Literary Fiction Stories

In the Beam

By Tony Eetak

The humid summer air hung heavy in the main hall of the Serpent River First Nation community centre, carrying the faint, lingering scent of last night’s bingo and the pervasive aroma of lemon disinfectant. Dust motes, forbidden from explicit mention yet undeniably present in the diffuse light, danced with a languid indifference as the very infrastructure of the future arts programme seemed determined to unravel itself. The projector, an obstinate, beige behemoth of forgotten technology, offered only a stuttering, lacklustre rectangle of grey, mocking Devon’s increasingly frantic attempts to bring it to life.

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The Star's Return Through Snow

By Leaf Richards

The snow was a living, breathing thing, an insurmountable white wall that stretched from the frozen riverbank to the distant, blurred silhouette of the old cottage. Thomas pushed a gloved hand against the stinging cold, drawing a ragged breath that caught in his throat, each exhalation blooming white before him. His muscles screamed, a dull, insistent ache radiating from his hips and thighs, but he kept moving, one slow, deliberate step after another. The forest, a silent sentinel of spruce and fir, held its breath, the muffled silence amplifying the rhythmic crunch of his boots, the only sound for miles. The air carried the crisp scent of frozen pine needles and something mineral, like static before a storm. He wondered, briefly, if he was entirely mad.

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A Fading Light

By Jamie F. Bell

The mid-summer air hung thick and greasy over downtown Winnipeg, a tangible weight that pressed against the old brick of the art centre. Inside, the recycled air conditioning wheezed a tired protest, a low, mechanical hum that became another layer in the atmospheric soup. Light, diffused through grime-streaked windows, painted the lecture room in shades of sickly yellow and grey, making the faces of the young adults gathered there seem drawn and faintly unwell.

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The Coiling Serpent of Portage

By Jamie F. Bell

Perched in a borrowed studio above Portage Avenue, a young artist named Leo observes the relentless pulse of rush hour. The late autumn sun bleeds across the cityscape, mirroring the internal turmoil of a mind grappling with a world that feels increasingly fragmented.

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The Unfolding Grid

By Jamie F. Bell

The air in Room 307 was thick, not with anticipation, but with the quiet, desperate hum of concentrated anxiety. The smell of stale coffee from Mr. Harrison’s mug mingled with the faint metallic tang of old radiators, a scent that always clung to exam days, cold and unforgiving. Outside, the sky was a bruised, heavy grey, mirroring the weight settling in Leo’s chest. This wasn't just a test; it was the hinge.

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