Western Style BL Stories

The Gnome Queen of Ocean Parkway

By Leaf Richards

The plan was simple: meet Ben on the platform, look him soulfully in the eyes, and deliver the speech Frederick had been rehearsing in his bedroom mirror all morning. It was a good speech. It had pathos (‘I feel like we’re drifting’), a clear objective (‘I need to know you’re as serious about this as I am’), and even a little flourish of vulnerability. He’d practiced it so much the words felt smooth and polished in his mind, a perfect tool for the delicate emotional surgery he was about to perform.

Read Story →

A Resonance in Scratched Vinyl

By Jamie F. Bell

The attic of Pete's house was a kingdom of forgotten things, hazy with heat and the sweet, cloying smell of old paper. Sunlight streamed through a single grimy window, cutting a thick, golden bar through the air that illuminated a swirling galaxy of dust. It was their shared sanctuary, a place of retreat since they were kids, and today, their mission was to sort through the vinyl.

Read Story →

A Trellis for the Unruly Vine

By Jamie F. Bell

The community centre's workshop smelled of sawdust, old paint, and the faint, lingering odour of decades of bingo nights. It was a cavern of organized chaos, filled with half-finished projects for the upcoming BayFest. In the centre of it all, looking like a skeletal whale beached on a sea of drop cloths, was the frame of the Historical Society's float.

Read Story →

And the Tide, Its Long Retreat

By Jamie F. Bell

The sky over Manhattan Beach was the colour of a faded bruise, a watercolour wash of grey and purple that promised a storm later but for now just held a heavy sadness. The air, usually thick with the joyous shrieks of beachgoers, was thin and sharp with the first real hint of autumn. Summer was packing its bags, and every gust of wind felt like a door clicking shut.

Read Story →

A Geometry of Folded Napkins

By Jamie F. Bell

The air in the kitchen of 'Gino's Slice of Heaven' was a tangible thing—a mix of garlic, scorching cheese, yeast, and the metallic sweat of teenage boys working too hard for too little. The ticket printer chattered relentlessly, a mechanical insect spitting out orders. It was Friday, it was August, and the entire neighbourhood seemed to want pizza at the exact same moment.

Read Story →

The Stung Hinge of August

By Jamie F. Bell

The afternoon sun beat down on the planks of the pier, making the air thick with the smell of creosote, bait, and the distant promise of frying food. Below, the water of the bay was a murky, restless green, slapping against the pilings with a rhythm that matched the anxious thump in Leo's chest. He wasn't catching anything, but that was hardly the point.

Read Story →

Ash and Embers

By Jamie Bell

The night had swallowed the last blush of sunset hours ago, leaving the forest a study in deep charcoal and sharper shadows. A small campfire, built precariously close to the edge of an old logging road, fought against the chill, its orange glow painting the faces of two figures in fleeting, dancing colours. The air, crisp and tasting of woodsmoke and damp earth, pressed in, a silent witness to the quiet unraveling and tentative re-knitting of teenage hearts.

Read Story →

The Icy Breach on Cephestus-7

By Leaf Richards

The low hum of Frostfall Ridge Station had become a high-pitched whine, a frantic, losing battle against the encroaching cold. Lights flickered with a weary reluctance, casting long, dancing shadows across the cramped corridors, making the already strained faces of the crew appear gaunt and spectral. Outside, the blizzard was a living, snarling beast, a ceaseless roar against the thin durasteel hull, threatening to tear the very foundations of their precarious existence from the frozen rock of Cephestus-7.

Read Story →

A Grating Calculus

By Jamie F. Bell

The asphalt, a dark, bruised ribbon, buckled under the relentless summer sun. Heat waves danced above its surface, distorting the already distant horizon into a liquid smear of ochre and dull green. A lone, aging sedan sat on the shoulder, its front driver-side wheel a deflated mockery of mobility, a flat, sad grin against the backdrop of a vast, indifferent sky. The air, thick with the scent of baked earth and exhaust residue, seemed to press down, stifling any impulse for swift action.

Read Story →

A Liturgy for Small Corrosions

By Jamie F. Bell

The Tuesday morning air in the kitchen was thick with the smell of damp tea towels and Finn's burnt toast. Rain slicked the windowpane, blurring the grey stone of the tenement across the lane. Liam, needing coffee with a desperation that felt primal, found his path to the kettle blocked by his flatmate, who was standing guard over the cutlery drawer with the solemnity of a tomb sentinel.

Read Story →

Salt and Severance

By Jamie F. Bell

The Brighton Beach sun, a brutalist lamp, hammered down on the concrete and the stretched-out bodies, bleaching the colour from everything but the ocean's bruised cerulean. The air tasted of fried dough and salt spray, thick with the distant, metallic clangour of the Cyclone's ascent. Two figures, barely more than boys, sat too close for strangers on the packed sand, their world shrinking to the space between them.

Read Story →

Currents and Contact

By Jamie F. Bell

The ocean was a shifting, indifferent blue, stretching out under a relentless summer sun. Sand, warm and gritty, burrowed between toes still numb from the cold shock of the initial plunge. The air tasted of salt and distant sunscreen, a typical beach day, unremarkable until a flicker of movement caught the eye, pulling at something deep beneath the surface calm.

Read Story →