Windchill
By Jamie F. Bell
A frantic walk through downtown Winnipeg in freezing weather, moving from the streets to the skywalks and finally to a bridge.
Explore Our Western Style BL Short Stories
48 Stories
Orange Juice and First Looks
By Jamie F. Bell
In the bustling university cafeteria, amidst the chaotic energy of the new semester, Caleb accidentally collides with Noah, resulting in a dramatic orange juice spill that initiates an unexpected encounter between the two young men.
The Shortcut
By Jamie F. Bell
A damp, wind-swept path behind the university science labs, covered in slick mud and rotting leaves, where an art student fights a losing battle with gravity and a heavy prop.
Cold Stew at Table Four
By Jamie F. Bell
A crowded, noisy boarding school cafeteria during a heavy autumn rainstorm. The atmosphere is claustrophobic and filled with the underlying tension of surveillance.
Resentment
By Jamie F. Bell
The old truck sputtered its last breath and died, leaving Caleb in a sudden, profound quiet under a sky bleeding plum and apricot. The air tasted of distant woodsmoke and wet, decaying leaves, sharp and melancholic. Out here, where the paved road gave way to churned earth, every sound became magnified: the rustle of dry weeds against the tires, the faint, persistent thrum of a generator from somewhere on Owen's property, and the unnerving, too-close caw of a crow. He felt less like a returning friend and more like an accidental witness to a quiet, ongoing excavation.
Unforeseen Frost
By Jamie F. Bell
The world was a watercolour of grey and white, the air sharp enough to ache in the lungs. Dylan pushed through snowdrifts that swallowed his worn boots whole, the silence of the Canadian backcountry pressing in, broken only by the rasp of his own breathing and the soft crunch of hard-packed snow. A single, thin plume of smoke, barely visible against the low sky, twisted upwards from where no smoke ought to be, an unnatural flag in the vast, unforgiving expanse.
A Chill in the Timberline
By Jamie F. Bell
The wind howled a hollow, endless note, scrubbing the low hills of their remaining colour. A bitter, deep freeze had gripped the valley, turning the world into a study in whites and greys. Snow, fine as flour, coated everything in a thick, uncompromising blanket, piling high against the skeletal timber of spruce trees that clung desperately to the ridge lines. The air itself seemed to splinter on each breath, sharp and metallic, carrying the distant, indistinguishable scent of burning pine and something else, something acrid and old. Smoke, perhaps, from a fire long extinguished but never truly forgotten by the land.
The Alkali Stain
By Jamie F. Bell
The sun beat down on the parched earth, a relentless, blinding glare that promised nothing but more heat. Dust, fine as flour, coated everything – the weathered wood of the fence posts, the wilting sagebrush, the worn leather of Benji's boots. The air shimmered, distorting the already vast, empty landscape, making the distant hills ripple like water. A silence, heavy and ancient, pressed in from all sides, broken only by the buzz of insects and the distant, dry creak of the wind pump. It was the kind of quiet that felt less like peace and more like a held breath.
Breathing Against Glass
By Jamie F. Bell
The squeal of boot soles on polished concrete echoes in the enclosed skywalk, a frantic percussion against the muffled roar of traffic below. Outside the curved glass, the city is a blur of grey slush and brake lights, but inside, the air is warm and smells of chlorinated water from the hotel pool two floors down and the faint, sweet perfume of a kiosk selling bath bombs.
Copper and Kindling
By Jamie F. Bell
The sun, a persistent, brassy eye, beat down on the warped asphalt. Everything shimmered, a mirage of heat and dust that made the abandoned highway a ribbon of mercury. Overgrown kudzu and tenacious summer weeds clawed at the skeletal remains of what was once a small-town diner, its 'OPEN' sign hanging askew, a faded promise swallowed by silence. The air hummed with cicadas and the distant, almost musical whine of something mechanical, a sound that always felt wrong out here.
A Canvas of Cold Intrigue
By Jamie F. Bell
The wind howled a forgotten tune against the frost-patterned window of Rory's tiny studio apartment, a thin, persistent whistle that cut through the silence. Inside, the only other sound was the wheeze of the ancient refrigerator and the faint, rhythmic tap of Rory's finger against his worn wooden desk. A single bare bulb, its filament a tired orange, cast long, wavering shadows across the half-finished canvases, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the frigid air. The scent of turpentine and old coffee clung to everything, a familiar comfort against the biting winter outside.
The Hum of the Great Divide
By Jamie F. Bell
The big coach bus churned through the fading light, a low, mechanical hum vibrating through the floorboards and up into James's bones. Outside, the last vestiges of late autumn in Minnesota bled into the pale, bruised purple of an early evening sky. Fields stretched to a hazy horizon, flat and featureless, occasionally punctuated by skeletal trees or the lonely glow of a distant farmhouse.
Mud-Season Blues and Unfettered Roots
By Jamie F. Bell
The spring thaw had turned the back roads into a viscous, tyre-sucking mess, a testament to nature's indifferent power. Mud, thick and clinging like a bad memory, churned underfoot, painting everything a dull, earthy brown. The air, crisp and damp, carried the faint, metallic tang of exposed soil and the promise of new, relentless growth. It was a season of half-promises and lingering cold, a grey-sky canvas for the mundane struggles of a young man caught between expectation and the unsettling pull of the unknown.
The Unfastened Hours
By Jamie F. Bell
The Winnipeg summer dawn bled a pale, insipid blue through the gap in the curtains, a colour Fred despised. It was the precise shade of disappointment, a thin, weak wash over the lingering vibrancy of the night just vanished. His bed sheets, damp with sweat from the oppressive heat, felt like a shroud, clinging to him, anchoring him to a world he desperately wished to escape, a world that offered none of the profound, gentle solace of his dream.
The Crimson Exhale
By Jamie F. Bell
The air, sharp with the bite of a prairie winter, usually carried the scent of woodsmoke and ice. Tonight, it tasted metallic, like copper and distant ozone. A peculiar amber glow, not quite natural for a January evening, pulsed against the grey-blue canvas of the sky. It felt wrong, like watching a movie frame-by-frame, each breath of the wind a stutter in the world's rhythm.
A Winter Unveiling in the Exchange
By Jamie F. Bell
The mid-afternoon sun, a pale, watery orb behind the low-slung clouds, did little to thaw the city's brittle edges. Below, the sidewalks of Winnipeg's Exchange District were slick with compacted snow, reflecting the diffused light in a myriad of grey-white gleams. James Davies, chin tucked into the collar of his heavy wool coat, navigated the indifferent crush of pedestrians, a briefcase clamped under his arm like a vital organ. The city hummed around him, a low, constant vibration that seemed to emanate from the very frozen earth, carrying with it the scent of exhaust fumes and the promise of more snowfall. He was late, or rather, precisely on time, which, in his world, felt indistinguishable from late.
The Grind and the Grit
By Jamie F. Bell
Beneath a sky bruised with the promise of more spring rain, August wrestled with the rusted heart of a tractor that had seen better decades. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of old oil and the earthy scent of churned-up mud, a testament to a spring thaw that refused to settle. Every grunt, every strained muscle, was a prayer for the machine to cough to life, to let him move past this one, immediate, greasy problem.
The Grin of the Prairie
By Jamie F. Bell
The prairie shimmered under a brutal, indifferent sun, the kind of summer heat that warped distant horizons and pressed down on your skull like a lead plate. Dust devils danced on the horizon, ghosts of old misfortunes, as Flynn's beat-up pickup groaned its final metres into the sleepy, wilting town. Everything looked older, rustier, and inexplicably smaller than the last time he’d seen it.
Brushstrokes of Discord
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in the city gallery's workshop hums with the low thrum of the building's ventilation and the fainter, more immediate scent of turpentine and damp clay. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a slightly clinical glow on a dozen easels and a smattering of half-finished projects. Jace, leaning into a canvas with a reckless sweep of his brush, feels the usual tightness in his chest beginning to ease, even as a new, unfamiliar tension starts to prickle at the edges of his focus.
The Crystalline Path
By Jamie F. Bell
The wind howled a relentless, cutting song through the jagged peaks, whipping ice crystals into Tobin's face. Below, the chasm yawned, a black maw swallowed by the swirling blizzard. He gritted his teeth, the thin metal of his harness biting into his ribs, the sheer scale of the rock face above mocking their ascent. Every breath burned, a cold fire in his lungs, as the aged grappling line groaned under the dual strain of their bodies and the unyielding grip of winter.
The Weight of a Single Glass Seed
By Jamie F. Bell
The aroma of cedar smoke, damp earth, and linseed oil clung to the air in Simon’s small, cluttered workshop. Outside, the last stubborn maple leaves clung to branches, a defiant blaze against the greying November sky. Inside, dust motes, caught in the low autumn sun filtering through the single, grimy window, danced above a workbench littered with polished wood, gleaming glass shards, and half-finished carvings. A thermos of cooling tea sat beside a collection of intricate tools, some ancient, some modern, all bearing the subtle sheen of constant use. The rhythmic rasp of a file on wood, punctuated by occasional, sharp clinks of glass, filled the air.
Rust and Signal Flares
By Jamie F. Bell
The security guard's flashlight beam cuts a clean, white line through the dusty air of the train car, impossibly bright in the deepening twilight. It slides over faded upholstery and broken glass, missing the two figures crouched behind a stack of rotting crates by inches. Every crunch of gravel outside is amplified, every distant city sound muted by the frantic pounding in their chests. They are rivals, enemies by postcode, but in here, they are just two boys holding their breath.
The Salt Stings Both Ways
By Jamie F. Bell
The generator's cough was the first sign. Now, rain lashes against the lantern room glass, each drop a tiny fist against the thick panes. Inside, the immense Fresnel lens hangs motionless, its light extinguished, plunging the tower and the churning sea below into an unnatural, terrifying darkness. The only sounds are the wind's howl and the frantic, shallow breaths of two boys who were never meant to be in charge.
The Long Drift North
By Jamie F. Bell
The long, tired highway stretched itself thin across the autumn plains, a frayed thread leading back to a town Casey had tried to forget. The air, already sharp with the scent of damp earth and coming frost, seemed to carry the weight of old choices, pressing in on the quiet hum of his worn-out truck. Every mile brought the past closer, a past tangled with the one person he both longed for and dreaded to see.
The Gnome Queen of Ocean Parkway
By Leaf Richards
The plan was simple: meet Ben on the platform, look him soulfully in the eyes, and deliver the speech Frederick had been rehearsing in his bedroom mirror all morning. It was a good speech. It had pathos (‘I feel like we’re drifting’), a clear objective (‘I need to know you’re as serious about this as I am’), and even a little flourish of vulnerability. He’d practiced it so much the words felt smooth and polished in his mind, a perfect tool for the delicate emotional surgery he was about to perform.
A Resonance in Scratched Vinyl
By Jamie F. Bell
The attic of Pete's house was a kingdom of forgotten things, hazy with heat and the sweet, cloying smell of old paper. Sunlight streamed through a single grimy window, cutting a thick, golden bar through the air that illuminated a swirling galaxy of dust. It was their shared sanctuary, a place of retreat since they were kids, and today, their mission was to sort through the vinyl.
A Trellis for the Unruly Vine
By Jamie F. Bell
The community centre's workshop smelled of sawdust, old paint, and the faint, lingering odour of decades of bingo nights. It was a cavern of organized chaos, filled with half-finished projects for the upcoming BayFest. In the centre of it all, looking like a skeletal whale beached on a sea of drop cloths, was the frame of the Historical Society's float.
And the Tide, Its Long Retreat
By Jamie F. Bell
The sky over Manhattan Beach was the colour of a faded bruise, a watercolour wash of grey and purple that promised a storm later but for now just held a heavy sadness. The air, usually thick with the joyous shrieks of beachgoers, was thin and sharp with the first real hint of autumn. Summer was packing its bags, and every gust of wind felt like a door clicking shut.
A Geometry of Folded Napkins
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in the kitchen of 'Gino's Slice of Heaven' was a tangible thing—a mix of garlic, scorching cheese, yeast, and the metallic sweat of teenage boys working too hard for too little. The ticket printer chattered relentlessly, a mechanical insect spitting out orders. It was Friday, it was August, and the entire neighbourhood seemed to want pizza at the exact same moment.
The Stung Hinge of August
By Jamie F. Bell
The afternoon sun beat down on the planks of the pier, making the air thick with the smell of creosote, bait, and the distant promise of frying food. Below, the water of the bay was a murky, restless green, slapping against the pilings with a rhythm that matched the anxious thump in Leo's chest. He wasn't catching anything, but that was hardly the point.
Ash and Embers
By Jamie Bell
The night had swallowed the last blush of sunset hours ago, leaving the forest a study in deep charcoal and sharper shadows. A small campfire, built precariously close to the edge of an old logging road, fought against the chill, its orange glow painting the faces of two figures in fleeting, dancing colours. The air, crisp and tasting of woodsmoke and damp earth, pressed in, a silent witness to the quiet unraveling and tentative re-knitting of teenage hearts.
The Icy Breach on Cephestus-7
By Leaf Richards
The low hum of Frostfall Ridge Station had become a high-pitched whine, a frantic, losing battle against the encroaching cold. Lights flickered with a weary reluctance, casting long, dancing shadows across the cramped corridors, making the already strained faces of the crew appear gaunt and spectral. Outside, the blizzard was a living, snarling beast, a ceaseless roar against the thin durasteel hull, threatening to tear the very foundations of their precarious existence from the frozen rock of Cephestus-7.
A Grating Calculus
By Jamie F. Bell
The asphalt, a dark, bruised ribbon, buckled under the relentless summer sun. Heat waves danced above its surface, distorting the already distant horizon into a liquid smear of ochre and dull green. A lone, aging sedan sat on the shoulder, its front driver-side wheel a deflated mockery of mobility, a flat, sad grin against the backdrop of a vast, indifferent sky. The air, thick with the scent of baked earth and exhaust residue, seemed to press down, stifling any impulse for swift action.
A Liturgy for Small Corrosions
By Jamie F. Bell
The Tuesday morning air in the kitchen was thick with the smell of damp tea towels and Finn's burnt toast. Rain slicked the windowpane, blurring the grey stone of the tenement across the lane. Liam, needing coffee with a desperation that felt primal, found his path to the kettle blocked by his flatmate, who was standing guard over the cutlery drawer with the solemnity of a tomb sentinel.
Salt and Severance
By Jamie F. Bell
The Brighton Beach sun, a brutalist lamp, hammered down on the concrete and the stretched-out bodies, bleaching the colour from everything but the ocean's bruised cerulean. The air tasted of fried dough and salt spray, thick with the distant, metallic clangour of the Cyclone's ascent. Two figures, barely more than boys, sat too close for strangers on the packed sand, their world shrinking to the space between them.
Currents and Contact
By Jamie F. Bell
The ocean was a shifting, indifferent blue, stretching out under a relentless summer sun. Sand, warm and gritty, burrowed between toes still numb from the cold shock of the initial plunge. The air tasted of salt and distant sunscreen, a typical beach day, unremarkable until a flicker of movement caught the eye, pulling at something deep beneath the surface calm.
Direction Measured in Poplar Bark
By Jamie F. Bell
The compass was a joke. Noah knew it before they even left the trailhead. The cheap plastic housing and the bubbly, sluggish needle felt wrong in his palm. But Mr. Davies, the gym-teacher-turned-outdoorsman for the week, had clapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Same model the army uses, son!' which Noah knew for a fact was a lie. Now, with the autumn sun bleeding out behind the dense wall of spruce and birch, the cheap plastic felt like a death sentence.
The Tarmac Shimmer
By Jamie F. Bell
The coffee cup rattled in its saucer as a heavy body slammed into the side of their booth. James flinched, sloshing the black, bitter liquid onto the formica tabletop. Two truckers, beefy men with anger-contorted faces, were shouting, their voices a raw counterpoint to the bland pop music leaking from the diner's speakers. One shoved the other, a clumsy, powerful movement that sent a rack of blueberry muffins scattering across the worn linoleum floor. This was not the quiet, anonymous stop he had been hoping for.
The Summer's Respite
By Leaf Richards
The oppressive weight of a Central Alberta summer bore down on the endless fields, the air thick with the smell of dry grass and the distant, metallic tang of the oil rigs dotting the horizon. A cloud of fine, ochre dust hung in the still air, kicked up by nothing more than a faint breeze that offered no cooling relief. Under the unforgiving glare, two figures wrestled with a silent, imposing machine, their grunts and the clink of metal the only sounds against the vast, indifferent landscape.
A Gust of White Laughter
By Leaf Richards
The wind howled a raw, untamed symphony across the frozen landscape, tearing at the edges of everything, clawing at the flimsy barrier of the snowmobile's windshield. Snow, whipped into a frenzy of crystalline daggers, blurred the already fading light, painting the world in shades of blinding white and grey. Below the roar of the engine, the world felt like a suffocating, churning void, testing every sinew, every resolve.
The First Unfurling
By Leaf Richards
The morning light, still thin and cool despite the late spring, spilled over the rolling acreage of the ranch. Dust motes, caught in the weak beams through the barn's open wide doors, danced a slow, indifferent ballet. The air carried the crisp scent of damp earth, hay, and the distant, metallic tang of rainfall from the night before, a promise of new growth struggling against the stubborn remnants of a long, cold winter.
Burnt Sugar and Cold Coffee
By Jamie F. Bell
Julian, a cynical university freshman, has his orientation day literally ruined when another student, August, clumsily spills a tray of pasta bake all over him in the humid, institutional cafeteria. The ensuing awkward interaction sets the stage for an unexpected connection.
The First Spill
By Jamie F. Bell
Caleb, a nervous first-year university student, accidentally spills a tray of chili all over Jimmy, a composed and theatrically-spoken second-year, during their first week in the bustling campus cafeteria.
A Gust of Sulphur and Sky
By Leaf Richards
The valley floor, usually a patchwork of parched earth and stubborn sage, had turned into a treacherous mire. Recent spring rains had carved new gullies, swollen the seasonal creeks, and left the track leading to the north pasture a ribbon of thick, clinging clay. The air tasted of damp soil and the distant, metallic tang of a spring storm still brewing over the ragged peaks. The quad bike, an ancient, rust-pocked beast, was mired halfway to its axles, its engine long since choked into silence, its metallic shell reflecting the bruised violet of the overhead clouds.
A Chill in the Air, A Hollow in the Chest
By Jamie F. Bell
The air carried the sharp, metallic tang of coming rain and the faint, sweet decay of fallen leaves. It clung to Laurie's coat, a familiar chill that felt less like weather and more like a permanent resident in his bones. The old railway bridge, a skeletal arch of pitted iron and faded green paint, loomed over the ravine, the wind whistling a low, mournful tune through its corroded beams. It had been their place, once. A place where the world felt limitless, perched high above the sluggish river, a ribbon of dull grey twisting through the early autumn landscape.
A Cold Afternoon at the Stop
By Jamie F. Bell
The air bit, sharp and unforgiving, painting the exposed skin with an ache that seeped into the bones. The bus shelter offered little reprieve from the biting wind that whipped down the city street, carrying with it the scent of wet asphalt and distant woodsmoke. Daniel huddled deeper into his jacket, trying to coax some warmth from the fabric, his gaze fixed on the empty stretch of road where the number seventeen bus was perpetually late. Winter had settled in, grim and grey, and with it, a pervasive quiet, broken only by the rumble of passing cars and the occasional, lonely siren.
A Nickel for the Ferryman
By Leaf Richards
Waiting for his boyfriend on a sweltering summer afternoon, Jamie's anxieties about their future are interrupted by a woman whose worldly possessions rattle in a wire cart, and who seems to know more about him than she should.
Collisions and Catalogues
By Jamie F. Bell
The smell of stale coffee and damp wool clung to the air in Billie's small, perpetually untidy living room. Grey light filtered through the grimy windowpane, illuminating dust motes dancing in the quiet space. Jamie sat on the worn sofa, a faded denim jacket slung over one arm, while Billie was sprawled across a beanbag chair, flicking through a dog-eared catalogue with a critical eye, a half-eaten biscuit forgotten on the floor beside him.