A curated collection of dystopian short stories to read.
By Tony Eetak
The air bites, sharp and unyielding, a visceral reminder of the world outside the glowing screens. Along the river's edge, broken ice clinks like distant chimes against grey, slushy banks. A lone figure navigates the treacherous path, her breath pluming white against the stark, skeletal trees of a dystopian winter.
By Leaf Richards
The afternoon light, strained through the smog-tinged summer air, cast long, distorted shadows across the plaza. The air was thick with the faint scent of ozone and the city's ceaseless, electric hum from the overhead transportation arches. Pedestrians moved with a practiced, almost ritualistic efficiency, their faces mostly obscured by regulation-issued hoods against the solar glare, each person a solitary island in a sea of compelled proximity.
By Jamie F. Bell
The question hung in the air, as dry and brittle as the pinned moths in the display case behind him. It wasn't a real question. It was a final seal, a locking of the mechanism before the timer began its silent, inexorable count. Outside, a miserable autumn wind rattled the window frames of the Tamarack Valley Community Museum, carrying the scent of wet, decaying leaves and distant woodsmoke.
By Jamie F. Bell
The autumn air in MetroCentre Park was a manufactured crispness, piped in via carbon scrubbers that hummed faintly beneath the paving stones. Leaves, genetically engineered for optimal colour retention, clung to their branches in perfect gradients of ochre and russet. Drones, no larger than wasps, conducted silent particulate matter scans, their tiny lenses reflecting a sky that was, by official decree, 'optimally azure'. Andrew, his shoulders hunched in a worn, recycled-fibre coat, tracked his official route along the designated 'Mindful Meander' path, the digital chime of his wrist-monitor a constant, low thrum against the manufactured serenity.
By Jamie F. Bell
The aroma of lukewarm coffee hung thick in the air, clashing with the synthetic tang of the 'Optimal Productivity' diffuser. Outside, the perpetual autumn drizzle blurred the city into a wash of grey and ochre, mirroring the dull ache behind my eyes. Another morning had dawned under the glow of the omnipresent Affinity Index, a silent monitor of our worth, perpetually cycling through its digital permutations, always just beyond reach.
By Jamie F. Bell
Within the sterile perfection of a Bio-Dome, the protagonist grapples with the pervasive influence of social algorithms and influencer culture. The artificial spring blossoms around him as he questions the nature of authenticity in a world where everything is scored.
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in the subway station was cool and sterile, smelling faintly of ozone and disinfectant. Every surface, from the polished chrome handrails to the seamless polymer floor, was designed to be clean, efficient, and easily monitored. Tiny red lights blinked from camera domes clustered in the ceiling corners, their lenses sweeping in silent, overlapping arcs. Even the advertisements on the walls were interactive screens, their virtual models turning to follow passersby. Privacy was a historical curiosity, like phone books or gas lamps.
By Jamie F. Bell
The clock on the wall of the Accident & Emergency waiting room had a dead battery. It was stuck at 2:43, which felt appropriate. Time had stopped for me, too. I was suspended in this beige room, under the hum of fluorescent lights that made everyone's skin look grey and sickly. The air smelled of antiseptic and fear.
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in the conservatory was thick and sweet, smelling of damp earth and blooming orchids. It felt like a different planet from the concrete and exhaust of Flatbush Avenue just outside the gates. Sasha took a deep, theatrical breath. "See?" she said, a wide, bright smile on her face. "Clean air. A new start." Her smile was a little too wide, a little too bright. It didn't quite reach her eyes.
By Jamie F. Bell
The apartment was too quiet. Not peaceful quiet, but the dead, airless quiet that follows a slammed door. I woke up with a jolt, the sheet tangled around my legs, the space next to me in the bed cold. It was 3:17 AM. The blue light of a passing sanitation truck swept across the ceiling, and in that brief, sterile illumination, I knew he was gone.
By Jamie F. Bell
The coffee was terrible, brewed hours ago and kept warm on a sputtering hot plate. It tasted of burnt plastic and resignation. I held the flimsy styrofoam cup, the heat turning my knuckles pink, and tried to look like I belonged in the circle of mismatched chairs in the basement of St. Jude's, a place where grace felt like a long shot.
By Jamie F. Bell
The air under the sink was thick with the smell of damp plaster and something metallic, like old pennies. Water, cold and insistent, dripped onto my cheek, tracing a path through the grime I'd already accumulated. It was a slow, rhythmic torture, a tiny water clock counting down to something I didn't have a name for yet.
By Jamie F. Bell
The 'Sea-Witch', a salvage skiff made of rusted barrels and driftwood, bobs on the grey, endless expanse of the Deluge. Tyler leans over the edge, his reflection a wavering ghost in the water, as he hauls up a line from the sunken city below.
By Jamie F. Bell
The dense summer woods, usually alive with the hum of insects and the chatter of unseen birds, falls into an eerie hush. Sunlight, once a warm, dappled presence, now struggles to pierce the thick canopy, casting the forest floor in a deepening, unnatural grey. A subtle but undeniable change in the air, a metallic tang, speaks of something profoundly amiss.
By Jamie F. Bell
Alex, a legal intern, grapples with the oppressive summer heat and the weight of a seemingly minor legal case in a world where kindness has become a dangerous commodity. He and his colleague, Casey, are rushing through the city to present evidence for a client accused of 'Resource Diversion'.