Western Style BL Stories

Direction Measured in Poplar Bark

By Jamie F. Bell

The compass was a joke. Noah knew it before they even left the trailhead. The cheap plastic housing and the bubbly, sluggish needle felt wrong in his palm. But Mr. Davies, the gym-teacher-turned-outdoorsman for the week, had clapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Same model the army uses, son!' which Noah knew for a fact was a lie. Now, with the autumn sun bleeding out behind the dense wall of spruce and birch, the cheap plastic felt like a death sentence.

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The Tarmac Shimmer

By Jamie F. Bell

The coffee cup rattled in its saucer as a heavy body slammed into the side of their booth. James flinched, sloshing the black, bitter liquid onto the formica tabletop. Two truckers, beefy men with anger-contorted faces, were shouting, their voices a raw counterpoint to the bland pop music leaking from the diner's speakers. One shoved the other, a clumsy, powerful movement that sent a rack of blueberry muffins scattering across the worn linoleum floor. This was not the quiet, anonymous stop he had been hoping for.

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The Summer's Respite

By Leaf Richards

The oppressive weight of a Central Alberta summer bore down on the endless fields, the air thick with the smell of dry grass and the distant, metallic tang of the oil rigs dotting the horizon. A cloud of fine, ochre dust hung in the still air, kicked up by nothing more than a faint breeze that offered no cooling relief. Under the unforgiving glare, two figures wrestled with a silent, imposing machine, their grunts and the clink of metal the only sounds against the vast, indifferent landscape.

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A Gust of White Laughter

By Leaf Richards

The wind howled a raw, untamed symphony across the frozen landscape, tearing at the edges of everything, clawing at the flimsy barrier of the snowmobile's windshield. Snow, whipped into a frenzy of crystalline daggers, blurred the already fading light, painting the world in shades of blinding white and grey. Below the roar of the engine, the world felt like a suffocating, churning void, testing every sinew, every resolve.

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The First Unfurling

By Leaf Richards

The morning light, still thin and cool despite the late spring, spilled over the rolling acreage of the ranch. Dust motes, caught in the weak beams through the barn's open wide doors, danced a slow, indifferent ballet. The air carried the crisp scent of damp earth, hay, and the distant, metallic tang of rainfall from the night before, a promise of new growth struggling against the stubborn remnants of a long, cold winter.

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Burnt Sugar and Cold Coffee

By Jamie F. Bell

Julian, a cynical university freshman, has his orientation day literally ruined when another student, August, clumsily spills a tray of pasta bake all over him in the humid, institutional cafeteria. The ensuing awkward interaction sets the stage for an unexpected connection.

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The First Spill

By Jamie F. Bell

Caleb, a nervous first-year university student, accidentally spills a tray of chili all over Jimmy, a composed and theatrically-spoken second-year, during their first week in the bustling campus cafeteria.

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A Gust of Sulphur and Sky

By Leaf Richards

The valley floor, usually a patchwork of parched earth and stubborn sage, had turned into a treacherous mire. Recent spring rains had carved new gullies, swollen the seasonal creeks, and left the track leading to the north pasture a ribbon of thick, clinging clay. The air tasted of damp soil and the distant, metallic tang of a spring storm still brewing over the ragged peaks. The quad bike, an ancient, rust-pocked beast, was mired halfway to its axles, its engine long since choked into silence, its metallic shell reflecting the bruised violet of the overhead clouds.

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A Chill in the Air, A Hollow in the Chest

By Jamie F. Bell

The air carried the sharp, metallic tang of coming rain and the faint, sweet decay of fallen leaves. It clung to Laurie's coat, a familiar chill that felt less like weather and more like a permanent resident in his bones. The old railway bridge, a skeletal arch of pitted iron and faded green paint, loomed over the ravine, the wind whistling a low, mournful tune through its corroded beams. It had been their place, once. A place where the world felt limitless, perched high above the sluggish river, a ribbon of dull grey twisting through the early autumn landscape.

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A Cold Afternoon at the Stop

By Jamie F. Bell

The air bit, sharp and unforgiving, painting the exposed skin with an ache that seeped into the bones. The bus shelter offered little reprieve from the biting wind that whipped down the city street, carrying with it the scent of wet asphalt and distant woodsmoke. Daniel huddled deeper into his jacket, trying to coax some warmth from the fabric, his gaze fixed on the empty stretch of road where the number seventeen bus was perpetually late. Winter had settled in, grim and grey, and with it, a pervasive quiet, broken only by the rumble of passing cars and the occasional, lonely siren.

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A Nickel for the Ferryman

By Leaf Richards

Waiting for his boyfriend on a sweltering summer afternoon, Jamie's anxieties about their future are interrupted by a woman whose worldly possessions rattle in a wire cart, and who seems to know more about him than she should.

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Collisions and Catalogues

By Jamie F. Bell

The smell of stale coffee and damp wool clung to the air in Billie's small, perpetually untidy living room. Grey light filtered through the grimy windowpane, illuminating dust motes dancing in the quiet space. Jamie sat on the worn sofa, a faded denim jacket slung over one arm, while Billie was sprawled across a beanbag chair, flicking through a dog-eared catalogue with a critical eye, a half-eaten biscuit forgotten on the floor beside him.

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