New Welsh Reader 122: Dystopian Fiction from Wales

By George JL and Brown Rosey

Utopias and dystopias predominate in this selection of novella extracts from Wales. Includes the winners and nominations in the New Welsh Writing Awards 2019 Aberystwyth University Prize for a Dystopian Novella, plus a photo essay by Tim Cooke and Ben Absalom on the Bridgend estate, Wildmill, and a column by editor and translator Gwen Davies on

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Welsh Review
• Release date: Dec 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916150119

George JL

JL George was born in Cardiff, lives in Pontypool, and writes weird and speculative ction. Her work has appeared in Constellary Tales and anthologies including Resist Fascism and The Black Room Manuscripts. She is a 2019 Literature Wales bursary recipient currently working on a near-future dystopian novel. In her other life, she's an academic interested in literature and science and the Gothic. 'The Word' won the New Welsh Writing Awards 2019: Aberystwyth University Prize for a Dystopian Novella, awarded at Hay Festival 2019, and is published on the New Welsh Rarebyte imprint in 2020. @jlgeorgewrites

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Contents

winter 2019

IMPRINT

THE WORD

THE SIGNIFICANCE OF SWANS

ADRIFT

WATER, WATER, NOWHERE

THE CHOSEN

VIEWS OF THE WILDMILL ESTATE

CHANNELLING MARILYNNE:

TRANSLATION AS POSSESSION,

ENVY AND BELONGING

winter 2019

Dystopia & Utopia

PHOTO, ‘STILL RESTING HERE’, © ANDREW RAFFERTY

IMPRINT

New Welsh Reader

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Cover photo: Ben Absalom

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ISBN: 978-1-9161501-1-9

ISSN: 09542116

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New Welsh Review Ltd publishes with the financial support of the Welsh Books Council, and is hosted by Aberystwyth University’s Department of English & Creative Writing. New Welsh Review Ltd was established in 1988 by Academi (now Literature Wales) and the Association for Welsh Writing in English. New Welsh Reader is New Welsh Review’s magazine for creative work; we also publish eight e-editions annually of reviews and comment and at least one book annually on the New Welsh Rarebyte imprint.

Mae croeso ichi ohebu â’r golygydd yn Gymraeg.

THE WORD

NOVELLA EXTRACT BY JL GEORGE

first prize

T

‘This one,’ hisses Jonno, and I follow him through the gap in the hedge. Twigs tear at my clothing and it isn’t quite wide enough, so I have to drop my shoulder and push, but on the other side, hidden from the road, I stand and stretch gratefully. My back aches from stooping to hide.

The house looks empty, like every other house left on this street, and the backdoor handle gives under Jonno’s hand without being forced. The inhabitants didn’t even bother to lock up after them when they left.

Back at the Centre, Rachel said her parents used to reminisce about a time when you didn’t need to lock your door after you left the house. Perhaps reminisce was the wrong word, she conceded, after a moment. It had been before they were born, after all. But it had been; and the important thing was to get it back. That was what all this was for. The war, the experiments, perhaps even the Word: a gift from a benevolent God to protect His island children.

Now, I follow Jonno inside, like I follow him everywhere, and secure the door behind us. Then I wedge a kitchen chair under the handle to be sure. The activity helps, keeps me from listening too anxiously to the quiet, and I roam from room to room closing curtains, filling our water bottles, assessing the furniture for what might be most effectively stacked against the doors. Jonno stands at the kitchen table, leaning forward on flat palms, motionless. When I open my mouth to ask if he’s planning on helping me out any time soon, he holds up a hand for silence.

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘They’re coming.’

It’s a distant, mechanical rumble. Could be any kind of heavy machinery, from this far away.

We both know better. And as it approaches, moment by moment, even my reluctant ears detect the high, thin wail of feedback from a cliff-face of speakers, the anticipatory crackle of enough amplifiers to blow open your skull.

Slowly, the sound grows closer. In the end it grows deafening, turns our world into a silent film. I can’t hear the words Jonno’s mouth shapes when he turns to look at me or the clomp of his boots on the kitchen floor. I spread my hands, helpless. There’s nothing I can say, anyway.

The sound cuts out; the machinery grinds to a halt.

In the ringing silence that follows, there’s still nothing I can say.

I start when Jonno’s hand finds mine and squeezes it. It