Unfinished Tales and Short Stories

Data Dust and Digital Fire

By Eva Suluk

The air in the community hall hung heavy and still, thick with the unseasonal humid warmth of a northern summer. A low hum vibrated from the ceiling-mounted projector, a sound that usually meant nothing, just the persistent background noise of the ‘Digital Hearth’ functioning as intended. Tonight, however, it carried an unnerving, discordant undertone, a frantic buzz suggesting something fundamental was off-kilter. The holographic display, meant to showcase local artists' digital work, pulsed with a sickly green, then shifted to an angry, pixelated red, casting a momentary, unsettling glow over the scarred linoleum floor.

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Sea-Stung Requiem

By Jamie F. Bell

The world was the colour of rust and dirty water. Millie steered the skiff with one hand, the other resting on Andy’s forehead. He was burning up, his skin clammy despite the chill wind that whipped across the submerged city. Skeletal high-rises clawed at the perpetually overcast sky, their lower floors lost to the greasy, churning swell of the Atlantic. The only sounds were the chug of their small motor, the slap of waves against the hull, and Andy’s shallow, rattling breaths.

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The Sketchbook and the Static

By Leaf Richards

Jordan, a quiet teenager, navigates the economically depressed streets of Sprucewood, Northwestern Ontario, his keen observational eye absorbing the town's slow decay. His secret sketchbook, filled with detailed drawings of hands, is his only outlet for expressing his profound sense of disconnection.

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The Hollow Carving

By Eva Suluk

A crisp, late autumn afternoon in Willow Creek Hollow, a small, charming town. The Harvest Festival has just concluded, leaving a quiet, almost empty town square. The scene transitions to the edges of town, into a dense, atmospheric patch of woods bordering a shallow creek. The overall mood is subtly tense, with hints of an approaching mystery.

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The Weight of a Single Glass Seed

By Jamie F. Bell

The aroma of cedar smoke, damp earth, and linseed oil clung to the air in Simon’s small, cluttered workshop. Outside, the last stubborn maple leaves clung to branches, a defiant blaze against the greying November sky. Inside, dust motes, caught in the low autumn sun filtering through the single, grimy window, danced above a workbench littered with polished wood, gleaming glass shards, and half-finished carvings. A thermos of cooling tea sat beside a collection of intricate tools, some ancient, some modern, all bearing the subtle sheen of constant use. The rhythmic rasp of a file on wood, punctuated by occasional, sharp clinks of glass, filled the air.

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Stains

By Leaf Richards

Jeff and Sam are stuck in a drafty, under-heated community center basement late at night, trying to set up for a local art showcase while debating the merits of staying in a small northern town.

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