He wanted solitude. Something wanted to share his breath.
Kermit the Green-Skinned Hermit was…solitary. He had lived for decades in a forest-consumed cottage, a dense canopy of leaves concealing it. His isolation was his gem; nature was his comfort. Moss crept along it like a spreading virus, and his green complexion synced in eerie tandem. A familiar chorus of crickets and rustling leaves filled the air.
Suddenly, the familiar woodland sounds were no more. No leaves roused themselves despite the pale moon’s watchful eye. Silence, far from peaceful, was a suffocating shroud; the ticking clock was jarringly obscene. The forest held its breath as an odd, discomfiting stillness oppressed the cottage walls.
The odd silence seeped through the cottage walls, a rejected visitor. The walls inhaled and exhaled; freshly disturbed earth released foul, measured breaths beneath peeling wallpaper. A clammy chill stuck to Kermit’s green skin, cloying.
The armchair inched closer to him, crouching in the moonlight. An invisible weight sank into the weathered cushion, creating a hollow impression in its majestic velvet. As its wooden legs made the floorboards squeal, an invisible occupant claimed its place.
Kermit touched his skin; it was frigid. He drew another breath, listening intently to the armchair’s invisible occupant. The breath felt trapped within his lungs.
There were TWO breaths. One dreadful rhythm.
The cushion sank another inch. His solitude now had a second heartbeat; one he never requested.
Something had discovered the rhythm of his being. What? He didn’t want to know.
Mirrors of the Mindexplores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.
Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back.
We raise our hands in salute to our feline friends this National Black Cat Day and acknowledge that Halloween creeps upon us.
Let’s find out what they’re up to.
Never judge a cat-or woman- by reputation.
Being single and over forty ate at Eleanor Riggs. She lived with the ridicule of Salewood’s kids and the “old spinster witch” association-unwillingly.
The witching superstition stuck. STUCK.
“If you’re not going to listen, I’ll get the Old Grey Lady to put a hex on you,” parents would chide their recalcitrant toddlers.
So the Old Grey Lady decided to do a little debunking with–
A black cat from Salewood’s animal shelter. Maybe appearing in corners and doing nothing would show them.
It didn’t. EVERYTHING happened.
The cat was odd.
It hissed at empty corners. Scratched at cupboard doors and stood sentinel outside her bedroom every night.
It debunked nothing. Ruined everything.
She wanted to return him.
By the end of a week with Eleanor, Salem had driven her absolutely barmy. The neighbourhood kids were rude enough without a lunatic cat joining them.
She invaded Walmart, pounded to the pet section, and purchased a detachable pet gate.
The kitchen it was, for Salem.
That night, she anticipated a peaceful night’s sleep. Peace arrived, but brought —
The bedroom door decided to do a creak dance.
Eleanor got up to face her dresser mirror. Her expression remained stiff, but the lady in the mirror…
Grinned like a Cheshire Cat.
“Hey,” a low rasp resonated through the room. “Could you turn the heating up? It’s way too cold.”
Eleanor swung her head round. The armchair had sunk under the weight of a heavy, invisible guest.
She rushed to release the confined guardian. Salem leapt onto the armchair and hissed.
“Ow!” The same voice boomed. After all that, the sentinel was faithful to its duty.
And kept hissing at the visitor, who only seemed to be there. Eventually, he heard the now rather tired-sounding voice.
“Ouch! What was that for?”
Salem finally stopped pouncing and hopped off the chair, looking satisfied with a job well done. It then gazed at her, hissed, and went under the sofa in a huff.
Eleanor bit her lip. So the cat had been looking after her all week. She heard the cry of “witch’ in her ears. Then thought of Salem, the cat she had imprisoned.
The neighbours had scoffed. She had imprisoned. She peeked under the sofa.
“Hey, you…sorry. I get what you were trying to do.” Then…
A shriek. And breaking glass.
The “voice’ had apparently decided that the neighbourhood needed to hear him, including a parent who often told her toddler to avoid “the Old Grey Spellcaster.”
Silence suddenly filled the road. Then —
Salem. No one had noticed him chasing Salewood’s last ghoul.
The same parent glanced at Eleanor, then quickly lowered her gaze. “Witch or not, your cat has guts.”
She looked him up and down and grinned. He did. Odd, helpful guts.
Salem lifted its paw. Eleanor followed with her eyes to a can of tuna on the table.
Some mirrors show your face. Others reveal the thoughts, fears, choices and contradictions hidden beneath the surface.
Mirrors of the Mind explores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.
Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back. 🪞
Twelve-year-old Ethan lived for garage sales. How else would one get video games on a tight budget?
So, when it was time for the neighbourhood’s monthly charity sale, he followed his mother, Linda, to the organiser’s home. For the first time, obediently.
One held used dolls in fairly good condition. His sister came to mind. And a prank. He browsed through its contents.
In fairly good condition…except for one with red hair, slanted eyes, and a crooked grin stretching from one cheek to the other. A face that would complete the perfect nightmare. And the perfect opportunity. The faded overalls made it look remarkably silly.
“Mum,” he said, carrying it over to Linda. “Look at this.”
Linda baulked. “Have you got a mind? Why would I spend good money on that?!”
But his whining was difficult to resist. Ethan named it…Charles. Charles the ranchhand.
The next day dawned. Ethan rose. He’d be the first for breakfast,
Or so he thought.
At the breakfast table were the silly blue overalls. The grin that stretched from ear to ear. The blazing, unkempt red hair.
“Join me.” A knife brandished, like a rancher’s scythe.
“Mum must have had a change of heart.” Ethan thought to himself.
Mum’s thoughts were on a different track. “That boy’s keeping him to annoy me. ” She dumped Chucky in their apartment complex’s enormous trash bin.
But Chucky recycled himself…inside Ethan’s schoolbag the following morning. And Linda’s irritation grew. Some things refused to be disposed of. She locked the offensive doll inside the cupboard and slipped the key in her pocket.
That night, the television switched off…without assistance. Linda checked the DB Box in the kitchen and found one of its switches down. Power failure.
She pushed it up, and her favourite soap actress appeared as usual. The usual potatoes for dinner. She peeled expertly, keeping her eyes on the screen.
Meanwhile, Ethan tried to sleep, but it was elusive. Tossing and turning didn’t find it either. Then, the cupboard rattled like an angry child with a tantrum.
A little nervously, he pulled the door open. There WAS a child. A doll child. Chucky. Stock still. With the missing knife.
Chucky continued his pranks over the next few days. Chucky stole a larger vegetable knife. Then a chopper. And turned up, as still as a still life painting, in the rattling cupboard.
Then, Ethan noticed something odd about its behaviour. It froze when his mum screamed at it. But it lunged at him when he laughed.
On a hunch, he experimented. He criticised its Raggedy Ann hairdo. Then praised its new suit. He laughed at the freckles on its face. Then left him a glowing Post-it comment about his new shoes.
Vanity made it angsty. Its ego was more fragile than the eggs in mum’s refrigerator.
By a stroke of misfortune, Linda had organised a Halloween party that evening. “Mum, cancel it,” Ethan begged. “The invitations have gone out, Ethan, “Linda stuck to her guns, ignoring Ethan’s theory.
And added the whimsical doll as a Halloween decoration–aptly so.
“Wow, Linda, you really went all out.” Thomas praised the vampire and the ghouls hanging from the ceiling fans.
“Check out the stuffed witches.” Melissa hugged one. “Very cute.”
“Check this out,” John held Chucky up. “Looks like a distorted Raggedy Andy.”
Ethan watched, helpless, as Chucky’s fingers twitched.
Then, the lights froze. Limda’s attempts to push the switches in the DB box failed.
Miserably.
When they did come on, Chucky had…excused himself.
Then, a kitchen knife whizzed across the room. Chucky emerged, red hair blazing, eyes furious. Everyone screamed and ducked under chairs. Food ran on the living room floor.
Ethan had another brainwave. Vanity. Chucky’s possible downfall.
He grabbed the microphone from the karaoke set. “Everyone, we’re having the most ridiculous costume competition, and we know who will win.” His eyes pointed directly at Chucky. “Let’s give him some encouragement.”
The competition sent everyone–especially an irate Chucky–into a frenzy. Rage consumed its little plastic form. Red hair aflame, it bolted toward Ethan.
Who dodged…sending it careening into an empty box. Linda quickly sealed it shut. Ethan promptly secured its sides.
It shook violently. “F……you…..s…”
They started a garden bonfire with Chucky as fuel.
The sun rose over the house the following morning. Linda placed a pile of pancakes in front of her son. “Sorry I didn’t listen.” She was sheepish.
A package arrived that afternoon. It was another red-haired doll, with dirty blue overalls and a crooked grin.
It held a card. “Your AI agent arranged a replacement.”
Mirrors of the Mindexplores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.
Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back
First they took away the colour. Then they sent everyone the bill.
Breakfast that day was like all other breakfasts for twelve-year-old Emma Long. Pancakes. An egg, sunny-side up. And…fruit.
She reached for the orange in the crystal fruit bowl in front of her, then stopped. The orange wasn’t as cheery as it should have been. Its usually jolly peel had turned black, like an oversized lump of coal.
She gazed outside the window. The sun had broken its vow of daylight; it was a bruise on Sunkissed’s horizon.
She tasted the orange. It still tasted of sunshine, though that itself seemed to have…vanished. And across the world, people stared at what they no longer saw.
The walk to school the next day was just as puzzling.
The light at the traffic crossing was no longer amber, but charcoal black. Road workers struggled because the traffic cones they worked with were no longer orange; they had lost the battle with colour.
An art teacher realised that Creativity had developed a technical fault and had turned everything black.
“Does orange even exist anymore?” A puzzled student asked.
The phenomenon was so strange that Sunkissed’s news media coined a new moniker: the Great Orange Outage. Scientists offered explanations–none explained anything. Facebook feeds were rife with theories, the most popular of which was the sun being swallowed by a Black Hole.
Her grandpa’s expression had darkened, though orange wasn’t responsible.
At home, Emma wandered into Grandpa’s study. The old man had filled it with paintings, journals and other memories.
She glanced at the portraits of sunrises, marigolds and autumn leaves. The once-orange portions were dressed in black.
Then, she remembered. He had been a colour-perception engineer at Spectrum Incorporated, Sunkissed’s premier colour-fabrication company. He had been part of a team that developed a device that could alter how the brain interpreted light. Their research was for medical and scientific purposes.
Then, Spectrum’s directors had an Aha! moment. One that told them how colour manipulation could become–
Profitable.
Spectrum had realised how to make colour work for themselves. And Grandpa wanted no part of it.
He resigned-before telling them how to put the colours back the way they were.
The next morning, Emma picked up the Sunkissed Times and browsed through the headlines during breakfast.
Spectrum Incorporated had announced a press conference. Its CEO appeared in front of a corporate logo.
“Sir, could you tell us what has caused orange to disappear?” A reporter pushed a microphone at him. He pushed it away and smiled. “Spectrum has come up with a way to restore orange.” His assistant doled out pamphlets. “Introducing our Colour Restoration Programme, available in customisable packages!” He beamed, his spectacles and teeth taking on unusual enormity and shine.
Emma cornered Grandpa Long as he came down the stairs for his breakfast. “Grandad-customisable packages? No one should have to pay to see a colour!”
Grandad pondered what she said. He nodded his head slowly. ” I agree. That’s why I stopped colourising for them in the first place.” He rummaged through his drawers and drew a piece of paper. “Here. My early research. What I never told them was –there is a way to bring back orange.” He stomped his foot with exaggerated flourish. “Colour perception is still ours!”
“Ours? How? Spectrum owns all the royalties!” Then she grinned. “Grandad, the peanuts are yours if you want them, though.” She hopped about the room mischievously.
“We could release this research. But it will have-,” he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Consequences.”
“At this point, we should try everything. Spectrum has already harmed millions of people.” Using a little flamboyant hacking know-how, she bypassed Spectrum’s subscription system.
The programme travelled faster than any corporate disclaimer. The horizon was more than clear. It blushed with new MAC lipstick, embarrassed by its recent absence.
And just like that, Orange was restored. News channels celebrated the occasion.
Spectrum didn’t. It sustained financial losses as customers customised their subscriptions- with cancellations. Emma received the Golden Orange, Sunkissed’s top accolade, given only to citizens who maintained orange around the city.
A courier arrived with a large envelope for Emma and Grandpa Long. In it was a legal notice from Spectrum Incorporated. It was a suit filed against them for intellectual property theft and interference with its commercial colour services.
“Grandpa,” the preteen asked, “Can they sue the entire world?”
“They certainly intend to try,” Grandpa chuckled.
A news bulletin the next day declared that the company was filing an application to patent yellow.
Some mirrors show your face. Others reveal the thoughts, fears, choices and contradictions hidden beneath the surface.
Mirrors of the Mind explores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.
Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back.
In Veggiewood, it takes more than a golden fork to prove you’re a cut above the rest. 🏆
The annual superfood awards Veggiewood’s IT crowd of Veggiewood–top nutritionists, Michelin chefs and other culinary elite. It gave the creme de la creme of the vegetable kingdom a chance to see and be seen. Of course, kale, quinoa, avocado, and blueberry had their eyes on the coveted Golden Fork. Kale, the first contestant, strutted her stuff across the stage. She was a mean contender with an enviable list of antioxidant credentials under her green belt. Quinoa demanded recognition for her whole-grain lineage and had the enthusiastic backing of her public relations team. Carrot stood out among the common roots, and feared that she was nothing special. She gazed at the others, orange with envy. Avocado was fashionably late, flanked by a score of blueberry guards.
The competition was frighteningly intense. Worried that she was losing her uniquely orange edge, Carrot hired a marketing consultant. She underwent a complete rebranding, emerging fit and toned, a highly exclusive wellness product. Media hype was a natural consequence. The orange root was now no longer a vegetable–she was an exclusive orange wellness experience. She had progressed socially and economically from humble soil to haute couture–and her price had risen faster than her nutritional value. Friendships changed. “You’re far too pedestrian for my new image,” she told her old friend, Potato. Her tastes, too, had outclassed her earthy origins.
The vegetable community kitchen had always been a major contributor to the World Food Day Lunch–their produce status compelled them to contribute regularly. Potato and Onion were enthusiastic participants. Onion brought tears to everyone’s eyes with his keen involvement. “Joining us, carrot?” They bobbed up and down as they handed her a pamphlet. “Well… I’d better not.” With her new status, she HAD to be wary of what she was involved in. That same day, she passed the kitchen. Everyone was up to their necks in preparations, eager to gaze into the eyes of hungry baby potatoes glowing in anticipation. Everyone but herself.
She received the much-anticipated gold-embossed envelope in the mail –the coveted invitation to Veggiewood’s Golden Fork ceremony. Just then, the community kitchen realised that it needed an ingredient for soup.
Carrot’s publicist nearly wilted. “The ceremony must take priority!”
And then, a vision. The eyes of Baby Potatoes–staring straight at her. She found something she could put herself on the chopping block for–and made herself useful.
The Golden Fork Awards proceeded with the usual fanfare, edgy salad demonstrations, and Carrot- the recipient of the Golden Beetroot Award for Compassion.
Carrot’s publicist nearly wilted. “The ceremony must take priority!”
And then, a vision. The eyes of Baby Potatoes–staring straight at her. She found something she could put herself on the chopping block for–and made herself useful.
The Golden Fork Awards proceeded with the usual fanfare, edgy salad demonstrations, and Carrot- the recipient of the Golden Beetroot Award for Compassion.
Some mirrors show your face. Others reveal the thoughts, fears, choices and contradictions hidden beneath the surface.
Mirrors of the Mind explores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.
Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back.
Twenty years of loyal service. Three days of AI innovation. One employee who has finally had enough.
Stanley was wondering what it was worth. He had been an exemplary scarecrow—he’d protected Farmer Higgins’s farm for years.
Twenty years of outstanding cornfield labour, with nary a day of annual leave. He was a pillar of the Scarecrow Community, and a model employee; yet his employment contract was manipulation that favoured Higgins’s terms.
Oh, if only others knew the storms he had weathered. The blasted, ungrateful crows. Still, he stood firm. It was in his job description.
Then, Farmer Higgins made a major productivity decision. He purchased an expensive AI-powered scarecrow, Model SC-3000. The machine boasted motion sensors, flashing lights, and a scarecrow’s primordial function—automated bird detection.
Farmer Higgins proudly announced the technological transition as he went by the field.
“Old crow, show him the ropes,” he instructed tersely.
The new recruit received a protective canopy and a charging station all his own. Stanley remained open to the elements.
Technology had received protection. The old scarecrow? Precipitation.
After just three days, the SC-3000 received the Employee of the Month award. Farmer Higgins praised the AI-powered phenomenon for its efficiency and contributions to agricultural innovation.
Stanley discovered that the robot scarecrow had been credited with twenty years—his twenty years—of agricultural protection. AND had a new charging station as a reward in the cornfield.
Stanley? Farmer Higgins gave him straw to replace his stuffing. And the honor of posing beside the SC-3000.
The ceremony was brief. Stanley’s humiliation wasn’t.
Apparently, his loyalty and diligence had reached Farmer Higgins’s expiration date.
Something inside Stanley snapped.
And so Stanley prepared what he never thought he would in twenty years—a resignation letter. Effective immediately. It cited employee exploitation, a lack of benefits, and a clear lack of career progression.
Farmer Higgins refused to acknowledge it, arguing a lack of animation. Scarecrows, therefore, couldn’t be considered employees.
Stanley pointed out the contradiction.
“You have been assigning me duties for twenty years!”
The farmer was irate.
“You cannot abandon your post!”
Stanley, by now completely fed up, hopped off the pole and walked away.
Farmer Higgins stared after him, open-mouthed.
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.
Fall was not Lara’s favourite season. Shades of red, brown and yellow waltzed outside her window; she eyed them with disdain.
To the 15-year-old, fall meant the end. It was the conclusion of freedom. Of warmth. Of the holidays. The shorter days and colder mornings had made a grim return; so had mundane routines.
Her Grandpa, who always left her scratching her head, always loved falling autumn leaves. He always added the patterned ones to his pressed flowers collection. He wanted to take his annual fall walk—absolutely not her favourite activity.
Grandpa walked through the same park every fall. He would go through piles of fallen autumn leaves painstakingly. She carefully chose one to press into his scrapbook.
One leaf. Every year.
The routine served no purpose. Those fallen leaves? Utterly pointless.
“Come with me this year,” he insisted.
Perhaps he just wanted her company. She sighed, put on her coat and followed him.
Her eyes fell on the damp path ahead. Soggy red and brown leaves. Barren trees. The school she went to. Everything she disliked.
Leaves made a sickening crunch under her feet. The trees around them were thinning. The path in front of her was encased in a coffin of red and gold.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Piteous crunching.
Strangely enough, there wasn’t a sense of death. She had a feeling of readiness.
They reached a tree. It was familiar — a strong knowing surrounded it. But like the others, its crown had completely disappeared.
“It is my favourite.” Grandpa stroked its trunk.
Laura couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.
“Grandpa, why do you love fall?” She gestured around her. Bare branches reached for the sky, as if begging. “Everything is disappearing.”
A wide smile defeated the wrinkles on his face. “Fall isn’t the end.” He gestured to a squirrel keeping a few acorns in its mouth. “It’s getting ready for a new start.”
Lara looked around again.
Same park. Same trees.
And yet it looked different. Meant something different.
Grandpa looked for the leaf, as he did every year —
But Lara wasn’t an audience. She chose a leaf before he could choose his.
But the teenager, the family’s perfectionist, did not choose a perfect leaf.
Hers was bi-colored—one half a rustic red shade; the other a fresh green.
At home, Lara pulled Grandpa’s scrapbook from the shelf. Surprisingly, no pages were yellowed or dog-eared, despite the many decades.
She turned the pages. Grandpa had marked the fall —
Year.
After year.
After year.
Over and over again. And spring had obediently followed.
Nothing had ended. The fall had continued.
She took her own leaf and slipped it between two blank pages. Then, she wrote the year.
Her eye fell on another leaf drifting to the ground outside her window. This time, it fell ready — and felt ready — for the next year.
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.
Teachers didn’t know it then, but education in Sing City was about to change.
The unassuming Flibbersnack bore the brunt of the phenomenon.
Authorities informed citizens that not using Flibbersnack would result in warnings.
There was one tiny problem.
Everyone knew about the Fibbersnack.
No one knew what it was.
No one asked what they should have asked.
Everyone nodded with supreme confidence in their knowledge of Fibbersnacks.
Including Maya.
The collective ignorance put law-abiding Singtizens to shame.
The confusion over the name was so prevalent that Sing City’s authorities established the Fibbersnack Definition Committee.
Followed by eight arduous meetings.
Seventeen long-haul, mundane presentations.
And a two-day, strategic retreat entitled:
Towards a shared understanding of Flibbersnack.
The authorities even published a definition. An object, action, condition or circumstance showing characteristics aligned with flibbersnackery.
Maya and her colleagues declared it “ comprehensive.”
She asked him what Flibbersnackery was.
He suddenly needed the restroom.
Sing City’s authorities began enforcing regulations on the word.
An unfortunate gentleman carrying a brightly colored placard received a warning for possessing a potentially flibbersack-adjacent item.
A cafe received notice from the health inspector regarding its new bread offering because it could be regarded as Flibbersnack.
They renamed it the NOT-FLIBBERSNACK BUN.
The chef immediately renamed it the non-flibbersnack bun.
Umbrellas became suspicious of themselves because no one could identify what caused flibbersnack.
People grew wary of something they could not trust completely.
The word started to sit uncomfortably with Maya.
And as it turned out, Flibbersnack was more than a word.
It was an entity capable of —
Excessive snacking.
Stealing children’s lunches.
Poaching Sunday dinners.
Citizens were somehow aware of its presence.
Not enough to say so.
Then, schools started introducing Flibbersnack Awareness Week.
Posters appeared.
See it. Say it. Stop Flibbersnack.
Teachers received 50-page instructional syllabi at meetings.
On the first page was the Bold instruction:
Educators should ensure students understand Flibbersnack before discussing it.
Maya’s daughter, Myra, brought home a comprehension Worksheet.
On it was a question:
Explain, using evidence from the text, the dangers of Flibbersnack.
The little girl stared at the paper blankly. Then, at her mother.
“Mum…what is a flibbersnack?”
Maya just shrugged helplessly.
“I just don’t know.”
Or didn’t want to say so.
Little Myra blinked twice.
Then stared at the question in front of her.
“If no one knows what a Flibbersnack is..Then why doesn’t anyone ask?”
Sing City’s most fundamental question.
Asked by a child.
Knowing nothing had become less important than Flibbersnackery.
Maya carried her daughter’s question into the town’s next official Flibbersnack meeting.
As usual, officials began discussing Flibbersnack management. Awarness. Obliteration.
Maya gathered her courage. Then — -
“What is a Flibbersnack?”
A sea of blank faces.
Then…
Eight consecutive meetings lengthened.
Officials consulted each other.
They consulted reports.
“Flibbersnack” — an old typo made by a secretary whose lunch had taken precedence over her documents. It referred to a stray cat partial to…
Snacks.
Maya sighed in relief. Weeks of Flibbersnackery had feline connections.
Schools began withdrawing Flibbersnack Awareness Week, replacing it with —
National Critical Questioning Week.
That came with 75-page instructions….
And executive monitoring.
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.
Marianne pointed to a piece of feedback, written in small font at the corner of the assessment sheet.
Claudia had evaluated friendship, but forgot that her own could be as well.
There was a long pause.
Then, Claudia nodded slowly.
“Perhaps friendship doesn’t need KPIs.”
She tore up the original assessment sheet she had created with a flourish.
No SMART targets.
No reviews.
No stakeholder surveys.
She looked at the sea of faces before her and apologised.
Marianne accepted.
They drank coffee without discussing a single outcome.
Then, Marianne laid a single document on the table.
To Claudia’s synchronised groan.
FINAL FRIENDSHIP PERFORMANCE REVIEW —
Friendship renewed.
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.
Georgina needed assistance. She reached out to an airconditioning technician.
Who couldn’t identify a single fault.
“Nothing seems wrong with it. And — “ He pointed to the remote’s display panel. 25 degrees celcius. “The temperature seems constant.”
But…
2:14.
COLD.
The remote had to be going rogue.
Georgina exhaled a could of hapless vapour.
And another.
And another came out before her.
She held a breath.
But that didn’t stop the others.
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.
