National V-J Day.

Clara shuffled her feet as the Master of Ceremonies spoke. Celebratory flags flew in the air, but her soul didn’t feel like soaring with them.

The names droned on. Everyone received a bell. Her Granddad’s? Only silence.

And the omission — 

Louder than the names.

Her eyes fell on the wartime photograph in front of her. He spoke fluent Japanese; being Commandant Ishikawa’s interpreter fitted him well.

So Ishikawa thought.

No one else did. Everyone — even family members — saw him as the butler of evil.

That sat with her like a chicken would with wolves — badly. She had never defended her Grandfather, at least, not publicly. Condemnation, unfortunately, was an unwanted family contagion.

Her eyes fell on the photograph again. It had been captured near the Kempeitai’s former headquarters. Perhaps it would yield something — anything — that would finally absolve her — and her family — of shame.

---

Clara had entered the Kempeitai Headquarters shortly before the sun set.

They, as expected, were old. In her line of vision were a rusted loudspeaker, a few tiny, abandoned offices and a records room that remained stubbornly locked.

A military telephone suddenly jangled with urgent confidence.

Clara answered it with great reluctance.

But before she could offer customary salutations, lights lining the building’s ceilings and its walls started to flicker. Mist accumulated at an alarming rate; the striking clicks of marching boots filled the corridors. Prisoners lumbered, inhuman rakes in rags, into the compound surrounding the building.

A voice reported that Japan had surrendered.

The date on the 1945 desk calendar — August 15th.

History had not returned with gentle grace.

---

1945.

A thick, white mist.

Then, a familiar form. Beside Commander Ishikawa, patiently translating his instructions — 

To tell the prisoners that the Japanese Army had won.

To take command.

To execute them before dawn.

She heard her grandfather deliver the false announcement, her heart dropping to unfathomable depths.

Each obedient bow had a tighter stranglehold.

She could barely breathe.

And then she noticed — 

With the help of Google translate — 

Little flaws.

Mistakes that were too small to attract Ishikawa’s attention — 

But too precise to be mere forgetfulness.

A command to lock the eastern gate — 

Mistranslated for the guard, who was told to leave it open.

The execution time changed from midnight — 

To dawn.

The time of surrender.

---

And then — 

The Surrender Notice.

In Grandad’s hands.

He had spent a good part of three years bending notices. He would not do so now. Not this time.

He reached desperately for the compound’s loudspeaker. If everyone heard the surrender announcement, Ishikawa would lose the power to order executions.

Then — 

A rude interruption.

By the Person in Apparent Power.

Gunshots.

The lights failed.

Clara found herself looped to the beginning of the same hour. Her Grandad was alive. The phone was ringing off the hook. The dead — 

Forever trapped because the surrender was never announced.

A cycle.

For Clara to continue — 

Or cut.

---

Clara stepped through the gate. The camp was shrouded by deadly mist.

But Grandad’s choices weren’t her concern.

Then — 

She sobered.

Her silence at his non-naming, every V-J Day.

When it should not have been.

He had adopted disgrace — 

So others could live.

She avoided appearing foolish — 

When the truth needed an appearance.

She had mistaken silence for innocence.

She turned back to the podium.

Just another step, then release.

---

Clara turned the loudspeaker on. Ishikawa and his cronies grabbed at her — 

Vainly.

Static rolled through the compound, a defiant thunderbolt.

Her announcement reached the furthest corners of the compound.

The soft fall of bayonets. One.

Then another.

Then another.

The prisoners realised their freedom.

The locked eastern gate swung open with well-deserved flourish. They stepped out — not cheering — 

Tearing.

With relief.

“Clara — ” Her Grandad’s voice was raspy.

“Why are you here?”

He lay limp on the ground, breath almost expired.

She cradled his head.

“Because you were.”

---

At the following year’s V-J Day ceremony — 

Another deliberate silence.

Again.

But she didn’t remain stoic. Or silent.

She stepped forward with the now yellowed surrender notice and related his translation.

Or deliberate mistranslation.

The subtle altering of orders.

To deceive the enemy.

His death — 

Attempting to announce the surrender — 

So others would live.

Not every face softened. True courage did not require complete understanding.

It just required a voice.

Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt

Nadia went aboard the ferry, the day having drained her. 

An empty seat in the back row beckoned. She sat and gratefully sank into its plush cushions. 

From the back, the water was — 

Dark.

The lights dimmed as the ferry pulled away, and it grew — 

Darker. 

---

Oblivious to her surroundings, Nadia continued her voyage home, and to dreamland. 

A veil of mist settled beside her, occupying the empty seat. 

“Too cold; ferry fare too expensive; Curry puffs on board too small.”

Mr. Tan was indignant. 

---

A crew member appeared. 

“Ma’am…sorry, but you’re both a little loud.”

“What?” Nadia was puzzled. 

The staff pointed at the seat — 

And realised it was vacant.

Mr. Tan was sheepish. “I fell overboard in 1987.”

---

He then explained that to disembark, a living passenger had to accompany him through turnstiles. 

Nadia opened her mouth in protest — 

Then the entire back row stood. 

One raised a hand. 

“Could we disembark too?”

Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt

Before I wear the woman’s hat given to me by anyone else, not by my volition, I exist. 
Expectations arrive instantaneously, telling me what a woman ought to be.
I have ambitions, thoughts, feelings, desires, wants, needs, experiences, successes and failures that belong exclusively to me.
Names. Daughter. Mother. Wife. Sister, Grandmother. Aunt. Colleague. Friend-these are the many hats I wear. 
Giving to others and forgetting to give to the self.

Absolutely, I can make a difference in the lives of others, which cross my own.

Woman — herself, not secondary to anyone or anything else she interacts with.
Others know me by the role that is defined for me. 
Maternal does not refer to motherhood by convention, but by the hat and the act of nurturing another.
Autonomy to decide the hats and roles we wear.
Neither daughter, mother, wife, nor colleague defines the whole person; each hat does not equal the whole.

Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt

Kelvin worked late amongst tropical, blood-starved mosquitoes as World Mosquito Day fell. The hour grew late; he was trying to get much deserved shuteye after a trying week at work. 

But it was that darned bloodsucker. It kept performing aerial acrobatics above his head. 

But had it — 

Wrapped — 

In his hand. 

SQUASH. 

A bloody smear on his palm. The airborne assasination succeeded. 

A ceremonial, almost reverential silence followed. 

And a soft murmur:

“Happy World Mosquito day.”

Then — 

Tap. 

Tap.

Tap.

On the window pane. 

---

So — the Insect Rally began — 

With a clipboard-bearing mosquito taking notes. 

An officer of the International Mosquito Welfare Association. 

He had buzzed over to pay homage to the registered celebrant of World Mosquito Day — 

Who had become — 

A Helpless Victim. 

He adjusted his black armband with the dignity that only professionally trained insect bureaucrats could muster.

“A serious matter.” He noted on his clipboard, the approximate size of a cellphone. 

Kelvin was thereafter charged with

Unlawful and aggravated swatting;

Developing and maintaining a citronella environment;

***Indiscriminate application of Insect Repellent. ***

---

Kelvin refused to attend the ridiculous court. 

But that was not an issue. 

The court came to him. 

The lights in his home flickered. 

The white ceiling became black — 

And moved. 

The buzzing intensified. 

From outside Kelvin’s window, a black, humming cloud. 

12 mosquito jurors lined the window ledge. A Judge Mosquito settled at the top of the curtain. A prosecuting mosquito settled on the window pane. 

Kelvin reached instinctively for his repellent. 

The Judge Mosquito slapped her wings together. 

“Any attempt at repellent use will be met with harsh consequences.”

Kelvin had to sit amongst mosquitoes — 

Without harming a single one. 

---

The prosecuting mosquito had in his hands — 

Damning evidence. 

The prosecutor’s proboscic twitched — 

Too eagerly. 

***Exhibit A: Pungent repellent. ***

Exibit B: Citronella candles.

***Exhibit C: A swatter, on which lay the bodies of previous victims. ***

An audible gasp rippled from the black cloud still hanging on the ceiling of Kelvin’s room. 

Kelvin banged his fists on the table in protest. 

He jabbed his finger at the offensive victim, now laying 

in quiet repose in its swatter chamber. 

A Buzzing Bailiff summoned a witness. 

Who reluctanly attested:

“The deceased had been warned not to suck the blood of humans.”

12 wings convened for 12 hours. 

When it finally returned, the courtroom fell completely silent. 

The verdict was unanimous. 

Not guilty by virtue of self-defence. 

Kelvin put his face in his hands in utter relief. The black cloud left the ceiling slowly, still buzzing. 

---

Kelvin lay back in his reclining office chair, relief loosening his shoulders. 

Almost completely.

One mosquito stayed. 

Bearing a cellphone-sized clipboard. 

He closed the case file, then buzzed over to Kelvin. 

He froze in front of the now-freed accused — 

And hovered beside his ear. 

And in a low, buzzing whisper, as he drifted from his ear to his arm — 

“Court fees, sir.”

Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt