'The Back Catalogue' by Gina Dantuono

Every night Ella’s dad would read her a bedtime story and always change the ending to And We Lived Happily Ever After. She’d be almost asleep when he’d whisper, “goodnight my girl, dream sweetly,” grabbing her blanketed toe on his way out of her room. Ella would fall asleep smiling.

But that was before Ella’s dad moved out. Before their happily ever afters no longer coincided as a family. At first, Ella had trouble falling asleep but she has since found a way to be her own fairy tale. At bedtime, she picks out a story and places it next to her in case her dad stops by to visit. She takes jawbreakers from her nightstand, only sucking on them long enough until they lose their color. Ella’s mouth is a tie-dyed lollipop; the colors a portal for magical powers that let her live in a nighttime rainbow. She giggles while placing each translucent ball in her special box thinking she has captured a box of stars beneath the bed. Ella’s eyes grow heavy watching the remaining sugar shimmer under the glow of her nightlight. She dreams of running through orange groves and swimming in blue lagoons, watching red pandas and purple people eaters play. Pink peonies spring to life as she meets green goblins while walking down a fabled yellow brick road. Somewhere from a distance, riding a glittery breeze, is her dad’s voice. Sleep is a beautiful colour.

'Eleven Going on Eighteen' by Jo Derrick

You won’t find another fool like me. We all make mistakes, but I made one that summer of 1973. I danced with Steve Bates at the pony club disco and my best friend fell out with me. I didn’t even kiss him, but Sharon said I’d betrayed her and she was right. The smell of saddle soap and horse shit always reminds me of him. Put me off men with brown eyes ever since.

Steve had the cheek to invite me to the Halloween Disco. I went, of course. I’d be an idiot to refuse. Smoochy dances and snogs outside in the car park with a crafty bottle of cider smuggled in by the bad boys. The Monster Mash was a big hit that year and we loved it. I can’t help dancing to it to this day. I was working in the lab late one night. Who knew back then that I would be actually working in a lab late one night when I met my husband? Life has a funny way of throwing you coincidences and bizarre connections.

The Ballroom Blitz was the hit of my birthday party. It was the most original party ever back then! We played Sweet and Marc Bolan records, then Dad set up a projector and screen in our lounge so that we could watch old Laurel and Hardy films. It sounds weird now, but everyone loved it. Steve brought his records over and insisted on playing The Ying Tong Song about ten times. We girls got our own back by doing our dance routine to You Can Do Magic.

In bed that night I drifted off to sleep with burning eyes from Mum and Dad’s cigarette smoke, listening to Perry Como’s The Good Times. And I knew they wouldn’t split up now.

'Bloody Summer' by David X. Lewis

My eleven-year-old skin is burning. We’re spending half-term in the south of France. The Indian summer, whatever that is, has been very hot. 

"I’m sorry, darling," Mummy says. "We forgot to cream you." 

She and Daddy have been drinking and arguing in the shade of a beach café. I have lain on my tummy in the sun near the water. "You poor thing. You’re red as a beetroot."

All night Mummy dabs pink calamine lotion on me with cotton-wool. My back sucks it in — slurp! It hurts, but I love Mummy being in my bed instead of with Daddy.

The next day we go to a place called Nîmes in our Ford Popular, which Daddy bought last month when he passed his test. Although it’s new, it’s very slow and looks really old. People keep pointing, which makes Daddy angry. He gets even angrier when people laugh at his parking.

Nîmes is full of old buildings. Boring! Except for the Roman bullring and a butcher with heads of real bulls dripping blood on the pavement. 

I want to see a bullfight, but Mummy says they’re disgusting and why did we ever come on this awful holiday. Daddy lashes out with his arm.

I don’t think he means to make Mummy’s nose bleed, but she jumps out of the front seat and joins me in the back. "You can pick up our bags from the hotel and drive us home right now," she tells Daddy.

That’s the last time we go on holiday as a family.

'Three Bottles of Château Grandpa' by David X. Lewis

We hold the demijohn to the light. The juice I’ve trodden from Grandpa’s grapes is murky. 

Grandpa says not to worry: it will clear after fermentation.

The liquid wurgles for weeks in Granny’s airing cupboard, but stays cloudy and tastes vile.

Grandpa says not to worry: it will mature.

We fill three Lucozade bottles with the funnel he uses for motor oil. I make labels for our first vintage.

There is no second. Grandpa dies as new grapes grow in the greenhouse. 

I find the bottles after Granny’s death. Seven years on, when I’m eighteen. Château Grandpa tastes good. And light shines through.

Not to worry.

'Summer 1976' by Alison Wassell

The sky is as blue and the sun as yellow as the ones in the paintings your mum says you should have moved on from by now. She buys your first bra. You refuse to wear it.

Your shoulders blister as you loiter in long grass, pretending to field in a game of rounders, praying the ball won’t seek you out. You have never scored a rounder yourself and know you never will. You wear a halter neck top to school. Kevin Hunter tells Simon Hall that if he stands behind you, he’ll get a great view of your left tit. You wear a cardigan for the rest of term.

On holiday you wear your black swimsuit with your 10-metre badge stitched to it, the only sporting award you have ever won. Your mum pats your stomach and says it wouldn’t hurt to lose a pound or two. She stops giving you soldiers with your breakfast egg.

Your first period starts when you’re wearing white shorts, leaving a stain that never quite washes out. Your mum insists on you wearing your bra, which leaves a red weal around your body. She says you need to get used to pain because there’s plenty ahead.

It starts to rain the day you start big school, wearing American Tan tights when everyone else is still in socks. You watch the raindrops weeping down the classroom window when you should be listening, thinking of all the bleeding still to be done.