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      Beyond the Stars is unique.

      Why did twenty-three stellar children’s writers and illustrators band together to show their love and support for Fighting Words, a creative writing centre in the heart of Dublin city?

      That’s easy. Because, like this book, Fighting Words is unique. As Roddy Doyle, the centre’s co-founder, says, “It’s a big bright room. In an area that needs a big bright room. In a climate that needs a big bright room.”

      Fighting Words is a remarkable place that provides free tutoring in creative writing to all ages, but most especially to children and teenagers. It gives young writers a voice and helps them to reach their creative potential. And above all, it’s fun.

      In January 2009 I volunteered at Fighting Words’ very first Primary School Workshop. The room was so full of creativity, joy and optimism I thought my heart would burst. With the help of a storyteller, an illustrator and a team of volunteers, each of the children involved wrote their own book. On the back of each book (every young writer was given their own copy to take home – complete with wonderful full-colour illustrations) was a photograph of the child’s smiling face and a blank box for them to add their very own writer’s biography. Leaving the centre, their faces shone with happiness.

      Since that first workshop, I have volunteered at Fighting Words whenever I can. I have always left that big bright room inspired, uplifted and with a joyful heart. This book is my thank you to the centre, for creating a haven of the imagination – my love letter to Fighting Words if you like. I hope they will allow me to continue to be a small part of the magic for many years to come. A huge thank you must also go to Roddy Doyle and Sean Love for their help with this book.

      Beyond the Stars would not exist without the superstar writers and illustrators behind this collection – all of whom said yes to contributing without hesitation. Yes, Chris Haughton, it was a little like “herding cats” at times, but very cool and lovely cats! Thanks to the team: Roddy Doyle and Steve Simpson; Derek Landy and Alan Clarke; John Boyne and Paul Howard; Judi Curtin and Chris Judge; Eoin Colfer and Marie-Louise Fitzpatrick; Marita Conlon-McKenna and P. J. Lynch; Michael Scott and Chris Haughton; Gordon Snell and Michael Emberley; Celine Kiernan and Tatyana Feeney; Oisín McGann; Siobhán Parkinson and Olwyn Whelan; and finally, Niamh Sharkey, who illustrated our competition-winner Emma Brade’s story. Mammoth thanks also to Ruth Alltimes, Mary Byrne and their supernova team at HarperCollins Children’s Books for their hard work and support of what is a highly unusual project. And to my wonderful agent, Philippa Milnes-Smith, for her hand-holding and enthusiasm for the book.

      As the Irish writer Oscar Wilde once said: “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” With your wonderful work for this collection, you have all reached for the stars, and ‘Beyond’. Together, we have created a glowing universe of space dogs and ice queens, invisible cats and warriors brave.

      Now it is up to you, dear reader, to continue the journey. Read the magical stories within these pages and let your imagination fly.

       Sarah Webb

      To find out more about Fighting Words and its work turn to the back of this book.

      

      Roddy Doyle has written ten novels, including Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, which won the Booker prize in 1993, and The Commitments, now a popular West End show. He is the co-founder of Fighting Words. He has written several books for children, the latest of which is called Brilliant. He lives in Dublin – which is also brilliant.

      Steve Simpson’s innovative, award-winning approach to graphic design, typography and illustration is built on fresh thinking, traditional skills and a healthy dose of fun. Mise agus an Dragún, written by Patricia Forde and illustrated by Steve, was shortlisted for the CBI Book of the Year Awards in 2013.

      MOSCOW – January, 1951:

      It was cold. So cold. But the dog was used to it. The cold was a part of her. But the hunger – she could never get used to that. Although she had always been hungry.

      She stood on the street, off the footpath, in the snow. She knew the humans would find it hard to see her – until it was too late. She was white, and very small. She could make herself seem even smaller, and the snow was fresh, new, still falling. The city’s dirt hadn’t spoilt it yet.

      The dog watched the humans. They weren’t moving. They stood in a line outside the bakery, waiting for their turn to buy the bread that the dog could smell from where she stood. Like her, the humans were cold. Like her, they were used to it. Unlike her, they were tired, numb, half asleep.

      She heard the car before she saw it. It had turned the corner but, still, she couldn’t see it until it came out of the falling snow. A black car. (All cars were black.) She made her move. She ran the short distance to the centre of the street, straight into the path of the car. There was a risk. She was the colour of the snow and the driver might not see her. But she was hungry. And she was loud.

      She barked.

      The driver heard the dog, then saw her. He braked, and the car stopped briefly, then started a sideways skid across the ice.

      “Stupid dog!”

      The car continued on its slow, unstoppable journey over the ice.

      The women queuing outside the bakery turned in time to see the car. They watched as it hit another, parked car. There was no sign of the dog. No one had seen a dog. Some of the women went to help the driver, and the baker, a thin man with long arms, ran out of the shop.

      “What happened?”

      The dog made her move.

      While all human eyes were fixed on the crashed car, she dashed back across the street. Her paws were tough, and moving over the ice was easy. She jumped and, with her teeth, she pulled a parcel from the top of a straw basket. It was a gamble – but she knew immediately that she had chosen well. Her nose told her, and her tongue against the paper bag told her: she had grabbed meat.

      She’d been noticed.

      “Look!”

      “The cheek!”

      She had to escape. Her size was useful again. She dashed through legs. Hands tried to grab her, and feet tried to kick. Women slid, and the baker ran back inside to get his gun. The dog was tempted to stop, to devour the meat right there – she was so hungry. But she kept going. She was almost clear.

      She didn’t see the net, or the man holding the net. She felt it land on her back, and she felt it tangling her feet, her paws. She didn’t know what it was. But she did know she’d been caught.

      She ate the meat

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