A single moment at the glass.
🤍🐶🪟👀
Dog at the window
Eyes fixed on the coffeeshop
White tail perked upright
🤍🐶🚪👁️
Original Haiku by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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🎺🏛️🌬️🪶📋
We had been briefed a week before Windswept’s annual, must-have parade. Principals had briefed us teachers; there was a mass issuance of consent forms.
It was a parade to die for. A chance for the town’s mayor to –
Represent himself.
The bald-headed gentleman usually did so with aplomb,
The day arrived with due fanfare. Headcounts were meticulous – it was necessary that everyone be present. Windswept needed to show the other towns that it could hold its own.
With that in mind, there were rehearsed reminders for its people. Needless to say, seating had been carefully assigned pre-parade. Everything and everyone had proper placements.
We dutifully instructed students not to embarrass the school with unofficial chatter.
🎉📣🌬️🪺📑
The aisles stirred with trepidation. Windswept’s flags were at full mast; they were waving synchronously, almost in a march. The town’s lone stadium was filled to capacity; no one dared to miss the town’s event of the year.
Then, the raised whispers of children. Ripples of laughter that spectators made little effort to suppress.
I looked up to see –
The wind hovered over the stadium, coming in from Windswept’s east quarter. It rid the stadium of excess heat. It took beautifully misshapen white clouds across a panoramic blue sky. The responsible breeze did its job well.
One element, however, remained unaffected. It appeared professionally secure; his head moved little, holding it in its rightful place. The wind respected its malleability.
Just as it did the flags.
The birds respected its size.
🏫🎖️🌬️📋🪶
But-
A student almost pointed. The rest of my charges were getting amicably restless.
Some observations were best left unvoiced and unrecorded.
Also, we had a tight schedule to keep and could not afford disruptions.
I took preemptive action. The moment was far from appropriate. Our responsibility as teachers was not to evaluate; the paperwork would take care of that.
🏫🎖️🌬️📋🪶
There were other concerns. It was late; our charges were famished. I proceeded obediently to the organizer’s outpost to collect our promised rations. The commemorative parcels that were the hallmark of each year’s parade.A sign of the town’s tangible gratitude. Their absence would diminish attendance.
But they were insufficient. An issue of demand exceeding supply.
Distribution, therefore, was selective. Saved for the best. So the parcels were calculated, with teacherly optimism.
Some students were deemed eligible; they received them.
Others did not.
The organisers were also short of a communication device; they borrowed my megaphone.
“Everyone, other than the rations we do provide, the stalls at the back of the stadium are open.”
The grumbles from the ground were faint, but obvious.
It was an organizational oversight. We would see to it, I was sure. Ever the trained professional, I patronised the stalls, and lulled waiting stomachs.
We moved along quietly, and the music resumed.
🌬️🪶📋
The bus ride back to the school was uneventful, though abuzz with childish chatter.
“I never realized that about him.”
“He gleamed.”
‘Yes, it was the hallmark of the ceremony.”
They had thankfully forgotten about the ration lack. We could forget about documenting that.
I had not forgotten. There was a lot to record.
Monday did arrive, regardless. A meeting was scheduled for the day.
A day when we would laud the mayor for his impeccable performance, speech and achievements.
There was also a lot to praise the organisers for – the outstanding food that managed to satisfy a group of otherwise exhausted and attention-lacking students.
It met our school’s exceptional standards for nutritional adequacy. The menu’s items were carefully curated to satisfy every hungry stomach. And they met caloric expectations.
And so the meeting proceeded as usual, with all the necessary documentation.
Without the hair.
🌬️🪶📋
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Not overshadowed. Not applauded.
👤❌👏
Sophia was always behind someone else.
Always the grey shadow on the fringe.
The light refused to land on her. So she remained half-visible. Never fully present to anyone.
She was introduced to the relatives at family gatherings, then became the family’s phone book – referred to, and not thought about. She always stood where applause was the softest.
👤❌👏
So Sophia learned a survival skill. One that took her through life.
Autocorrection.
She became the editor – of herself.
Credit traveled to her brother, the floral crown. Her sentences were borrowed clothes. Comparison became a second name.
👤❌👏
Then, the family feast. The aunts. The uncles.
The deferring to her sister. And she, by the wall.
A potted plant.
And the plant finally imbibed too much water.
Something aligned. Settled into its proper trajectory.
Silence was no longer part of Sophia’s jigsaw.
She drew a line – gently, without spectacle.
“Ai yi, I’ve told you before…”
👤❌👏
She was the quiet one. Not that day.
The shadow came to life.
“My turn to speak.”
She refused to stop speaking.
“I’ve never liked chicken with soy sauce. You wanted to think I did. It’s always Ah Boy’s achievements. What he has. I have them too. Have you asked?”
The shadow hovered.
👤❌👏
Silence seeping into the walls.
Into the room.
They continued eating.
But the room had adjusted.
The shadow grew taller. And took a step sideways.
And that moved the applause elsewhere.
Not to her. But an unheard echo for an unseen stage.
👤❌👏
Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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Not every message deserves a monument.
🐶🤲
Lina taps her phone.
Scrolls.
Light tweaks transform her face.
Her shoulders taut.
Breath – short.
Her thumb hovers.
🐶🤲
Her mind –
Aware.
The WhatsApp Chat comes alive.
“How could she say that?”
“That was out of line!”
“If she wasn’t our mum -‘
Her heart narrows.
The room –
Smaller than it once was.
🐶🤲
She clicks on the tab.
Closed.
The screen is black.
The room –
As it was.
🐶🤲
She returns to her room.
Three heads lift.
Tails answer long before her.
Warm fur under her palm.
A warm weight against her legs.
Breath warming her soul.
🐶🤲
The phone.
Face down on the table.
The WhatsApp message –
Continues. Yet unseen.
🐶🤲
A head buries itself in her hand.
She pats it.
“it’s” alright.
🐶🤲
It’s about hurtful noise.
The message.
Not forgotten.
🐶🤲
Unrecorded.
🐶🤲
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Some hauntings don’t rattle chains. They wait in your notifications.
🕯️🌫️🚶♂️📖✨
I gathered with Elvis and the rest of the group, ready to grace ghostly lanes with gentle tiptoes.
Our guide, Mann, was a fellow who engaged…though without unnecessary pomp.
The buildings around the park were old. The streets, narrow. Lamps hummed in a slightly strangled way, as if they hadn’t enough Strepsils.
And we followed behind Mann like obedient shadows.
Mann launched into his spooky stories. But…they were…oddly personal.
Someone chortled suddenly. Uncomfortably.
The air thinned as the guide came to each stop.
The stories narrowed, like a zoom camera.
Oddly familiar – and tied to each group member.
A woman who declined her mother’s last call – that same woman was now frantically tapping her mobile’s keypad.
Then, there was the tale of the man who chose profit over humanity. That same man was shoving company leaflets.
Then, there was the teen who caught footage of people falling off their bikes. He was filming a boy skidding past on a skateboard, yielding to the pavement.
Then Mann stopped with an abrupt flourish. He swiveled around from his position in front to face the group.
“These stories aren’t recorded hauntings. They’re our regrets. Our behaviours. Choices that replay in a Youtube loop long after we’ve made them. Check your phones.
Each group member scrolled through their message feeds and looked up, sheepish.
With a missed notification. An unread message.
“These spirits don’t flood buildings. They’re ours. Our neglected responsibilities.”
Suddenly, we weren’t afraid of darkness. Our fear? What awaited us at home.
The silence was loud. Clanking.
Reminding.
And regret swarmed in, dark, hungry flies.
It crept over us quickly, a dangerous blanket. We dispersed, trying vainly to avoid it.
Mann again. With a new group of ghost tourists.
With their stories. Stories they must complete.
🕯️🌫️🚶♂️📖✨
Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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We celebrate International Mother Tongue day today.
Every language has its place.
We don’t always need to tell
what we know.
We sometimes choose silence on purpose.
🦯🤫🧠⚖️
“Grandma, it’s dollar, not dorra.”
At the bank.
My grandchild minds my English.
I blush.
🦯🤫🧠⚖️
But smile.
And wink behind her.
“The old lady’s dumb.”
In Mandarin.
I clutch my walking stick.
🦯🤫🧠⚖️
You see, I know.
I got what that bank teller said.
Just decided
NOT to say so.
🦯🤫🧠⚖️
So I am ignorant.
I am weak.
I do not get it.
But I know.
🦯🤫🧠⚖️
This is about using language and power.
Let them think they know.
But I know.
I want to speak
Only when THEY need to learn.
More than me.
🦯🤫🧠⚖️
Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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You voted. You signed. You agreed.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
This poem is about a man, Mr. Tan.
My neighbour.
He has the key to my apartment.
He says it’s to help me with emergencies.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
The lift
On our corridor.
Always breaks down.
No one notices because they travel.
Mr. Tan has their parcels.
He waters their plants.
Checks on the residents.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
He knows who’s in…
And who’s not.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
Then –
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
Shoes.
Slightly moved.
The window was closed just now.
The towel – wasn’t it folded to the left?
Folded to the right now.
See the fridge door through the window?
It’s not shut tight.
A WhatsApp message from Mr. Tan.
“You forgot to turn off the stove.”
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
Nothing was stolen.
Nothing was damaged.
Nothing to report.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
Mr. Tan passed by.
“You weren’t sleeping well last night.”
“Your living room light was on.”
“Instant noodles are bad for you.”
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
Just…neighbourly concern.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
I talked to him.
“How did you enter my home?”
Mr. Tan showed me a document.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
The management retains access.
It can conduct checks.
It can conduct inspections.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
Mr. Tan is its representative.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
I voted for him.
Thanked him.
Even gave him the spare key.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
This poem is about privacy.
About permission.
How safety can become intrusion.
Mr. Tan holds the key.
So do I.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
I gave it to him.
👨🏻🦳🔑🚪👀📱📄✔️
Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Li. AI tags are coincidental.
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When the light flickers, people behave. When it stops, they explain.
💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡
Tan here. A long-term resident of Block 345, Chestpeak Avenue.
It’s not a bad place to live. The residents of Block 345 are generally orderly folk who maintain the block well. And I like that they leave everything where it should be.
But that lamp. That idiotic lamp.
The flickering of that idiotic lamp was irritating. Irregular. Inconsistent.
It happened whenever I walked past, but some enjoyed uninterrupted illumination.
That was interesting to note.
Coincidence, of course.
💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡
Take Mdm Lim, for example. The one who waters others’ plants for them. That light would behave over her.
Now me? I’m not a plant person. I like to keep up with the news.
But I’m a retiree. I can’t afford regular newspapers, so I depend on…external help.
I sometimes…er…borrow the newspapers outside neighbours’ apartments when they’re not watching.
And that darned light would go on and off over me whenever I did.
💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡
I, Tan, believe that optics must be upheld. I’ve always done this at work.
And at home as well.
Sharing corridors requires community discipline, so I make sure to return the newspapers slightly earlier.
What is borrowed must return mah? Best practice.
Tan always obeys community standards.
💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡
They finally replaced the silly lamp. See? I said that the wiring was faulty.
Nothing unusual. Just the Town Council and its nonsense.
Things went back to normal since the lamp stopped flickering. Mdm Lim waters her own plants and conserves water for herself now.
Everyone else’s – not so important lah.
Me? Now that the lamp has stopped flickering, I have decided to borrow newspapers permanently.
No returning. For what? Everyone can see anyway.
💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡
So, everything in order, lah.
It WAS faulty wiring, like I said. Glad they corrected it.
Mdm Lim waters her own plants and conserves water for herself now.
I borrow…but when no one else is in the corridor.
I don’t like that light now. It shows. Too well.
💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡
Original Singaporean microfiction by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental
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Some subjects are not resolved — only remembered.
🥢🧧🧨
The table –
A family feast.
Everyone fussing with frankness.
Red. Pink.
Lanterns over the door.
Symbols of prosperity.
Kindred souls.
🥢🧧🧨
Eating.
Refreshing rawness of roe.
Familial jokes.
“Remember how Uncle Henry died?”
Silence cloaks the table.
🥢🧧🧨
The dining room pauses.
🥢🧧🧨
The dog by the window.
🥢🧧🧨
Canned laughter.
“Delicious.”
“Is that program on?”
Chewing, slowly.
🥢🧧🧨
Silently.
🥢🧧🧨
Shoes on.
Purposeful steps.
“See you next year.”
Uncle Henry – remembered.
🥢🧧🧨
Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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The Chinese welcome the year of the Fire Horse this 2026.
But the horse isn’t always firey …it also possesses a gentle, rugged spirit.
For everyone on Vocal, for the Lunar New Year. And for those who need it at this time…may the gentle spirit of the horse, and the red packets of blessing, be a guide.
A red envelope
Sealed with good fortune and grace
A blessing of luck.
Second red packet
Closed and given with sweetness
A blessing that binds.
A third red packet
With success hidden within
Little gift of hope.
A fourth red packet
Given with grace of good health
And a wish of strength.
Final red packet
Filled with nuggets of pure joy
For the year ahead.
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 