A collection of espionage / spy fiction English short stories to read.
By Leaf Richards
The air hung heavy and still, thick with the scent of damp concrete and the memory of countless forgotten lives. Outside, the city shivered under a thin blanket of winter snow, its usual clamour muted by the early morning hour and the pervasive, bone-deep cold. Inside the old building, dust motes danced in the sparse slivers of light, painting a tableau of neglect and a slow, creeping decay.
By Eva Suluk
The city lay hushed beneath a blanket of fresh snow, a deceptive calm that masked the relentless chill permeating every stone and shadowed alley. High above, a lone figure moved with the practiced stealth of a predator, each breath a plume against the biting winter air. The world was a stark canvas of white and grey, painted with the desperate hope of a mission teetering on the edge of failure.
By Leaf Richards
The old building creaked, a symphony of settling timbers and groaning pipes against the relentless winter wind. Outside, the city was a watercolour blur of grey and white, streetlights haloed by falling snow. Inside, the only light came from the pools cast by a brass desk lamp, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the frigid air and the mountainous stacks of legal briefs that dominated the mahogany surface. The faint smell of aged paper and something faintly metallic, like static electricity, hung heavy in the air. Each tick of the grandfather clock in the reception hall felt like a hammer blow against the silence, a stark reminder of the hour.
By Jamie F. Bell
The public library was a tomb of dust and weak autumn light. Sunlight, the colour of pale tea, struggled through the tall, grimy windows, illuminating the slow, lazy drift of particles in the air. It smelled of decaying paper, floor polish, and the damp wool of someone's coat. The only sounds were the soft rustle of turning pages and the distant, rhythmic thump of a librarian's stamp, each one landing with an air of finality.
By Jamie F. Bell
A deep autumn chill had settled over Winnipeg, clinging to the brickwork of the old buildings and seeping through the single-paned windows of The Portage Coffee House. Inside, the air hummed with the comforting thrum of the espresso machine and the low murmur of conversation, a stark contrast to the grey, bruised light that bled in from the street, promising an early dusk. Evaline sat hunched, a familiar ache in her lower back, watching the streetlamps flicker to life with a preternatural urgency.