Colloquial / Conversational Stories

The Great White Blank and Frozen Pipes

By Eva Suluk

The Borealis Hub was a frigid tomb, the silence broken only by the wheeze of the wind against ill-fitting windowpanes and the desperate, metallic coughs of a dying generator. Snow piled against the grimy exterior, sealing us in a pocket of profound, icy inconvenience. Every breath misted, every surface radiated a deep, unyielding cold that promised to turn any exposed limb into a brittle, useless thing. It was a perfect setting for an art exhibition, if your chosen medium was frostbite.

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Unfurling Bark

By Eva Suluk

Late autumn had stripped the park down to its skeletal truth. The air carried the damp, earthy scent of decaying leaves and the distant, metallic tang of city traffic. Bare branches scraped a grey sky, and a few stubborn sparrows hopped across the damp asphalt path, pecking at forgotten crumbs. A sense of quiet resignation hung heavy, broken only by the crunch of solitary footsteps or the rustle of a forgotten plastic bag caught in a thorny bush.

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A Stain on the Hardcourt

By Jamie Bell

A late spring rain lashed against the large, smudged windows of The Centre Stop, each gust of wind carrying the damp, cold scent of thawing earth and city grit. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed a low, sickly hum, casting long, wavering shadows between the snack aisles. Jessie, barely sixteen, meticulously wiped down the counter, his movements stiff and precise, each swipe of the cloth a deliberate, almost ceremonial act against the grime that seemed to seep from the very city outside. The air, thick with the smell of stale coffee and microwave popcorn, clung to the quiet tension of the evening.

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The Shape of the Exhibit

By Jamie F. Bell

The air in Gallery Three felt too thin, tasting of ozone and wet plaster. Outside, a late January blizzard howled, but within, a different kind of storm raged around what was once 'Iteration 7'. Light, sharp and wrong, pulsed from the centre, carving impossible shadows.

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