It’s five-sixteen, rush hour, Poet’s Day, on Friday 20th July 2029. And the temperature outside has risen to 52C, a record high. I lie back in my cool thermal white tee-shirt, matching hipsters, anklets, and soft white ballet pumps,...

1.11One minute, Sylvie’s lying, peacefully in bed, sound asleep. The next, the curse slams into her, like a giant hammer. Its sheer magnitude, the reflexive impact on her systems, is immense. Its intrusion is all-consuming. Its influence, irresistible. Sylvie...

Child:‘I dreamed I was a child again,’ Georgie whispered, her voice laced with wonder, ‘dreamt my daddy was alive, frolicking in the hay with me, the baby lambs. He gave me one as a pet, y’know. I called her...