Scrap Value
By Jamie F. Bell
A cluttered, uninsulated mechanic's garage converted into an art studio during a severe cold snap in 2025.
Gritty Realism Short Stories
25 Stories
The Winter Broadcast
By Eva Suluk
The control room, usually a chaotic hub of activity, felt eerily still, its silence broken only by the distant hum of ancient equipment and the nervous cough of someone down the hall. Winter had settled deep into Northwood, pressing against the worn brick of the community television station, and an even colder dread had settled into the hearts of its small crew. This room, once a canvas for youthful ambition, now felt like a tomb, waiting for its final broadcast.
A Future Broadcast
By Leaf Richards
The smell of stale coffee and damp plaster clung to the air in the narrow corridor leading to Studio B. Outside, a tentative Spring sun wrestled with grey clouds, painting the puddles in the cracked car park with a watery, fleeting gold. Inside, the hum of ancient electronics was a constant companion, a low thrum against the backdrop of Briar's racing thoughts. This meeting, she knew, felt less like a discussion and more like an impending confrontation, a battle for the soul of the station, fought over a chipped laminate table.
The Memo
By Eva Suluk
The control room hummed, a low, persistent thrum against the backdrop of an impossibly bright spring day outside. Dust motes danced in the anemic shafts of light that pierced the gloom, illuminating a space crammed with ancient technology and the stale odour of lukewarm coffee. This was not the glamorous world of broadcast media, but the gritty, overlooked reality of community television, a place where dreams went to slowly pixelate and fade. Maggie, barely past her twentieth year, found herself tethered to a swivel chair, her gaze fixed on a screen that had just delivered an unwelcome jolt to the fragile ecosystem of their humble operations.
A Fading Signal
By Leaf Richards
The air in the small office hummed with the strained silence that followed a shouted exchange. Dust motes, disturbed by the sudden movements, danced in the weak, autumn light that struggled through the smudged windowpane. Outside, the last stubborn leaves of the maple tree across the street clung to their branches, a defiant splash of ochre against a bruised sky. Inside, the battle for 'Local Lens' was far from over, each person in the room stiff with a mixture of anger, frustration, and a profound, quiet exhaustion.
A Bloom in the Grey
By Art Borups Corners
The morning air, thick with the damp scent of thawing earth and distant exhaust fumes, clung to the skeletal branches of the city park's elder trees. Patches of tenacious snow, grey at the edges, still stubbornly held on in the shadows beneath crumbling stone benches. But amidst the lingering chill, something impossible was pushing through the grime, a splash of colour too bold for the season, too perfect for this neglected urban corner. Cassy, gloved hands already coated in fine soil, felt a familiar pull of curiosity, a rare warmth stirring in her chest against the crisp morning.
Horizon's Soft Blur
By Eva Suluk
On the storm-threatened North Sea, Captain Evans stands on the bridge for the last time, reflecting on forty years dedicated to the unforgiving ocean as he prepares to step ashore into an uncertain retirement.
A Garden of Tarnished Silver
By Tony Eetak
The first weak breath of spring carried little promise, only the smell of damp earth and the lingering chill of winter's forgotten touch. Phillippe, a boy on the precarious cusp of twelve, watched the world unfold through the smeared pane of his bedroom window. Below, the garden belonging to Mrs. Morden, usually a bastion of meticulous order even in its dormant state, was now home to a curious, almost desperate struggle, played out under a sky the colour of unwashed tin.
The Threadbare Clue
By Eva Suluk
The alley, a damp vein in the city's tired heart, exhaled the scent of mouldering leaves and stale refuse. A thin, anemic light from a distant lamp struggled against the encroaching autumn gloom, painting the slick cobblestones in shades of bruised indigo and murky ochre. It was a place of forgotten things, a narrow passage between brick walls that wore their age like scarred skin, each crack and crevice holding the city's untold secrets.
The Chill Mark
By Eva Suluk
The alley breathed out a damp, biting chill, a forgotten channel between brick facades that had long ago surrendered their colour to grime and exhaust. Patches of old snow, hardened to a greyish ice, clung to the corners, reflecting the weak, exhausted light that bled from the indifferent winter sky. A faint, almost imperceptible hum of distant city traffic underscored the pervasive silence, broken only by the drip of a slowly thawing icicle from a faulty gutter. It was a place designed to be ignored, to be passed over, its secrets buried under layers of urban decay.
The Rusting Melody
By Leaf Richards
The alley breathed cold, damp air, a narrow cut between two hulking brick buildings that had seen better centuries. It was early autumn, the kind that smelled of wet asphalt and decomposing leaves, clinging to the dampness in the air. A bruised light, grey and thin, bled from the sky above, barely reaching the grimy cobbles below where rainwater pooled in oily slicks. Graffiti, faded and layered, ghosted the brick, like old wounds refusing to heal. The distant murmur of city traffic was a constant, low thrum, a heartbeat against the stillness of this forgotten corridor. A single, broken streetlight, its glass shattered, looked down like a blind eye, promising darkness before the night truly fell.
A Reckoning
By Jamie F. Bell
The pre-dawn chill of a Winnipeg spring bites at the air, carrying the damp scent of thawing earth and distant river. Two figures move through a neglected urban landscape, the city's underbelly waking to the rhythmic rumble of passing vehicles, each shadow holding a silent promise or a hidden threat.
The Asphalt Debt
By Jamie F. Bell
The outdoor basketball court, baking under the relentless Winnipeg summer sun, is a crucible of desperation. Sweat drips, sneakers squeak against faded asphalt, and every breath is a ragged gasp. The air crackles with the raw tension of a game teetering on the edge, the distant drone of city traffic a forgotten backdrop to the unfolding drama.
The Glacial Hand-Off
By Jamie F. Bell
The Red River, a black, sluggish ribbon through the heart of winter-gripped Winnipeg, hummed with a deceptive calm. Icy wind scoured the banks, tearing at loose snow and rattling the skeleton branches of the elm trees. Under the pale, indifferent streetlights, the world felt stripped bare, a stark stage for transactions made in hushed tones and hurried glances.
The Scrawl Beneath the Brick
By Jamie Bell
The spring air carried the smell of damp earth and exhaust fumes, a familiar Winnipeg blend. Lennie moved through it, shoulders hunched, the city's grey sprawl a constant, dull hum against his thoughts. Puddles still clung stubbornly to cracked pavement, remnants of a winter that refused to fully recede, mirroring the lingering chill in his own bones.
The Glass Shiver
By Jamie F. Bell
The city held its breath, a vast, frozen beast exhaling plumes of exhaust and woodsmoke. Winter had clenched Winnipeg in its iron fist, and the air itself seemed to crackle, thin and sharp, carrying the distant wail of a siren like a prophecy. Streetlights cast sickly yellow pools onto packed snow, and every shadow stretched long, distorted, like a silent scream against the canvas of the long night.
The Stutter of Brick Dust
By Leaf Richards
The alley reeked of stale beer, damp cardboard, and the metallic tang that often clung to the forgotten spaces of the city. A cold spring drizzle had just eased, leaving every brick face weeping, every grimy puddle shivering under the dull glow of a distant streetlamp. Mike hunched, his breath puffing visible in the chill, as Patricia meticulously traced a finger along the uneven edge of a loose grate. This wasn't a game; the air was thick with something far heavier than just the damp.
Verdigris & Vexation
By Eva Suluk
The air, heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and blooming but unseen privet, hung thick over the alley. Puddles mirrored the smeared, anxious lights of the city, and the chill of an early spring evening clung to everything. This was the kind of place where secrets condensed, weighty and unwelcome, from the exhaust fumes and general detritus of urban life. Two figures, hunched against the persistent drizzle, scrutinised a recent, violent addition to the grime.
A Confluence of Fading Light
By Jamie F. Bell
The air, thick and unmoving, still held the day's oppressive heat, even as the sky deepened to a bruised plum-purple where the sun had just sunk below the city line. A lingering orange stain smudged the horizon, a badly wiped brushstroke. Cassian dragged a boot through the gravel path, the sound a soft, gritty rasp that felt too loud in the sudden quiet of the park. It was too hot for late August, the kind of heavy, still heat that clung to your skin, making your shirt feel like a second, damp skin, even after the light had gone. The air smelled of cut grass, recently mown but now starting to ferment, and something else – decay, maybe, or just the dampness rising from the river that wound its lazy, indifferent way through the park's shadowed heart.
The Iron Gutter's Hum
By Jamie F. Bell
The city exhaled a damp, oily breath into the narrow gap between brick and concrete, where the last of the day's bruised light wrestled with the insistent glare of a distant, broken neon sign. Rain had just stopped, leaving a slick sheen on the pavement, reflecting the sickly orange glow of sodium lamps. A chill, damp wind snaked through, carrying the sharp scent of wet refuse and the low, mechanical thrum of the metropolis.
A Column Inch of Silence
By Jamie F. Bell
The newspaper's archive—the morgue, as the old-timers called it—resided in the sub-basement, a place of profound stillness and the dry, papery smell of history. Rows of looming metal shelves stretched into a dusty gloom, packed tight with yellowing clippings and bound volumes of broadsheets. The only sound was the low hum of a dehumidifier, a mechanical ghost endlessly sighing against the decay of time. Here, amidst the recorded lives and catalogued deaths, Kenny felt at home.
The Four AM Transit Schedule
By Jamie F. Bell
The four a.m. bus sighed and hissed its way through deserted streets, a lonely vessel navigating a sea of sleeping concrete. The city outside the smeared windows was a silent film of sodium-orange light and deep shadow. Inside, the greenish fluorescent tubes hummed a weary tune, illuminating the scuffed floor and rows of empty, cracked vinyl seats. Shiro watched this empty world through the vast windscreen, his hands steady on the wheel, the rhythmic thump-thump of the bus crossing expansion joints a hypnotic, comforting mantra.
Porcelain Animals and Cold Iron
By Jamie F. Bell
The rain wasn't dramatic enough for a movie. It was a miserable, persistent drizzle that beaded on the rusted fire escape and made the whole industrial district smell of wet metal and ozone. Below, the streetlights painted slick, shimmering colours on the tarmac, a watercolour of urban loneliness. From his perch three stories up, Kenny Kent watched the warehouse, the condensation from his breath fogging the binoculars he'd bought from a pawn shop yesterday.
The Rust of Applause
By Jamie F. Bell
The alley behind 'The Velvet Coffin' smelt of stale beer and desperation, a perfume Shiro had become intimately familiar with. Rainwater, iridescent with leaked coolant from the wheezing air-conditioner unit above, collected in the cracked asphalt. Each drop was a tiny explosion in the oppressive quiet between bass thumps bleeding through the fire door. He leaned against the brickwork, the rough texture a familiar anchor, and watched his breath plume in the damp air, a ghost of a ghost.
The Brittle Spine of an Old Paperback
By Eva Suluk
The bookshop smelt of decaying paper, leather polish, and Earl Grey tea. It was a scent Nana had cultivated over twenty years, a barricade of comforting aromas against the city's exhaust-fume reality. Sunlight, thick with floating dust, slanted through the tall front window, illuminating precarious towers of books that leaned against every available surface. In the quiet, the only sounds were the gentle creak of floorboards and the soft rustle of a page being turned.