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Coming-of-Age

The Patron Saint of Polyurethane

By Jamie F. Bell

The cold was a physical presence, a thing that scraped at the lungs and turned the moisture of your breath into a cloud of tiny, instantly freezing knives. It was the kind of cold that made the city’s festive lights look brittle, like coloured glass about to shatter. Steam plumed from sewer grates along Portage Avenue, ghostly and slow in the windless dark, while the hollow chime of a distant bus announcement echoed off the icy facades of office towers.

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Paranormal Romance

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.

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Historical Fiction

A Gust of Ill Tidings

By Jamie F. Bell

The *Sea Wolf* cut a grumbling path through the iron-grey swells of Hudson Bay, the ship's timbers groaning under the constant buffet of the autumn gales. Salt spray, sharp and cold, coated every surface, freezing to the rigging in thin, glassy sheens. Below deck, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool, stale rum, and the faint, metallic tang of iron. Above, the sky was a bruised canvas, heavy with unfallen snow, and the wind, a relentless bully, howled its grim song through the shrouds.

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Hardboiled Noir

The Conifers' Council

By Jamie F. Bell

The chill of a late autumn morning bit at my exposed cheeks, but I barely noticed. My focus, honed by countless hours of 'Midnight Detective' reruns and a profound distrust of adult 'discussions', was fixed on the public bandstand. Below, two figures moved, their conversation a low hum against the backdrop of rustling, dried-up leaves. This, I decided, was a case, pure and unadulterated, unfolding right before my very eyes.

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Slice of Life

Autumn's Breath

By Jamie F. Bell

The crisp bite of late autumn air gnawed at Lennie's exposed ears, slicing through the thin fabric of his hoodie as he navigated the damp, leaf-strewn pavements of downtown. Streetlights cast long, distorted shadows that danced ahead of him, making familiar buildings feel like looming, unfamiliar giants. The distant wail of a siren, a threadbare sound swallowed by the vastness of the city night, pulled at something tight in his small chest, an unacknowledged knot of both fear and curious anticipation.

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Slice of Life

Scuff Marks on the Evening

By Jamie F. Bell

The oppressive heat of a late summer day lingered, trapping itself within the wooden walls of the small cabin. Outside, the dust held the last faint warmth, and the air hung heavy and still, smelling faintly of dry earth and distant sagebrush. A single, battered lantern threw a weak, flickering circle of light across the porch of the general store, outlining the worn planks and the heavy silence of the frontier night.

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Slice of Life

A Speck of Absurdity on Main Street

By Jamie F. Bell

The wind carried the scent of damp leaves and impending snow, a familiar late-autumn perfume in Winnipeg. Andrew, a man whose wrinkles seemed less from age and more from years of relentless scrutiny, pulled his woolen scarf tighter. The neon glow of Portage Avenue bled into the historical brickwork of the Exchange District, painting the wet pavement in streaky, artificial colours. His boots crunched on fallen ash leaves, a comforting, solitary rhythm that had defined his evenings since Eleanor passed, five years prior.

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Urban Fantasy

The First Sprout

By Jamie F. Bell

The old Assembly Hall, usually echoing with the boisterous laughter of weekly bingo nights, now held a different, more subdued resonance. Early spring light, pale and hesitant, filtered through tall, arched windows, illuminating the motes of dust dancing in the air, a silent ballet against the deep patina of the aged wooden floorboards. Outside, a reluctant thaw had begun; the scent of wet earth and lingering ice, mingled with the faint, hopeful perfume of awakening balsam poplars, seeped through the ever-so-slightly-ajar ventilation grates. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the very foundations of the building, a geological sigh that most would dismiss as the city's ceaseless hum, but which, to those gathered, felt more like a pulse, slow and deep.

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Western Style BL

The Unfastened Hours

By Jamie F. Bell

The Winnipeg summer dawn bled a pale, insipid blue through the gap in the curtains, a colour Fred despised. It was the precise shade of disappointment, a thin, weak wash over the lingering vibrancy of the night just vanished. His bed sheets, damp with sweat from the oppressive heat, felt like a shroud, clinging to him, anchoring him to a world he desperately wished to escape, a world that offered none of the profound, gentle solace of his dream.

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Adventure

Between the Scaffolding and the Soul

By Jamie F. Bell

The hospital's liminal hours, just before dawn, held a particular melancholy, a suspension between the exhausted night and the demanding day. It was in these moments that the weight of decisions, both made and deferred, settled heaviest, a quiet hum beneath the sterile glow of fluorescent fixtures and the distant, rhythmic beeps of machines.

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Western Style BL

The Crimson Exhale

By Jamie F. Bell

The air, sharp with the bite of a prairie winter, usually carried the scent of woodsmoke and ice. Tonight, it tasted metallic, like copper and distant ozone. A peculiar amber glow, not quite natural for a January evening, pulsed against the grey-blue canvas of the sky. It felt wrong, like watching a movie frame-by-frame, each breath of the wind a stutter in the world's rhythm.

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Fast-Paced / Pulpy

The Humming Machine

By Jamie F. Bell

The siren's long, ragged cry tore through the damp, still air of early spring, an abrasive sound that never truly faded, only retreated to the edges of hearing. Inside the emergency department's trauma bay, the fluorescent lights hummed with an indifferent, sterile glow, casting harsh, unforgiving shadows. Dr. Armedi, his scrubs already feeling heavy and cool against his skin, adjusted his loupes, the familiar metallic tang of iron and disinfectant already prickling at the back of his throat. Another Winnipeg night was bleeding into a grey, hesitant dawn, bringing with it the city’s grim offerings.

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