The Heat in the Concrete
By Jamie F. Bell
A freezing alleyway in downtown Winnipeg where a supernatural plant provides warmth.
Surreal / Absurdist Short Stories
13 Stories
Petty Geysers of Grief
By Jamie F. Bell
The protagonist is trapped in a public park during late autumn. The park is actively undergoing surreal distortions due to the manifestation of a cosmic, petty argument between two archetypal entities. The ground breathes, leaves float upwards, and objects liquify or twist. The protagonist is forced to mediate this bizarre conflict to escape.
The Glass and Glitter Vortex
By Leaf Richards
The wind howled a perpetual, mournful dirge outside, a sound as omnipresent as the ever-present snow that seemed to be actively trying to consume the dilapidated community centre. Inside, the chill clung to everything, a damp, insidious cloak that seeped into Deven’s bones even through his thick parka and woollen beanie. He shuffled deeper into the hushed, cavernous space that was once the town’s pride, now a mausoleum of forgotten delights, searching not for warmth, but for a particular kind of cold comfort, a hollow echo of a time that felt impossibly distant.
The Perpetual Discontent
By Eva Suluk
A persistent, soft drizzle patterned the vast, grimy window of the Department of Harmonious Transitions, blurring the nascent greens of late spring into a watery abstract. Inside, the air hummed with the dry, recycled scent of paper and stale ambition, punctuated by the mechanical clack of distant keypads. Dust motes, in defiance of all diligent cleaning protocols, danced in the anemic glow of the fluorescent tubes, illuminating nothing particularly vital.
The Absurd Reclamation of Concrete Dreams
By Eva Suluk
The air, crisp and biting, carried the scent of wet leaves and the distant, metallic tang of a bus idling too long. It was one of those Winnipeg autumn days where the sky hung like a bruised plum, promising nothing but more grey. Streets, usually bustling, felt hollowed out, punctuated now by the insidious, low thrum emanating from the city's newest, most baffling installation: the 'Optimism Orbs.' These iridescent, basketball-sized spheres pulsed a sickly violet, hovering just above eye-level at various intersections, supposedly to uplift spirits. They mostly just gave people headaches.
The River's Undoing
By Jamie F. Bell
The air hung heavy and still, thick with the smell of river silt and the faintest, almost imperceptible metallic tang. Early afternoon sunlight, filtered through a haze of summer humidity, bleached the usually vibrant green of the grass to a pale, tired yellow. Along the Red River's edge, the water moved with a sluggish, oily sheen, reflecting nothing but the muted, oppressive sky. A lone, persistent cicada scraped its song into the silence, a brittle, incessant sound that seemed to hum in the very bones of the city, a prelude to something unknown and deeply unsettling.
Canvas and Steel
By Jamie F. Bell
The city bleeds into a frigid, grey winter morning, the omnipresent chill and the silent threat of Enforcer patrols shaping every step. A courier, Alex, attempts to blend into the urban grime, his latest package a silent, heavy burden.
Snow and Surveillance
By Jamie F. Bell
Winter clung to the city like a shroud woven from ice and despair, each gust of wind a mournful cry through the skeletal branches. The omnipresent hum of the surveillance drones, a low, metallic thrumming, vibrated in the bones, a constant reminder of eyes unseen, but always there. Grey skies pressed down, mirroring the spirits of those who shuffled along the gritted pathways, heads bowed against the biting cold and the unseen weight of the Directorate's gaze.
The Grey Silence
By Jamie F. Bell
Linda navigates the desolate, surveillance-choked alleys of a frozen city, her senses heightened by the constant threat of discovery, before meeting with an old contact who gives her a perilous new directive.
Cobalt Scars
By Jamie F. Bell
The air itself felt like a physical blow, a raw, cutting thing that scraped against the exposed skin of Trevor's face. Snow, hard-packed and unforgiving, crunched under his boots with a sound that seemed too loud in the pre-dawn quiet, a quiet perpetually on edge. Above, the city's skeletal architecture, once symbols of commerce and aspiration, now stood as monuments to the regime, their sharp edges silhouetted against a bruised sky that promised no sun, only more grey. Every exhale was a cloud, a fleeting ghost of warmth immediately stolen by the relentless winter.
The Glacial Hand of Directive 7
By Jamie F. Bell
The wind, a razor-thin blade off Lake Huron, cut through Julie's scavenged parka. Each gust kicked up miniature blizzards from the packed snow, stinging her exposed cheeks until they felt like raw meat. The city's silhouette, usually a comforting cluster of lights even in its current state, was a suffocating mass tonight, punctuated only by the piercing white beams of the Sector Towers and the occasional sweep of a surveillance drone's searchlight. Streetlights, rationed and flickering, barely pushed back the encroaching indigo gloom that swallowed the cobbled lanes of what used to be the Distillery District. Now, it was just District Seven, a designated zone for 'permitted enterprise' – mostly government-sanctioned fabrication workshops and and a few heavily monitored communal kitchens. The air tasted of burnt oil and frozen exhaust, a constant reminder of the regime’s efficiency and the cold, unyielding grip it held on every breath.
Ephemeral Patterns on the Pane
By Jamie F. Bell
Arthur, a habitual observer, settles into his favourite café booth, allowing the muted chaos of The Cornerstone to wash over him as he watches a young couple grapple with unspoken tensions.
The Improbable Departure of the Rusty Valiant
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in Benji's study hung thick and still, scented with old paper and lemon polish. A lone sunbeam, impossibly precise, cut through the gloom, illuminating a million motes of dust that spun like miniature galaxies. The only sound was the languid hum of a forgotten refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant, almost musical chirping of cicadas, a relentless, shimmering backdrop to a particularly uninspired Tuesday afternoon.