The best-written Welsh fiction of the year

Every week we identify the best-written works of fiction, speculative fiction, or nonfiction from recent releases and shortlists for major prizes. We also publish articles by their authors on prose technique and AI writing, and for paid subscribers the best-written book of the month.

Information about submitting to Auraist is here. Our standards are as high as for our other picks, but if we publish your work, we’ll invite you to answer our questions on prose style.

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The winner of the best Welsh novel of the year will be announced on the 9th of July.

The shortlist for best novel:

Pulse, Cynan Jones

Cold Grace, Meredith Miller

A Room Above A Shop, Anthony Shapland

‘They stab down at her like the light that comes through the clouds in pictures of God, then they go again. Maybe that will be how time passes now, a slow tolling bell made of sunlight, separating the pieces of darkness.’

For a long time she whimpers in the dark, trying to find something to lean up against. It feels slick and smells rancid. Wet ash. The way you smell after a bonfire gets doused by sudden rain, the smell that won’t come out of your clothes and makes you feel like a hobo begging in the dooryard.

Her legs hurt, and the blood is pounding between them. And it’s dirty right up inside her, too. Her body is full of ash.

She’ll maybe have to beg like a hobo in front of her own house now, if she can face it. Standing outside with the chickens, asking for grace. Them inside will cross themselves and shut the door, leave her looking up, holding her mouth open to the rain until she drowns.

Later, she thinks she must have fallen. She opens her eyes and it’s just as black as with them closed. The taste of ash has made it into her nose and throat, and this is all there is ever going to be. There will never be light or sight again. This is hell, maybe. Not fiery, but the cold aftermath of fire.

Then, somewhere in the hours, streaks of light appear, coming through the edges of whatever it is they’ve stuffed in the smoke hole. They stab down at her like the light that comes through the clouds in pictures of God, then they go again. Maybe that will be how time passes now, a slow tolling bell made of sunlight, separating the pieces of darkness.

Our archive has over fifty author articles on prose style and AI writing, hundreds of picks from recent releases and prize shortlists, and the best-written books of the century. A paid subscription gives you full access to this archive, and to the best-written book of the month posts, and allows you to submit your own work to Auraist.

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Thanks for reading and helping to support fine writing.

Sean McNulty