Noir Short Stories

Northern Spark, Dusty Corners

By Eva Suluk

Parker pressed his forehead against the cold windowpane of the community hall, leaving a damp smear. Outside, the world was still waking up from winter, hesitant and muddy. Grey puddles shimmered like spilled mercury on the gravel, reflecting the equally grey sky. A lone robin, plump and confused, pecked at a patch of brown grass that stubbornly refused to turn green. It was supposed to be spring, Aunt Donna had declared, but the air still carried a bite, a damp, earthy smell that seeped right into his bones, reminding him of old boots left out in the rain.

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The Algorithm's Embrace

By Tony Eetak

The air in the 'Communal Connection Centre' felt thick, cloying with the manufactured scent of spring blossoms and stale desperation. Fluorescent lights hummed a low, persistent whine above the cubicles, casting an unnatural glow on the pastel walls. Through a gap in the blinds, Harry could see the unnaturally green leaves of a young tree, swaying with an almost mechanical precision against a sky the colour of bruised plums.

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The Frost on the Hacks

By Jamie Bell

The brutal, unforgiving January wind tore through Winnipeg, a relentless, teeth-gnashing beast that seemed to claw at the very foundations of the city. Inside the unnamed convenience store on Pembina Highway, the low, melancholic thrum of the ancient refrigerated display units provided a sparse counterpoint to the city's ceaseless, frigid lament. Devon, his joints protesting with the cold even indoors, nursed a paper cup of lukewarm instant coffee, watching the thin plume of steam ascend and dissipate into the oppressive, yellowed artificial light. His reflection, a smudged and indistinct specter in the condensation-marred window, seemed to shiver under the fluorescent glare, a weary sentinel against the encroaching night.

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Fluorescent Hum and Fading Futures

By Jamie F. Bell

The air in the convenience store was a stale blend of old coffee, synthetic fruit scents from the slushie machine, and the metallic tang of melting snow tracked in from outside. Fluorescent tubes hummed overhead, a sound so constant it had become a new form of silence, casting a sickly, unchanging light on rows of chips and forgotten magazines. Outside, the early spring night pressed against the smudged plate-glass, a murky canvas where streetlights bled into the lingering slush on the pavements.

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A Gaze Across the Salt Flats

By Jamie F. Bell

The air hung heavy with the scent of dried manure and stale tobacco, thick like a shroud over the forgotten lean-to. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light piercing the warped timbers, illuminating the grim set of a young man's jaw as two figures loomed over him, their faces etched with cruel indifference. Outside, the wind scoured the salt flats, a mournful whisper against the vast, indifferent sky.

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