The future we imagine is getting bleaker by the second. Especially the looming threat of climate change offers a menacing backdrop for dreams of a world filled with even more gadgets and consumerism. Can speculative fiction help us here? Enter our possible hero: Cli-fi, or climate fiction. Books, film and media where climate and the effects of climate change form the plot, background or conflict we’re presented with.

When looking for an answer, and the answer is that there is no right one, it either results in reassurance or complete over-thinking. How To Be Everything frequently made the point that you don’t have to pick one thing. And yet, here I was trying to pick to be one thing – to be a multipotentialite – even if that one thing meant that I could be lots of different things.

Perhaps the most common response I get when I tell people what my degree is revolves around how I must really enjoy reading. A dual degree in English Literature and History is extremely heavy on reading … This being said, I have seriously struggled to read for my own enjoyment for the last four years.

As I quietly packed the last of my clothes into the car, Mia peeked through the flat window. I don’t know whether she regretted last night’s argument, but she did not say goodbye.

Jorge Luis Borges, the celebrated writer, poet, and essayist (also one of the literature’s most influential non-Nobel-Prize-winners), had a whimsical take on young poets. The anecdote goes that during a meeting of the Argentine Society of Writers, the topic of up-and-coming talent came up. ‘What can we do for young poets?’ he was asked. ‘We can dissuade them,’ Borges replied.

Reading Cleopatra and Frankenstein made me question whether it is more cathartic or more harmful to read about your exact experience, but depicted by characters more colourful and winning than those that populate your own universe. If what happened to me was worthy of a fictional novel, had all my decisions been ridiculous?

Do you mostly read books from similar genres? If so, you’re not alone. Most of us prefer what we know we’ll enjoy and are reluctant to foray into unknown territory. But are you in control of that decision? Parallel to our personal preferences, there’s often a much darker companion lurking in the shadows.

I think you can read festive books outside the festive period because there is never a specific time that you should read certain books. If you want to read a certain book, just read it, (no one judged you when you were reading 50 Shades of Grey on the tube, so no one is judging you for reading a Christmassy book on a 50,000-degree Central Line in the middle of July)!

Interest in Greek mythology has seen a huge rise in popularity in recent years. Podcasts such as Let’s Talk About Myths, Baby! and Ancient History Fangirl have been leading the way, along with an ever-growing number of novels offering a new interpretation of these classic stories.

Many bookstores, both physical and online, now have BookTok sections and covers marked “TikTok made me buy it”. Readers from all around the world are picking their next reads from BookTok reviews, but should you?

July, slap bang in the middle of summer, born was Finn.

For his big brother, Max, the holidays were in full swing.

Clunk. The year’s lessons had fallen clean out Max’s head.

Hot days spent splashing, chasing and playing out past bed.

Abigail’s short story ‘Earth’ was inspired by a prompt from an art group she met during lockdown. She was sent prompts in the mail to help inspire her to create.

Allyson Dowling writes a Reddit style post with a comedic twist exploring Shakespeare’s Hamlet and the iconic ‘Get Thee To A Nunnery’ speech.

I am learning how to love myself,

Just a little more everyday

I am learning how to love myself

Because I am learning that LOVE truly is the essence of how we are all MADE.

Who is Sappho and why do we care? The purpose of this piece is less to educate you on Sappho but to allow you to question the agenda behind the critical approaches that help to inform you on Sappho.

A new year can mean many things, but among the pressure to feel ready to tackle new challenges, begin new habits and adopt a positive outlook on life and the state of the planet, one thing that is always guaranteed to bring me joy is getting excited about all the new books that are due to be published over the coming twelve months.

The most recent instalment in the story of Juliana, a member of the Sacred Order on her journey to save Teleria.

Content Warning - This piece discusses harassment and sexual abuse.

I wrote this poem, which is a bit of a detour from my usual style, and I was nervous as this has not been an issue I have spoken about. However, it is raw and somewhat vulnerable (which can be read through the subtext). I have also had people respond when I have brought up these issues and say, "Is it a crime to call a woman sexy?" which it is obviously not, but why does an opinion need to be given so freely? Particularly if it is to another stranger?

“You really should be thinking about getting your foot on the property ladder Heledd,” she stirs oat milk into her freshly made latte, “You are thirty soon.” The way her voice emphasises my age gets my back up and my jaw tightens on reflex.

One deep breath at a time we can conquer our fears and go towards the most amazing journeys. We all have our own paths, the ones led by circumstances and choices. You don’t always have to know exactly where you’re heading. Time will tell, what ever there’s to be told. You need to trust your journey.

Being Black to me, is being happy, it’s being carefree.

What is home when no love remains, hearts smashed across the cold, hard floor? What is home when bitterness cuts through the walls – paper thin, shouts echoing from one room to the next?

“I’m sorry, you want to do what?” My drink gets caught in my throat and some liquid shoots back into the glass. Covering my mouth with my hand, my eyes search my companion’s face for any signs of discomfort. Grant sits opposite me, his blonde hair teased to perfection, his eyes lingering on my chest. He gives me a lazy smile as he dips his fingers into his nearly empty drink and swirls the ice cubes round. My stomach heaves slightly.

“I slug back the flute of champagne in my hand and look across the room. Everyone who is anyone in this company is here, the women in floor length dresses that catch the light and sparkle, and the men in freshly pressed tuxedos, their hair slicked back and shining”

I move through my life clumsily, awkward with shape and deed

I stumble from person to person, doubting myself

Some sisters like to giggle and share, spilling all of their secrets whilst braiding their hair,

We pulled pigtails and stole each other’s clothes, from t-shirts to scrunchies to underwear!

We are made from the stuff of stars, powered by electrical sparks fabricated in the only organ to have named itself.

Possibilities are endless

Red flags and stomach pangs,

Listening to friends, quietened that.

My heart was still recovering…

A city filled with history,

A city filled with a “new” hope.

It started with a stranger in a world that's broken

He appeared as the sun sank into the sea, while I watched the dolphins play in the surf, waiting for life to resume without my sister in it. I was frozen and lost. Angry and sad. Dead and alive.