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Found 26 story result(s) for “station” • Page 3 of 3
By Jamie F. Bell
Outside, the wind howls, a physical wall of white against the reinforced windows of Arctic Research Station Epsilon. Inside, the silence is broken only by the hum of the recycler and the quiet click of Cassie's keyboard as she runs diagnostics. She's been alone for three weeks.
By Jamie F. Bell
My mind, always a cluttered attic, rifled through memories of past bus stop encounters. Usually, it was the briefest of nods, perhaps a shared sigh about the weather, then the mechanical groan of an arriving bus would disperse the moment. Today, however, the air was thick with something else. It clung to the thin, almost transparent man perched on the far end of the bench, draped in a moth-eaten scarf that seemed to carry the weight of decades. The sun, a pale, indifferent disc, struggled to break through the perpetual haze that hung over the industrial park we bordered. The scent of ozone from the nearby power station hummed under the usual exhaust fumes, a metallic tang on the back of the tongue. Every now and then, a gust of wind would whip past, tugging at the man’s scarf, as if trying to unravel his story.
