The Broken Heater
By Jamie F. Bell
A surreal, frozen afternoon in downtown Winnipeg where the weather turns predatory and two strangers seek shelter in the skywalk system.
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8 Stories
The Trail's Unseen Bloom
By Tony Eetak
The path, softened by pine needles and damp earth, swallowed the last echoes of their boots. The land lab, usually bustling with the hopeful chatter of students and volunteers coaxing life from the soil, had fallen into an unnerving quiet. The summer's efforts – the neat rows of strawberries, the burgeoning raspberry canes, the robust cucumber vines – were now just memory, leaving behind a faint, sweet decay in the humid air. A peculiar, almost metallic tang, unlike any natural scent, clung to the undergrowth, a quiet hum just at the edge of hearing, almost an expectation.
Finite Dust
By Jamie F. Bell
It’s a lie that dust is silent. It has a voice, a dry, papery whisper that speaks of shed skin and crumbled memories, and tonight, in the suffocating stillness of the archive, it is the only sound I can reliably name. The dehumidifier offers its monotonous, asthmatic hum from the corner, a mechanical prayer against the damp that forever threatens to turn this collection of a town’s life into a pulpy, unreadable mass of mould. But the dust is the true historian here, settling with democratic indifference on the pension records of lumber barons and the chipped teacups of farmers’ wives.
A Confluence of Ochre and Absence
By Jamie F. Bell
The air held that particular, metallic tang of late autumn, a scent of damp earth and decaying leaves that clung to David's coat. A low, grey sky pressed down, threatening rain, but for now, only a persistent wind rustled through the skeletal trees, plucking the last stubborn ochre and crimson leaves from their branches. The quiet crunch underfoot was a lonely rhythm against the vast silence of the suburban street.
The Weight of Gold
By Jamie F. Bell
The air held a chill, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of wet soil and woodsmoke. Leaves, the colour of burnt umber and faded ochre, drifted from skeletal branches, collecting in silent, rustling heaps along the forgotten path. The sky, a vast, indifferent canvas of grey, promised an early dusk, and with it, the deeper, encroaching cold of the season.
The Unspooling Colour of Grief
By Jamie F. Bell
The air, sharp and smelling of wet soil and dying leaves, bites at Brian's exposed skin as he steps into the hush of the woods. Overhead, branches, skeletal against a bruised sky, reach like arthritic fingers, letting slip their final, brittle offerings onto the damp earth. Every crunch underfoot is a small, percussive reminder of things falling away, a rhythm marking the slow, deliberate march of a season surrendering. A low, insistent hum from a distant hydro pole threads through the quiet, a subtle counterpoint to the natural decay.
A Confluence of Golden Grief
By Jamie F. Bell
The crisp bite of late October permeated the air, carrying the faint, earthy scent of damp loam and decay. The sky, a bruised pewter, pressed low over the skeletal branches, and a thin, persistent drizzle blurred the edges of the world. It was the kind of autumn afternoon that burrowed into the bones, a quiet, melancholic prelude to winter, a perfect stage for memories to resurface, unbidden and sharp.
A Confluence of Golden Ruin
By Jamie F. Bell
The air bites, carrying the metallic tang of damp earth and decaying leaves. A park, stripped bare by the encroaching winter, hums with a quiet, brittle energy. Piles of russet and gold leaves lie abandoned, whispering secrets with every gust of wind, while the skeletal branches above claw at a sky heavy with grey. A solitary figure sits hunched on a bench, a study in quiet contemplation amidst the season's beautiful, yet somber, farewell.
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