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Some curiosities are carved in stone—and they never forget.
🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎 🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎 🐎🐎🐎🐎
The boys scrambled across the rocks of the cavern, wet from the rising tide. The smell of hewn stone pervaded the air—dust waiting to be returned to life.
The walls had taken on a luminous sheen—more vibrant than they should have been after thousands of years. Carvings of livestock—bison, horses, stags—had been etched mid-stride, as if the animals were unaware of being stalked. The sound of echoing hooves.
No one was moving.
A nervous chuckle seemed to come from Marvin, one of the inquisitive teens. “Look—it’s like they’re watching us.”
The others exchanged hesitant glances, then turned their heads to him. They were silent.
For too long.
“Marvin,” Nicholas had furrows on his brow.
And those furrows weren’t typical.
The laughter echoed around the cavern.
“Did you just laugh?”
“It wasn’t me,” He swore. But his face had contorted into a too-wide grin.
One he tried to control—vainly.
Then, the walls stirred.
Shadows rippled around the bison’s hooves. They pounded in echo—but nothing moved.
The carvings shimmered in the light of the boys’ lanterns—as if the creatures had noticed.
The hooves echoed—faster.
The boys tried to stand, gripping the stones around them a little too hard.
“Hello?” Nicholas’s question bore a panicked ring.
“Hello!” An echo—not Nicholas’ voice.
Then—fur. On the hooves of the etched bison.
The bison’s muscles.
Twitching.
The paintings on the wall turned.
Antlers poised.
At the boys.
Who wanted to know—too much.
The boys quickly backed out of the cavern. As they did, the bison returned to their etched poses.
Heard.
The tide receded—but the hooves still pounded, for those who dared to listen.
🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎 🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎 🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎
Have you known curiosity to stir the bison, figuratively? Do share in the comments.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
City folks exhausted by routine. Figures moving through streets and parks, half-forgotten. Shadows hover strangely when no one watches.
When no one pays attention.
Attention that, when neglected, should be reclaimed–before things change.
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Lina was the quintessential workhorse—she cared for nothing but the daily grind. She’d taken enough from a boss who wanted more than she could deliver—all she wanted was home, and to soak in a bubble bath of kindness.
The park was empty of visitors, leaving only lamplight that bent oddly around puddles of rain for company. The air was cool—so cool that shadows hesitated or lingered, almost as if they found the ground repugnant.
Lina trod the usual path, her bagpack slung carelessly, her eyes glued to the cracked pavement. Something at the periphery of her vision twitched—perhaps a passerby in a sonic hurry. Or likely a flickering shadow, drifting out of place. She blinked it and flitted out of sight.
A puddle rippled—no wind blew. A leaf hovered in midair, remaining a second too long. Lina snapped her head. The figure appeared at the corner of her eye again, teased by the light.
Precise.
Too exact.
She turned right. It did too. She turned left. It did too. It mimicked every step she took. The light of a park lamp hovered over her, shining on distended shadows that stretched in ways that tightened her stomach.
She stopped. It did too.
She stepped forward—it moved first.
Her pulse raced. Each of her instincts screamed that she had a mimic—one that tested and teased, floundering at the edges of her perception. Reality shivered.
Her movements—no longer hers.
She managed to leave the park. The pavement leading from it was familiar — yet out of place. The corners had taken on a razor-like quality that seemed to brush against her skin with ominous fingers. Shadows hung over her—too long. The air bore an uncanny memory of what once was.
She couldn’t unsee—it. It echoed every twitch, every glance with uncanny synchrony.
Something had shaped her awareness during those moments. Not in the best way.
She breathed, at last, at a normal rate. But her shoulder twitched, and it did too. It glanced towards unseen corners—together with her.
The street before here echoed the impossible rhythm. The shadow had consumed the edge of her attention.
That she had been too busy to give.
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Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
Has the unnoticed waited for you before? Feel free to share!
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
This day. September 10th in 1960, is the day marathon runner Abebe Bikila completed and won the marathon in Rome–with no shoes.
Each step we take–each footfall tells a tale of struggle and hope. This journey is one of bare feet–one of resilience and hope. And each of us has a pair.
We can do it–with bare feet.
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Bare feet
Tread on vacant lanes
Rough.
Too wide
Asphalt.
Searing.
Bare
feet
Open
Cut
Hardened
Yet hesitant
Poised to run.
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Lines
On Skin
Deepen.
My heartbeat quickens
Then slows.
Spirit wills
Yet wails.
Finish line
Near yet
A blur sketch
Distant.
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Cuts
On skin
Fester.
My mind filled
But blackened
Dark.
Painful steps
Callused.
Trod by unseen souls.
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Line
Crossed.
Victory
Not sweet
But sought.
Fought.
Bare feet.
Cut
But formed.
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A road
Run
As one
Who will come.
The bare feet
Owned by
All.
👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
So it is that the town of Wilkinson gathered to celebrate the sacrifices of those who cared for those who ran towards flames or pain.
Sirens wailed–not for safety, but empty celebration. The confetti little ones in the audience at the town’s stadium fell to its floor in heaps of ash.
The parade was in full swing– cars drove by with garish clowns staring out the window. Jugglers on pogo sticks smiled twisted smiles as they tossed tennis balls in the air.
Confetti ash stuck to spectators’ hands as they waved their party favours. In the middle of the third row, a mask slipped–a child’s gaze felt–
Hollow.
Vacant.
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The marches began–armed service platoons, and paramedics, now on a different duty. They marched well.
Too well. Too timed. Their boots struck the pavement in a march too stoic–one beyond dignity.
A metallic tang rode the air, filling it with an almost bloodlike taste.
Where there was none.
The crowd started to shift in their seats. Little children eyed the passing clowns, not with laughter or smiles, but stares, locked in place.
Siren calls distorted–the crowd snapped its heads in their direction.
In perfect sync.
Unthinking.
And the marchers lagged behind the music–not under its guidance, but the metronome of another.
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The metallic tang thickened, more and more akin to blood. The confetti ash stuck to everyone’s hair, greying each member of the crowd.
A crowd of dedicated to service.
One which continued its mechanical cheers.
Then, one of the marchers faltered out of step. His mask slipped.
His face–sunken. Pale. Stoic.
Features affixed.
The crowd soon followed his falter, their masks dutifully slipping.
To the same, unseen rhythm.
Their faces–his.
Sunken. Pale. Stoic.
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Silence.
The group of marchers and the crowd stayed still.
As one.
Staring.
At —
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When a march like this begins, would you follow, or strip off the mask? Do answer in the comments!
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Which object in your life has been a witness to change or loss, yet remained?
Do reply in the comments!
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
A teenage boy sits, fingers poised on the keyboard. His laptop sits, silent.
Waiting.
To answer before he seeks.
Its screen hums, recalling.
Knowing.
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He types in a Google box to find,
The answers come before his thought–
The results mention his name,
“Tom, you sought what I claim–“
Exit frozen, stopped–
Camera flickers
Watcher speaks
His voice
“Soul.”
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If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Here’s a Haiku Triptych–a Haiku chain of three–for lovers of romance.
Our memories are sometimes blurred.
The moon’s light clarifies them, touching–and quietly mending.
🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️
Under moonlight’s glow
Ripples gently caress feet
His gentle recall.
🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️
Light carries the mind
Fragments touched by soft ripples
Reaching for his soul.
🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️
By the pond’s edge he walks
Mind and soul now become one
He remembers her.
🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️🌕❤️
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
For those who read The Boy Who Stored Goodbyes in a Box, you’ll remember Boon, the Little Boy who tucked away goodbyes and memories in a box like treasures.
He’s now grown into Detective Boon –a sensitive, empathetic sleuth who doesn’t flinch from a little grit.
This story does deal with a few gritty issues –not too much, but enough to matter.
The lost-and-found corner in Khaji Primary School reeked of deliberately forgotten odours- discarded, unwashed lunchboxes; soiled, smelly tees; textbooks climbing to the ceiling with success
But the room wasn’t all foul odour and disappointment. Miss Lina, the school’s custodian, had placed a Kindness Box where children could leave encouragement and thank you notes.
But kindness kept going…missing.
Notes mysteriously vanished, day by day.
“Chum ah(Oh dear in Hokkien),” a flustered Miss Lina nearly turned upside down herself in her search.
The last straw was a note that read “You matter”.
It vanished.
Like the person never did.
She summoned the police–and something sharp and small arrived.
It clinked.
The musical sound.
Of glass.
“A boy named Boon…stored goodbyes in a box…”
Detective Boon strapped on a pair of forensic gloves, combing the trash like treasure.
The little glass box of goodbyes was married to him –he carried it everywhere in his knapsack.
Khaji Primary still smelled the same –like over ripe banana–as it did years earlier.
The missing notes of kindness were sticky notes that would not detach.
He noticed a peculiar piece of paper, its edges torn.
“You mat…” The rest was jagged scrap.
That nettled Boon…like the missing goodbyes that vanished with those who meant.
“Jia lat…(Terrible) who would stick a knife like that?”
That torn note was the last straw for the Singaporean gumshoe.
It vanished.
Like the person never did.
She summoned the police–and something sharp and small arrived.
Boon’s mind flooded with notes from his Goodbye Box–small. large. tattered. torn.
He felt each at the tips of his forensic-gloved fingers.
But this stood out.
“You matter.”
Compassion bordered in gold, in bubbled handwriting.
It was for her.
The flower by the classroom isle.
The punches.
The crying.
The catcalls.
“Chio Bu (pretty girl in Hokkien).
The video –1000 views within five minutes of its release.
That note was NOT written in erasable ink.
It mattered.
And he had to find it.
A trail of torn paper Boon noticed at the corner of his eye gave him a start.
He followed it to the school’s storeroom.
Where he found the missing pieces and letters of the note scattered on the floor.
The room’s occupant –Ah Tan.
The school’s janitor.
Boon didn’t confront him –directly.
He waited.
School had to be over.
He sat in Tan’s chair, swivelling it until the janitor appeared.
He didn’t speak to the man. There was a simple note on the table.
“You can’t tear what she needed others to hear.”
Ah Tan unfolded it. The old man unfolded it, hands trembling.
He looked frail. More than boon remembered.
“Boon…I only took the ones I wished you all had written for me. I cleaned for you.”
Boon placed an arm on his shoulder.
Boon returned to Khaji Primary School a few weeks later.
Miss Lina had put out the Kindness Box again. It overflowed with Post-Its.
A smaller glass box sat next to it.
No label.
Inside, parts of a small note, combined with sticky tape.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 