A curated collection of mythological retelling short stories to read.
By Tony Eetak
A struggling artist, deep in a dense, temperamental forest, stumbles upon a clearing revealing an ancient, colossal tree that reignites her creative spirit and instills a powerful sense of environmental stewardship.
By Tony Eetak
The asphalt shimmered under the kind of August sun that baked the very oxygen out of the air, leaving it thin and tasting faintly of exhaust and dry earth. Even the pigeons, usually brash, huddled in the meagre shade of a leaning power pole, their beady eyes half-closed. Selkirk Avenue, usually a cacophony of truck brakes and shouted greetings, felt muted, stifled by the oppressive heat. My shirt, a faded cotton number from a long-forgotten fishing trip, already stuck to my back, a clammy testament to the relentless summer.
By Jamie F. Bell
The humid summer air, thick with the scent of river mud and blossoming prairie grasses, clung to Elaine like a damp wool blanket. Her cotton shirt was already clinging, a testament to the early afternoon's relentless sun beating down on the Red River banks. She pushed a stray wisp of silver hair from her brow, the effort barely registering as she squinted at the tangle of roots ahead. The path, barely more than an animal trail, narrowed drastically, vanishing into a dense thicket just beyond the old rail bridge. Most people turned back here, opting for the paved promenades, but Elaine found herself drawn to the wilder margins, to where the city's manicured edges frayed into something older, less tamed.
By Jamie F. Bell
The air, thick with the saccharine scent of new blossom, hung heavy and humid around the abandoned glasshouses at the edge of the university grounds. Twisted ivy, unnaturally robust, coiled around the crumbling brickwork, its tendrils reaching like grasping fingers. A low, persistent hum, too deep for insects, vibrated through the soles of Liisa’s worn boots, a sound that felt more ancient than the building itself.