When the story writes itself, the byline is the last thing you can change.
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Marcie Kwok breezed into the office, her perfume filling the air as if it belonged to her. Her colleagues rolled their eyes at each other and shrugged. Marcie sat, oblivious to them. She was ready for the day’s writing tasks.Her throne was complete.
She scrolled through her emails for any news fodder.
Then, an article. Filed. Signed. Ready.
She didn’t recognize the too-clear byline.
The too-clear time stamp.
Hers.
But she hadn’t written them. Journalistic integrity restrained her-
No publish button.
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She arrived the next day and sat, her mouse adding to her journalist regality.
She checked her office email account. More articles filled it.
With the obvious byline.
The unambiguous time stamp.
It occurred to her. Why shouldn’t she publish them?
After all, they had HER name on them.
She demurred. Then her fingers clicked the publish button.
And more of the public knew of Marcie Kwok. The traffic to her social media accounts spiked.
The likes beneath her posted images grew.
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A fortnight passed, one Marcie relished as the Queen of Wordsmiths.
Then, another article in her inbox.
Meticulously penned, in the same tone.
She balked. And lost her majestic air.
The byline -hers again.
The timestamp – again.
The headline –
“Journalist found dead at the fork of Angsana and Chiku Roads…”
Time of death –
That night.
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Marcie squirmed, her regal mouse now languishing on its pad.
She picked it up gingerly, scrolling cautiously through the article.
She edited the headline. Made one change.
Now, less certain.
She glanced over her work. Then refreshed the page.
It was–
The same.
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The article was filed. Signed. Ready.
Scheduled for publication.
Marcie walked quietly into the office. She sat in her chair.
She used the trackpad –the mouse dangled limply from the USB port.
The headline held.
So did the byline.
As did the timestamp.
She waited.
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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.
Visit the link just above or lick the picture to access the link.
