The Regulator
By Jamie F. Bell
A chaotic, stream-of-consciousness journey through a steampunk version of downtown Winnipeg during a -40 degree deep freeze, focusing on the mechanical failures and small human victories of the everyday commute.
Explore Our Stream of Consciousness Short Stories
16 Stories
The Glutton's Graveyard
By Tony Eetak
The forest pressed in, a sprawling, indifferent cathedral of amber and rust-coloured leaves. The air, crisp and tasting faintly of pine resin and wet soil, offered a fleeting chill that promised winter. Jesse swung the axe, a rhythmic, satisfying thud against the stubborn trunk, a physical conversation with something that had stood silent for decades. Sweat beaded on his brow, mingling with stray pine needles, a small rebellion against the cool air. It was a good ache, a honest one, unlike the dull, systemic thrum of his own unease with… well, everything else.
The Unscripted Collapse
By Eva Suluk
The community hall’s main room, usually reserved for bingo nights or children’s parties, felt different today. It hummed with a low, almost imperceptible thrum of nervous energy, a counterpoint to the relentless buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights. Outside, the last vestiges of a warm autumn wind rustled dry leaves across the cracked asphalt, but inside, the air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of stale coffee, old dust, and the faint, metallic tang that sometimes clung to forgotten public spaces. Ken, hunched on a folding chair, traced the scuff marks on his worn boots with a fingernail, trying to make himself small.
A Crack in the Ice
By Eva Suluk
The cabin breathed around me, a symphony of creaks and settling timbers against the biting cold. Outside, the world was a study in white and grey, pines standing like sentinels draped in fresh snow, their branches heavy and still. The air itself felt brittle, sharp, smelling of wet dust and the acrid tang of cold metal from the ancient woodstove. Each breath caught, a tiny cloud of memory, before dissolving into the silent, unforgiving expanse.
Dust and Distant Drills
By Jamie F. Bell
It was autumn outside, a crisp, gold-leafed picture, but down here, under the small northern community recreation hall, it was a timeless, subterranean grey. The single bare bulb Bonnie had strung up cast long, dancing shadows that made the stacks of broken furniture and dusty boxes look like silent, hunched sentinels. A shiver, not entirely from the chill, traced my spine.
Beneath the Scarlet Canopy
By Jamie F. Bell
The crisp autumn air bites, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Scarlet and gold leaves, brittle underfoot, carpet the suburban backyard. The sky hangs low and grey, mirroring the restless stirrings within a young boy who yearns for adventure beyond the familiar confines of his world.
Mud-Stained Ambition
By Jamie F. Bell
The air, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, pressed down. Early spring had turned the narrow track up Crimson Canyon into a treacherous ribbon of greasy mud and slick stone, each step a gamble against gravity. Overhead, the sky, a bruised purple, promised an imminent tempest, but beneath it, two figures, small against the vast, rugged landscape, pushed onward, their breath pluming in the chill.
Where the Pavement Gives Up
By Jamie F. Bell
The car was parked where the gravel road dissolved into coarse sand and smooth, grey stones. The air was thick with the smell of low tide: salt, brine, and the faint, organic scent of decaying seaweed. The sky was a uniform, heavy grey, indistinguishable from the surface of the Atlantic, which rolled in with a slow, percussive rhythm, each wave collapsing on the shore with a heavy sigh.
Gravity and the Rogers Pass
By Jamie F. Bell
The world had shrunk to the narrow tunnel carved out by the headlights. Beyond it, there was only an impenetrable, absolute blackness where mountains were supposed to be. The road snaked onwards, a ribbon of pale grey asphalt that appeared seconds before they were on it. The engine whined, a high, strained sound as it fought against the steep grade, and the only other sound was the howl of wind rushing past the wing mirrors.
The Salt Stains on the Glass
By Jamie F. Bell
The ferry shuddered as it pushed through the slate-grey water of the strait, its engines a constant, deep thrum that vibrated up through the soles of their shoes. On the observation deck, the wind was a sharp, cold thing, smelling of salt and diesel fumes. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries snatched away by the wind. Inside, passengers sat in clusters, islands of quiet conversation in the vast, brightly-lit lounge.
All the Candles in Kapuskasing
By Jamie F. Bell
The world outside the single pane of glass had dissolved into a churning whiteness. The wind howled with a low, mournful sound, rattling the window frame in its ill-fitting groove. Inside, the only light came from three small tealights arranged on a chipped bedside table, their flames dancing in the drafts and casting long, trembling shadows across the room's peeling, wood-panelled walls.
The Hiss of Static and Dry Canola
By Jamie F. Bell
The heat wasn't just in the air; it was a physical weight pressing down on the roof of the Honda, baking the vinyl of the dashboard until it gave off a faint, chemical smell. Outside, the world was a study in two colours: the bleached blue of the sky and the endless, shimmering gold of canola fields stretching to a perfectly straight horizon. The only sound was the tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine and the low hum of insects.
Coordinates for Cracks in the Pavement
By Jamie F. Bell
A map can be a lie. Or an invitation. Or a work of art. The grid of streets we live on, the one that feels so permanent, is just one version of the city. The note the girl dropped is a different kind of map, one that ignores roads and buildings and instead plots a course based on... what? I’m still not sure.
A Glitch in the Cold Brew
By Jamie F. Bell
The heat is a physical presence in the city today. A suffocating blanket that makes the air shimmer above the pavement. Inside the cool, air-conditioned sanctuary of Thom Bargen on Sherbrook, the world feels sane again. I’m thinking about the digital and the physical, the way a photograph of a mural is both a copy and a new thing entirely.
Trespass on Greener Ground
By Jamie F. Bell
Vertical exploration is a different kind of freedom. Down on the street, you’re trapped by the grid, a rat in a maze designed by city planners. But the moment your feet leave the pavement and find purchase on a fire escape, the rules change. The city unfolds, becomes a landscape of possibility instead of a set of directions.
Where the Paint Settles
By Jamie F. Bell
It feels like a betrayal. That’s the first, hot thought that floods my head as I round the corner into the alley off Albert Street. The air, thick with the smell of sun-baked asphalt and fried onions from a nearby chip stand, suddenly feels thin, hard to breathe. All week, I’ve been thinking about the bison.