New for 2026
by Ian Dewar
These are not polished tales of defeat or triumphant breakthroughs. They are fictionalised yet unflinchingly honest portraits drawn from the conversations and circumstances of real lives.
In Exiles, you won’t find neat redemption arcs designed to assuage guilt, nor sensational “poverty porn” that keeps us safely detached. Instead, you’ll meet individuals up against invisible barriers, feeling the sting of exclusion and grappling with impossible choices in a world built against them.
Characters are not case studies but flesh-and-blood individuals. Some resist with defiance; some obey with resignation; others make decisions that shock us - decisions we can only understand when we’ve walked in their shoes.
There are no fairy-tale endings - only the grind of another day. Yet amid the struggle you’ll discover sparks of rebellion, moments of quiet victory, and the quiet resilience that sustains them.
I met Lucy outside King's Cross Station on a rainy Wednesday in early October. I was going to take the Northern Line south. I stopped in front of a small shop that sold pasties and coffee. Lucy was sitting on the ground, leaning her back against the wall, a clear bin bag by her side and a sleeping bag rolled tightly under her knees.
"What are you doing?" she asked. I looked at the coffee in my hand. "I think I'm waiting for this to cool," I said.
She laughed in a dry, whispery way. "Makes sense," she said. She adjusted herself against the wall. The hood of her jacket sagged, heavy and damp. "People pass by in a hurry. You're standing. You have coffee."
I handed her a paper cup of tea I had just bought. "Would you like this?" I asked. "I can get another if I really need it."
She looked at the tea, then at me. Her eyes were greyish-blue and had a dull reflection. She nodded and took the cup. We said nothing for about ten seconds. A wave of people bustled by, each person's coat sliding past the next person's rucksack or body.
"At first, I thought it was a glitch, like maybe a letter got lost and I'd fix things. But eventually, I realised it was real. They told me to vacate. I didn't have anywhere to go."
She slept on a friend's couch, but the landlord said no. That was nine months ago. She's been on and off the streets, sometimes in shelters, ever since.
I didn't see Lucy for weeks. My life resumed its predictable pattern: waking up, breakfast at home, heading to classes. Meanwhile, the city felt heavier each day, as though the approaching winter pressed down on the shoulders of every passerby.
By mid-November, I had mostly put Lucy out of my mind. I'd occasionally see other rough sleepers outside tube stations. But nothing stuck to me quite like the memory of Lucy's eyes.
The first sensation is pain - a deep, gnawing ache that seeps into the marrow of my bones. The cold has a way of carving itself into you, deeper than any blade. I've stopped shivering; even my body has surrendered to the ice. The concrete beneath me is hard and unyielding, a cruel mirror to the world I now inhabit.
When my eyes finally flutter open, the world reveals itself in shades of grey. Dawn is creeping over the city, reluctant and weak, as if even the sun is too ashamed to shine fully on this forgotten corner of existence. I try to sit up, but my muscles protest, stiffened by hours of stillness in the night's relentless freeze.
For a moment, I feel a wave of disappointment wash over me. I'm still here. Another bitter, bone-chilling night has passed, and I'm still breathing.
"The cold is physical, yes. But the isolation is psychological. When you stop looking people in the eye because you're afraid of what you'll see—pity, disgust, or worse, nothing at all—that's when you really start to freeze."
Hope isn't a light at the end of the tunnel. It's just another way of hurting yourself when the tunnel keeps getting longer."
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