Minus Forty and the Broken Heater
By Jamie F. Bell
On a dangerously cold day in Winnipeg, a young runner navigates the downtown skywalk system to complete a petty illicit transaction, confronting the bleak reality of his choices along the way.
Explore Our Crime Noir Short Stories
9 Stories
The Laptop Screen
By Jamie F. Bell
The air conditioning in the old Exchange District building barely cut through the August humidity. Nathan, perched on a plastic chair in the back row, watched the projector flicker. Another 'innovative methodology' was being unveiled, another attempt to make good on promises the city would inevitably break. He was twenty, almost twenty-one, and already tired.
A Canvas of Ice and Grime
By Jamie F. Bell
The wind, a cutting thing, swept down Portage Avenue, carrying the scent of exhaust and thawing salt. Every lamppost cast a distorted, elongated shadow that danced over the dirty snow. The city hummed, a low, metallic thrum beneath the howl of the January gale, forcing Cassian deeper into the threadbare wool of his coat, his hands shoved into pockets that felt too thin.
A Flicker in the Drift
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in the cramped, repurposed server room hung heavy with the scent of ozone and stale coffee, a thin sheen of dust coating every surface. Outside, the early spring rain hammered against the grimy window, a rhythmic counterpoint to the low, anxious hum of overloaded processors. Fluorescent lights, too bright and too yellow, cast an unforgiving glow on the two figures hunched over a tangle of wires and bespoke hardware, their faces taut with a mixture of grim determination and barely concealed dread.
The Stain of Ochre
By Jamie F. Bell
The old warehouse studio, a cavernous space of exposed brick and high, grimy windows, hums with the uneven thrum of various artistic endeavours. Dust motes dance in the weak autumn light filtering through the panes, illuminating a disorganised landscape of canvases, half-formed sculptures, and forgotten instruments. The air, thick with the scent of turpentine, clay, and damp concrete, offers little warmth against the encroaching chill.
The Scrutiny of Unflinching Light
By Jamie F. Bell
The old warehouse, now a hollowed-out bastion of the collective, shivered against the relentless autumn wind. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of turpentine and damp plaster, a constant reminder of both their creative ambition and their crumbling reality.
The Hum of Uncertain Gears
By Jamie F. Bell
The old industrial unit, now the heart of the 'Foundry' arts collective, was a cavern of concrete and cold air this autumn evening. A lone halogen lamp, strung precariously from the high ceiling, cast a harsh, unforgiving light on Andrea's workspace, revealing a fine layer of sawdust and metallic flecks that shimmered on every surface. The air, thick with the scent of turpentine and stale coffee, held a chill that seeped into her bones, despite the whirring space heater trying its best against the vast space.
Chasing the Grain
By Jamie F. Bell
The Old Mill Arts Collective studio hummed with the usual late-autumn chill and the barely contained chaos of creative endeavour. Dust motes danced in the sparse sunlight slanting through tall, grimy windows, illuminating a scattering of half-finished projects. The air carried a faint, mingled scent of turpentine, metallic dust, and damp wool, a testament to the diverse work happening within its old brick walls. This morning, a palpable tension, thicker than the dust, hung over everything.
Fractured Refractions
By Jamie F. Bell
The air in 'The Foundry' hung heavy, a mixture of solvent fumes, damp plaster, and stale coffee. Autumn light, thin and watery, bled through the tall, grimy windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the cold currents. Every surface groaned under the weight of half-finished projects, discarded sketches, and the quiet hum of stressed anticipation.
Share This Collection
