The gargoyles blew back, wings extended in triumph, to Father Primwell after the night’s sordid inspection.
One of them, Clutch of the Grotesque Claw, had a rather sombre report for the rest.
“The townsfolk are starting to lose their grip.”
“Oh, I see,” Fr. Primwell nodded sagely. How could he account to the Bishop if the people lost their moral fibre?
“What did they do?” He questioned Clutch with a raised eyebrow.
“Their grip is slipping. They drop - ” Clutch paused with dramatic seriousness. “Things.”
“Things?” Fr Primwell furrowed his brow, puzzled. Then, he shrugged. Perhaps people were getting -
Clumsy.
Our zealous gargoyles started improving everyone’s grip while they were -
Asleep.
Perchwick’s citizens rose each morning with extraordinary hand strength.
And the improvements made an indelible mark on everyday life.
Mugs stayed in hands -
Permanently.
Pencils snapped in half.
Door handles broke.
People shook hands -
And left without them.
Everyone admired one another’s newfound confidence.
The good Father Primwell began to receive reports of the gargoyles -
Unquestioning discipline.
The humble parish priest realised that what they believed to
“get a grip” was -
To get one.
The gripping conclusion.
And a humble catch phrase had become -
A moral statute.
The gargoyles reported yet another successful campaign.
But good Father Primwell didn’t praise them -
Yet.
Because the townsfolk still couldn’t release their mugs -
Pencils -
And bars of soap which they couldn’t abandon while showering.
They needed to learn not to hold tighter -
But to let go.
Instead the gargoyles tightened their grip—
Everywhere.
Their approach?
Enquiry expansion.
More inspections.
Increased observations.
Increased evidence.
At hand was a town-wide crisis.
So the campaign reached all corners of Perchwick.
It involved not just people.
But homes.
Offices.
Shopping malls.
The expansion soon reached fever pitch.
They fortified their grip —
On family life.
Friendships.
Responsibility.
The definition of ‘grip’ broadened.
It became a universal principle.
And increasingly literal.
Life in Perchwick became —
Inconvenient.
Not dangerous. Just —
Gripping.
They held on to stop signs.
Gripped one another’s hair.
Gripped one another’s shoulders.
And formed conga lines.
Dear Fr Primwell soon discovered that expansion had to include—
Wisdom.
Understanding.
Its reach had to broaden.
Judgment had to be —
Balanced.
A good grip — and moral solidification —
Did not have to include everything.
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.