Survive in the shattered remnants of civilization after a catastrophic event, where humanity rebuilds or struggles against the odds. These tales explore themes of resilience and despair.
By Tony Eetak
A scorching summer day in a decaying urban landscape in late 2025. Two figures, a runner mid-race and her coach, grapple with the physical and societal fallout of a world teetering on collapse, and whether kindness still has a place.
By Jamie F. Bell
The world was a static hum, a low thrum against Jared's teeth that vibrated through the cold concrete floor beneath him. He was stretched out, face pressed against something rough and gritty, the smell of damp dust and decaying metal filling his nostrils. His eyelids felt heavy, cemented shut with a kind of internal resistance, each blink a monumental effort against a suffocating pressure. He tried to remember where he was, or *who* he was, but his mind offered only a blank canvas, scarred with a deep, unsettling grey.
By Eva Suluk
The wind was a dull, persistent ache in the stone teeth of the mountains, a sound Briar had known all seventeen winters of her life. It sculpted the snowdrifts into phantom creatures against the high walls of The Hollow, this small community tucked into a forgotten crease of the world. Each gust rattled the heavy oak door of the Gathering Hall, a tremor that echoed the unease in her own chest. Inside, the air, though warmed by the central hearth, carried the faint, metallic scent of damp wool and simmering anxieties. Her breath feathered out, a visible ghost against the cold air, a testament to the persistent chill that seeped into everything, even the very bones of their collective hope.
By Jamie F. Bell
The wind howled a perpetual, mournful dirge through the skeletal frames of what were once towering data-spires. Snow, a ceaseless, fine grit, was driven horizontally, stinging any exposed skin and coating every surface in a shimmering, alien sheen of ice and crystalline dust. Beneath the perpetually overcast sky, which bled from an exhausted grey to a bruised purple, the city sprawled, a necropolis of broken dreams and flickering, defiant neon. This was Winter, a season of profound desolation, yet within its crushing embrace, a fragile, almost absurd hope stubbornly persisted.
By Jamie F. Bell
The wind had scoured the last of the weak snow from the highest point of the twisted metal slide, leaving the rust exposed like a fresh wound. It was the only patch of colour in a world of grey concrete and dirt-smeared ice. Below, in the frozen bowl of what was once a sandpit, two figures stood apart, their breath pluming and then vanishing in the frigid air.
By Jamie F. Bell
The air, sharp and clean, clung to the barren landscape, a quiet testament to the world’s enduring indifference. Snow hadn't fallen yet, but the frost, a thin skin over every surface, heralded winter's true arrival. Inside a repurposed module, the hum of a salvaged generator fought a losing battle against the encroaching chill, leaving the air heavy with the metallic tang of cold and the faint, sweet scent of decaying leaves trapped beneath the floorboards.
By Jamie F. Bell
The Conduit’s central atrium, usually a quiet drone of individual Spheres, felt heavy with the new 'Proximity Protocol'. Jae leant against a cool, exposed conduit pipe, the hum of the air recyclers a familiar thrum against his cheek. Fluorescent panels above cast a sterile, even light over the carefully spaced clusters of ergonomic chairs, each occupied by a person lost in the shimmering world projected from their personal device. The engineered quiet was a paradox, a monument to a world that had forgotten how to simply *be* together.
