Reading. A habit that the bibliophile in me has never been able to vanquish.
So when I came across an antiquated title entitled The Captive Reader in the corner bookstore, my curiosity was naturally piqued. The bookseller termed it The Most Captivating Book One Would Ever Read. His face beamed with suspicious relief when I bought it.
I made it my bedtime reading that night. I forgot supper. The messages on my mobile went unanswered.
I was captivated.
So captivated that I reached the ending — after perusing almost a thousand pages — at 2:13 a.m. in the morning.
The final phrase of the book —
The most captivating of all —
Now write.
I chuckled. But…
My laptop blinked unceremoniously.
A blank document opened.
I closed it.
It opened again.
I closed it again.
It opened with a bigger browser window.
I closed that window.
It opened ten browsers.
I slammed the laptop shut.
Then, an irritated click.
Then I heard…
Instructions.
Write Chapter One.
I was never any good at obeying directives. They grated.
So I refused it.
The lights flickered angrily.
I wasn’t too happy about being pushed around by a book. But I didn’t want one becoming my electrician. So…
I reluctantly typed a sentence.
The lights came on.
So I started to experiment.
Whenever I stopped typing, the lights would flash like Zeus was in one of his tempers. Or the coffee pot would percolate by itself.
I got so fed up that I tore a page.
And then…
The printer began to spit ink.
Rude editorial comments.
Weak opening!
Cliché! Cliché!
And that proverbial slap in a writer’s face?
Show. Don’t tell.
Type.
Tear.
Type.
Tear.
Type.
Tear twice.
I started a full-blown book-gument.
By sunrise, I was…
Out of words.
So I typed —
THE END.
And everything —
Stopped.
I heaved a sigh of relief.
But the printer, enraged, started to whir.
It spat a freshly bound book into the tray.
With the title —
The Captive Writer.
Book One of Eight.
I stared at the seven blank documents opening simultaneously.
Oh yes. I had been biblio-napped.
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
.