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Point of No Return - by Alice Baines

I’ve never felt this sick before. But then again, I’ve never experienced a jump like that before. Aware of the grass tickling my face, I keep my eyes shut in the hope that the dark will stop my head pounding. But after a few seconds, I can already tell it’s not going to stop any time soon. I place a hand on my stomach – maybe I can get that to calm down. A few deeps breaths later and already the need to vomit is subsiding. It’s not perfect but I guess it will have to do.
            “Erin?”
            Why on earth can I hear Jamie’s voice? Last time I saw him bombs were about to fall.
            “Erin! Lass are ye alright?”
            I snap my eyes open. The sudden sight of Jamie peering over me causes me to scream. The noise must have shocked him because he moves back giving me enough time to scramble to my feet.
            “You… what are you doing here?”
            He peers at me in confusion. “Me? Ye wander off in the middle of a raid and then when I try and find us shelter, ye press that weird thing on ye wrist and then we’re in a field! And ye ask me why I am here?”
            At some point during his little rant, his fringe fell forward, almost covering his eyes. Deciding to focus on one problem at a time, I turn away and glance down at my wrist. The device beeps up at me. At least it wasn’t damaged. But it was starting to look like that was the only silver lining.
            I’d brought someone out of their time. Jamie wasn’t supposed to leave 1941. And now he was…well…not in 1941.

Vikings on Train - by Emma Reid

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I am not dressed as a princess. I am sort of dressed as a Viking, in a green tunic with a big scary belt. It is very windy on this platform. It seems to be being funnelled through the tunnel across the way. Every time I open my mouth to speak I swallow what feels like a chunk of air so thick with fumes from something that makes me want to choke. The train itself is one of those sleek commuter trains, full of people in sensible trouser suits. I tug at the hem of my tunic and wish I’d thought to bring a coat. They all look up as we enter, in what feels like a coordinated sweep, like in an old movie when the heroes enter the bar full of baddies and they all stare. I’m half expecting a ‘We don’t serve your kind ‘round these parts’ to drift across the carriage and I wouldn’t be able to blame them. The whole carriage is weirdly sterile, with smooth sharp lines everywhere and somehow it smells of nothing. And yet, the seats all still have those weird patterns that seem to have no discernable logic to them. This is a constant with all public transportation. The children don’t help the atmosphere, as they cluster around me and start wheedling for who gets the big group seat. I tell them to pick before the train starts moving. I’ve washed my hands of clique nonsense, had enough of that when I was a kid. Tallulah, whose name is not her fault, gets stuck next to me. She’s a short kid, with neat brown hair in a french braid and permanently dewy eyes. She doesn’t complain at all, because she’s also a good kid who knows I’m trying, but the light in her eyes dies a little. I can sympathise. One of the business people glares at me in my seat and I shrink, trying to blend into the swirly pattern. 

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