Rustle of Data, Chill of Progress
By Eva Suluk
A damp, late October morning in a Canadian city. A young man sits on a park bench, observing the world and his own place within it, before seeking the quiet solace of a university library.
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5 Stories
A Conflagration of Clockwork
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in downtown Winnipeg hung thick and heavy, not merely with the oppressive summer humidity, but with the cloying scent of burnt oil, ozone, and something acridly metallic. Twisted brass cogs lay scattered like discarded coins across the cobblestones, steam hissed from fractured pipework that once belonged to civic statuary, and a fine, grey soot coated everything with an unfortunate, industrial patina. It was a scene of precise, mechanical mayhem, a testament to what happens when innovation, however grand, goes catastrophically awry. Amidst this wreckage stood Octavius Findlay, his usually pristine waistcoat smudged, his spectacles slightly askew, glaring with an intensity usually reserved for stubbornly jammed aetheric conduits.
The Gravy
By Jamie F. Bell
A faint, almost imperceptible hum thrummed from the old desktop tower in Mike's cluttered basement, a sound like a distant, bored bee. On the screen, a series of cryptic symbols shifted, pixelated and unsettling. Leo, slouched on a beanbag chair, scrubbed a hand over his tired face, the stale smell of lukewarm pizza and too many energy drinks clinging to the air. Carmen, perched precariously on a stack of graphic novels, chewed on her lip, eyes glued to the flickering image, a nervous energy vibrating off her. The autumn wind outside rattled the single, high window, a counterpoint to the growing unease in the room.
The Glitch in the Carol
By Jamie F. Bell
The perpetual twilight of Neo-London's Block 7 settled like a shroud. A sickly orange glow from the mega-towers bled into the pre-dawn greys, reflecting off the slick, rain-streaked ferrocrete below. The air, thick with the tang of ozone and synthetic exhaust, bit at exposed skin, promising a Christmas Eve more grim than festive.
Stained Glass, Stained Hands
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in the Concordia Gallery, once thick with the hushed reverence for art and the scent of expensive canapés, now reeked of something metallic and stale. Dust motes, disturbed by frantic movement, danced in the weak afternoon light filtering through the massive skylights. What was meant to be a quiet viewing had devolved into a desperate scramble, the polished marble floors slick with an ominous, dark sheen. Alarms, long since blaring, were now just another layer of the suffocating chaos, an insistent, maddening shriek that resonated through the grand hall, reflecting off the muted, staring faces of forgotten portraits.