Swashbuckling Romance Short Stories

The Stain of Ochre

By Jamie F. Bell

The air bit, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. Autumn was a slow, deliberate killer here, stripping the maples bare, turning the birches to bone. My boots crunched over frost-glazed moss, each step a dull report in the oppressive quiet of the boreal forest. The canopy, what remained of it, offered only fragmented glimpses of a sky the colour of unwashed tin. I pulled my worn wool scarf tighter, the coarse fibres scratching my chin, a familiar comfort against the biting wind. The small parcel nestled deep in my satchel felt heavy, not with its slight weight, but with the burden of its silent message. Another delivery, another thread woven into the fragile, unseen web. My route today had skirted the forgotten remains of what once was a logging road, now just a vague scar choked by new growth. The Ministry of Productivity had long since deemed such detours inefficient, unproductive. But inefficiency was where life, real life, often found purchase.

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Rust and Resin

By Tony Eetak

The air, thick with the scent of decaying leaves and two-stroke exhaust, hung heavy over the autumn forest. Golden light struggled through a canopy already shedding its summer finery, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the chill. A rhythmic thud echoed, a testament to the unromantic, ceaseless labour of August, whose thoughts drifted through a fog of mild resentment and burgeoning absurdity as another Tuesday bled into the relentless, unyielding sameness of his early adulthood.

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A Thaw in the Cold

By Jamie F. Bell

The snow was a cruel mistress, beautiful in its descent but merciless in its grip, a crystalline shroud muffling the city's usual cacophony into a muted, dangerous hum. My breath plumed in ragged clouds, each exhalation a brief, fleeting ghost in the brutal air. My fingers, even within the thick confines of my woollen mittens, were aching stubs, protesting every sharp gust that carved through the narrow lane, promising frostbite with every stinging flake. The old brickwork of the alley pressed in, damp and cold, a temporary shield from whatever we had just evaded, but also a cage in its own right, the exit a distant, pale rectangle of less oppressive darkness.

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A Nickel-Plated Souvenir

By Jamie F. Bell

The bus smelled of wet wool and despair. Beaton stared at his own reflection in the grime-streaked window, a ghost of a man in a cheap suit, superimposed over a landscape of dead-looking trees and snow-dusted rock. He hadn't slept in two days, and his thoughts felt like grinding gears. He was going over the case, the same way a tongue worries a sore tooth. It was a nasty piece of work, and the worst part was, he hadn't solved a damn thing.

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The Finite Geometry of Leaving

By Jamie F. Bell

The letter was folded into a stiff, perfect square in the front pocket of her jeans. Tania could feel its sharp corners pressing against her leg, a constant, physical reminder. University of Manitoba. Faculty of Arts. The words were a spell she’d been chanting for a year. Now, with the pines of home flashing past the window in a hypnotic green blur, the spell was starting to feel like a curse. Her palms were damp, and the half-eaten bag of chips on her lap suddenly seemed like the most disgusting thing on earth.

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The Country Below the Road

By Jamie F. Bell

The rumble of the tires on the asphalt was a familiar drone, a song Old Bob had listened to for seventy years. Most people saw nothing out the window. Just trees. A boring, endless wall of green and grey. They didn't see the way the land breathed, the slow, geologic exhalation of the granite. They didn't see the figures that sometimes walked between the pines, their forms indistinct, ancient as the rock they trod upon.

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Pressure Behind the Eyes

By Jamie F. Bell

Billy kept his eyes on the window, but he wasn't looking at the monotonous black of the Trans-Canada Highway. He was watching the reflection of the man two rows behind him. The man hadn't moved in an hour, not really, just a slight shift of his bulk, a rustle of his cheap nylon jacket. But his stillness was wrong. It was a predator's stillness. Billy's own reflection stared back, wide-eyed and gaunt, a stranger's face he was starting to get used to.

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The Kilometre of Forgetting

By Jamie F. Bell

The vibration is the first thing you forget and the last thing you remember. It works its way up from the floorboards, through the cheap foam of the seat cushion, and settles deep in your teeth. Outside, the granite shields of Northern Ontario slide past, indifferent and immense. Sharon watches them, her reflection a faint, tired ghost superimposed over the blur of jack pine and swamp.

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