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Time Travel Paradox

Residue of a Former Occupant

By Jamie F. Bell

The first thing that registered was the pain. A dull, throbbing ache in his ribs, a sharp sting in his left knuckles. Julian groaned, rolling over. The sheets were cheap, polyester that felt slick and cold against his skin. This wasn't his bed. This wasn't his room. The ceiling was stained with a water bloom the shape of a lung, and the air tasted of stale smoke and old coffee. Panic, cold and immediate, seized him. He sat bolt upright, and the room spun.

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Dark Comedy

The Hum of the Substation at Dusk

By Jamie F. Bell

The new subdivision was a ghost town of good intentions. Skeletons of half-built houses stood against the bruised purple sky, their windows empty sockets. The only finished things were the roads, perfect black ribbons of tarmac that went nowhere, and the electrical substation, a huge, caged beast crouched at the edge of it all, humming its single, monotonous note into the thick, humid air of the last night of August.

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Poetic / Lyrical

The Rust-Lung Carousel

By Jamie F. Bell

The padlock on the main gate was a joke. Finn clipped it with a pair of bolt cutters from his dad’s shed, and the chain fell away with a tired, rusty clatter. The sound was swallowed by the rhythmic shushing of the waves under the pier. Inside, the Oceanville Fun Fair was a graveyard of summer memories, its rides hulking like sleeping metal beasts under the weak security lights.

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Domestic Thriller

All Our Tinfoil Gods

By Jamie F. Bell

The 'Desert Star Oasis' gas station was less an oasis and more a flickering fluorescent mirage in the vast, inky blackness of the Nevada night. Inside, the air was still and smelled of warm plastic and old coffee. Dale was methodically scanning the jerky selection, assessing protein content versus sodium levels, when the door creaked open. A man walked in, and the fragile peace of the empty store was shattered. Not by a sound, but by a signal. The man was wearing a t-shirt with a blurry silhouette of Bigfoot on it. A clear, undeniable sign. He was one of them.

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Domestic Thriller

The Macaw Repeats the Sum

By Jamie F. Bell

Arthur liked his work. He enjoyed the quiet ritual of it, the methodical transformation of chaos into order. He was a cleaner. A specialist. Tonight's job was a 'level three spillage' in a 24-hour convenience store just off the M4. He entered through the back, the manager having been paid handsomely to close for 'emergency plumbing issues.' The 'plumbing issue' was currently being arranged in neat, black bags in the walk-in freezer. Arthur's job was to erase the process.

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Domestic Thriller

A Tenor in Aisle Three

By Jamie F. Bell

The 'Stop & Shop' hummed. It was a low, constant thrum from the rows of refrigerators lining the walls, a sound that Chloe insisted was 'masking the residual spirit energy.' Raj, crouched over his laptop on top of a stack of unsold newspapers, called it 'the sound of electricity doing its job.' Brenda, who was methodically checking the expiry dates on a family-sized bag of pork scratchings, didn't call it anything. She just wanted to be sure their stakeout snacks were fresh.

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Domestic Thriller

The Unstuck Nickel

By Jamie F. Bell

The bell above the door of the 'Quik Snax' hadn't so much chimed as it had given a weary, metallic sigh. Leo, who was in the middle of a profound study of a grease stain on the counter, didn't look up. Tuesdays were for the ghosts of the night shift, the people who moved through the world on a different frequency. This one felt different. The air tasted of ozone and burnt sugar, a combination that wasn't on the store's usual olfactory menu of stale coffee and industrial floor cleaner.

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Journalistic

The Custard Cream Accords

By Jamie F. Bell

The only sounds in the library's third-floor stacks were the hum of the fluorescent lights and the frantic scratching of Sameer's pen. It was 2 a.m. His brain felt like a sponge, oversaturated with tort law and unable to absorb another drop. Across the tiny study carrel, Ben yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking affair that seemed to suck all the remaining oxygen out of their shared space. And between them, on a pile of books, sat the prize: the last custard cream.

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Psychological Drama

The Stationery Cupboard Contains Multitudes

By Jamie F. Bell

I knew it was going to be a bad day when I walked out of my corner office and found myself walking right back into it from the other direction. I paused, one hand on the familiar brass handle of my own door, and stared at the back of my own head. My other self was looking out the window, seemingly unaware. The corridor, which thirty seconds ago had led to the marketing department, was now a perfect, seamless loop. The motivational poster of a fish jumping into another fishbowl mocked me from both ends of my vision.

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Gritty Realism

The Four AM Transit Schedule

By Jamie F. Bell

The four a.m. bus sighed and hissed its way through deserted streets, a lonely vessel navigating a sea of sleeping concrete. The city outside the smeared windows was a silent film of sodium-orange light and deep shadow. Inside, the greenish fluorescent tubes hummed a weary tune, illuminating the scuffed floor and rows of empty, cracked vinyl seats. Shiro watched this empty world through the vast windscreen, his hands steady on the wheel, the rhythmic thump-thump of the bus crossing expansion joints a hypnotic, comforting mantra.

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Romance

A Ten-Pin Invocation

By Jamie F. Bell

Rona hated Lane 12. It was sticky. Not just with spilled beer and soda, but with something older, a lingering residue of bad luck and missed spares. But tonight, she didn't have a choice. This was the lane assigned for the final match, and she knew her opponent, Denny, had chosen it for a reason. In the cacophony of crashing pins and cheap rock music, a different kind of game was being played, and the score was kept not in frames, but in favours owed to the house.

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Romance

Grease Trap Prophecies

By Jamie F. Bell

Judy knew the signs. A tremor in the handle of the percolator, a specific bitterness in the aroma of the grind, a shimmer on the surface of the black coffee that wasn't just a reflection of the greasy fluorescent lights. The pot was ready. Not for serving, not for the truckers and the night owls. It was ready for a Reading. And she wished, for the thousandth time, that she'd just learned how to make fancy latte art like a normal barista.

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