Cyberpunk Short Stories

Three Questions for Oliver

By Jamie F. Bell

The lift shuddered, an old metal beast groaning against its cables, hauling me upwards through the belly of a building that had seen better centuries. Outside, the perpetual autumn drizzle blurred the already distorted reflections of corporate towers against the grime-streaked glass, a watercolour smear of neon and grey. A familiar scent—wet concrete, burning copper, and the faint, sweet tang of decay—clung to the recycled air, a signature of this lower sector. My jacket felt heavier than usual, saturated with the city's damp, its synthetic fibres clinging. This was Oliver's world, far from the polished towers of OmniCorp where my data-slate and moral compromises resided.

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A Frost-Kissed Bargain

By Eva Suluk

The city’s perpetual hum, a low thrum of processors and distant transit, felt oddly muffled under the first unexpected blanket of snow. It wasn't much, just a dusting, but it clung to the skeletal branches of the plaza's few surviving trees and whitened the worn concrete of the benches, making the usual grime feel momentarily pristine. Overhead, the holographic adverts for synth-protein and cyber-enhancements shimmered, casting their garish colours onto the pristine white, creating a kaleidoscope of fleeting, artificial brilliance. The air, thin and sharp, carried the faint, metallic tang of static electricity from the power conduits running beneath the walkways, mingling with the earthy scent of wet soil and cold asphalt.

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The Gilded Ornaments

By Jamie F. Bell

The air in the old stone cottage was a thick, comforting soup of pine needles, burnt sugar, and the faint, underlying scent of woodsmoke. Outside, a soft, insistent drizzle had given way to a nervous flurry of fat, wet flakes, clinging to the bare branches of the oak tree by the porch. Inside, the last of the afternoon light, thin and watery, stretched across the worn Persian rug in the living room, illuminating dust motes dancing in a slow, almost melancholic ballet. Boxes of decorations lay half-unpacked, their glittery contents spilling like forgotten treasure.

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A Glimmer in the Frost

By Jamie F. Bell

The air hung heavy and still, smelling of wet concrete and distant woodsmoke. Snow, fine as icing sugar, dusted the window ledges, blurring the sharp edges of the cityscape. Inside, a single, unlit string of fairy lights lay tangled on the floor, a forgotten promise in a room that felt too vast, too quiet for the season. Marcus traced a finger along the condensation on the pane, the chill seeping into his bone, a feeling he’d become intimately familiar with since the autumn winds began to bite.

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A Simmering Hush

By Jamie F. Bell

A crisp, silent Christmas Eve descends upon a quiet residential street, the lamplit snow muffling the usual hum of the city. Inside a modest ground-floor flat, the air hangs heavy with the scent of spices and an unspoken melancholy, a palpable absence echoing in the warmth of the kitchen.

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Beneath the Tarnished Silver

By Jamie F. Bell

The smell of rising dough and dark roast coffee clung to the air, a stubborn warmth against the chill that seeped under the old oak door of 'The Crust & Crumb'. Outside, the world was a study in hushed white and muted greys, the first proper snowfall of December having settled overnight like a heavy, silent confession. Inside, the ancient floorboards groaned under Lena's weight as she moved, her breath visible in the frigid air that still lingered despite the oven's best efforts. The town's single street lamp, visible through the steamed-up window, cast a jaundiced glow on the pristine blanket of snow, a small beacon in the deepening twilight.

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A Moment's Last Count

By Jamie F. Bell

The quiet hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen was the only sound breaking the late-night stillness. Outside, a biting winter wind rattled the single loose pane in Arthur's study window, a constant, low whistle against the silence. Dust motes, usually invisible, danced in the weak light cast by the desk lamp, a tiny, chaotic ballet Arthur rarely noticed, lost as he was in the endless, mundane task of balancing ledgers that never quite balanced.

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The Cold Breath of Fir and Exhaust Fumes

By Jamie F. Bell

A thin layer of frozen drizzle clung to everything, turning the city into a landscape of treacherous sheen. The air bit with a metallic cold, tasting of petrol and distant pine, as the last vestiges of late afternoon light faded into a bruised purple, promising an even harsher night. Every breath was a small, visible cloud, quickly swallowed by the general gloom.

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