and publishers, better preparing us to enter this wonderful industry.

We could not have written our essays or articles without the support of our subject librarian, Katie Rickard. Dr Alexia Casale led our beginner’s journey in ethical research. As program director, her thoroughness and support never failed us. Dr Lucy English skilled us up for our read-aloud events, and our BSU student representatives looked out for our interests. Annalie Grainger shared her wisdom and experience, taking excellent care of us as Inkland’s faculty representative.

There are a few dear coursemates we shared workshops with whose work you won’t see within these pages. Their insights and feedback were instrumental in shaping our manuscripts, and we learned so much from their story worlds. Our tutors modelled how to be authors – which means leaning into a support network. Thank you to the MAWYP alumni who have attended our events, answered our questions, and shared their infnite wisdom. Special thanks to past cohorts’ anthology leadership, especially the 2023 team whose Wild Words paved the way to Inkland. We are proud to be amongst the thriving MAWYP community and look forward to lifting up future graduates.

Thank you to our friends and families outside our writing lives for always believing in us. Thank you to our classmates – you have changed our lives. And, fnally, thank you, dear reader, for fnding these pages and inhabiting our stories for a time. We hope you return to Inkland – we loved having you!

The Inkland Leadership Team