The Ravine at Mile Eighty
By Jamie F. Bell
Pinned down in a narrow, snow-choked ravine, two rivals are forced to rely on each other as a posse closes in and a winter storm worsens.
Explore Our Adventure Short Stories
9 Stories
The Moss-Covered Notebook
By Tony Eetak
The air, still holding the damp chill of winter’s retreat, carried the sharp, sweet scent of thawing earth and new growth. Underfoot, the forest floor was a patchwork of sodden leaves and resilient, pushing green, a testament to the quiet power of spring. The trails of the land lab, usually bustling with activity in warmer months, now lay mostly silent, offering only the crunch of boot on gravel and the distant calls of early birds.
A Bitter Chill and Faint Sparks
By Tony Eetak
The wind outside Evelyn's kitchen window howled like a half-strangled banshee, a sound she'd grown accustomed to over six decades in this town. It was the kind of deep, biting winter that seeped into bones and rusted optimism. Tonight, however, something else, a thin, almost imperceptible tremor, seemed to vibrate beneath the usual chill. She'd dismissed it earlier, a trick of the old house settling, but it had returned, a faint hum that spoke of a disturbance, a shift in the quiet, frozen landscape. It was the meeting. That was it.
The Scramble for Stone
By Tony Eetak
The city of Winnipeg still slept, wrapped in the cool, grey embrace of an early spring morning. A faint, almost imperceptible blush of rose coloured the eastern sky, hinting at the sun's reluctant ascent. In a narrow, brick-lined alley, two figures moved with a clandestine grace that belied their years, their breath misting in the crisp air, the air alive with the promise of burgeoning life and a touch of mischief.
A Gust of Ochre and Concrete
By Eva Suluk
The chill of an early October evening had settled over downtown Winnipeg, clinging to the brick and glass of its older buildings. Below, the Red River flowed like chilled iron, reflecting the bruised purple of the twilight sky. On a forgotten rooftop, amidst the rust-pocked vents and gravel, two figures moved with the nervous energy of impending mischief, the air sharp with the scent of damp concrete and fading leaves.
The Golden Gleam on the Great Grey Beast
By Jamie F. Bell
The air hung heavy, a wet blanket of early spring over the city centre. Buildings, grey brick and gleaming glass, sucked at the low clouds, their edges softened by a recent, brief drizzle. Puddles shimmered on the broad pavement, catching the pale, watery sun as it wrestled with the persistent grey. Everything smelled of damp concrete and something new, green, pushing up from planter boxes. A distant tram hummed past, its cables sighing overhead, a metallic whisper in the vast, quiet morning, just before the city truly woke. But for two figures, hunched low by a public art installation, the day had already begun its strange, urgent song.
Between the Scaffolding and the Soul
By Jamie F. Bell
The hospital's liminal hours, just before dawn, held a particular melancholy, a suspension between the exhausted night and the demanding day. It was in these moments that the weight of decisions, both made and deferred, settled heaviest, a quiet hum beneath the sterile glow of fluorescent fixtures and the distant, rhythmic beeps of machines.
A Chill in the Circuit
By Eva Suluk
The wind bit, a raw, indifferent thing that scraped along the frozen glass of the abandoned warehouse district. Snow, dry and fine as icing sugar, skittered across the concrete, finding purchase in the deep cracks of the pavement. Winnipeg in January wasn't just cold; it was a state of being, a constant negotiation with the bite of the air and the treacherous sheen of black ice. Thom pulled his toque lower, the wool scratchy against his forehead, and felt the familiar ache in his fingertips despite the thick, worn gloves. Beside him, Jamey huddled deeper into her oversized parka, the fur trim tickling her chin. Her breath plumed out in ragged bursts, dissolving instantly into the frigid air. The streetlights, sporadic and haloed by the swirling snow, cast long, distorted shadows that danced with the wind-whipped detritus. A discarded Tim Hortons cup tumbled end over end, rattling against a frozen puddle. The silence here was vast, broken only by the howl of the wind and the crunch of their boots on the packed snow. This wasn't the kind of silence that settled; it vibrated with a predatory edge, like something holding its breath.
The Parallax of You
By Jamie F. Bell
The shale crumbled under his boots. For a terrifying second, Pavel was weightless, his arms pinwheeling in the cold, dry air as the ground gave way. He scrabbled for a handhold, his fingers scraping against the rough, layered rock of the hoodoo. Below him, the drop wasn't far, but in the deep, pre-dawn darkness of the badlands, it felt like falling into forever. Then, a hand grabbed the collar of his jacket, yanking him back from the edge with surprising force.
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