Today is the International Day of Nothing…when we mark the necessity of a little silence.
Emptiness and space are as important as thought.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. We need space.
Nothing is on the ascendant.
🕯️⬛🕰️⬛🕯️
An empty house, a quiet street,
Where no birds flew and the wind failed to greet
The clocks did pause, its ticks unsure
The world held its breath, the stillness queer.
🕯️⬛🕰️⬛🕯️
Shadows stayed, a touch too long
Visions looming by eye’s edge
Its soul empty, bareness strong
Its cold breath cuts, a razor’s blade.
🕯️⬛🕰️⬛🕯️
Its quiet surges, wraps and swallows
A chair, now gone, a lamp now blown
Its hunger triumphs, a new gallow
Nothing ascends its blackened throne.
🕯️⬛🕰️⬛🕯️
When the day was finally done
Blackness stayed, the light now gone
Nothing’s soul had triumphed – won
A well-deserved, though unseen throne.
🕯️⬛🕰️⬛🕯️
Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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 in history, Henry Ford patented the soybean car. Atypical. Even amusing.
The car wasn’t meant to last – it would wither into the soil, with corn growing where the engine once slept.
Sometimes the smallest, unseen roots yield the sweetest harvest.
🍃🍂🍃🍂🍃🍂🍃🍂🍃🍂
If there was one thing Elias Goh had lots of on his hands, it was time. And the retired horticulturist spent it squatting beside stubborn saplings near his Housing Board apartment. The young trees asked for patience, as trees were wont to do.
Elias worked where few cared to look. Neighbors scoffed at the slow-growing saplings, chiding Elias for wasting time and community funds. His daughter asked, “Dad, why all the worthless effort?” But Elias knew that growth pushed back against being hurried.
And then…
A notice that inflamed the skin, in angry, red ink – a redevelopment notice.
The government had marked the land for demolition. Total destruction –
Including his little green labours of love.
Still, Elias, ever stoic, never raised a word in protest. He never wrestled with negative endings. With meticulous fervor, he labeled his saplings and left them behind, along with a set of cryptic instructions.
“Growth is timeless.”
After Elias stopped tending to the unfortunate saplings, they caught the eye of Ah Lam, the assistant groundskeeper. The plants leaves touched together, almost pleading. He remembered Elias’ words :
“Roots matter.”
He took the sapling and replanted it in the estate’s community garden – before any demolishing could reduce it to nothingness.
The onset of El Nina meant the painful and inevitable – a drought.
Yet, the tiny, relocated sapling came to the fore- the fruit it bore , ravishing and juice-filled.
The harvest had come – out of season.
Children began to gather, in droves, beneath the now-revered sapling.
They never knew its planter. The one who nourished it – nameless.
But the lone sapling’s fruit had given him one.
🍃🍂🍃🍂🍃🍂🍃🍂🍃🍂
Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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.
At 10:45 p.m., Mavis reread the email for the umpteenth time. Every word bore truth. Events and witness statements. The credit unfairly claimed, the bribes stealthily offered, apologies that were never extended. Her cursor hovered; she changed her mind and saved the incriminating draft.
At work, tension dominated the air. An audit. An email, sent erroneously. Its words exposed his stealthy deeds. His pale face, brows furrowed by months of truths finally revealed.
Mavis purged the email. Truth had spoken. But timing mattered. Another draft, sent from another computer, and not hers. Sometimes, truth swam in the waves of circumstance.
💻⌛📝🤔🕊️🌊⚖️
Original drabble by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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.
We cannot decide when the bus comes – only how we wait.
🌫️🚌🌙👤❄️💡🌧️
Ponderous, at the bus stop all ignore
Mind going over faint lights;
Little cracks in the cement surface.
My breath fogs the air ,
Covering timetable edges
Tapping thrice
Frigid metal
Of rails.
🌫️🚌🌙👤❄️💡🌧️
A light afar flickers
Thrice, in tandem
With approaching feet
Even marches pause,
Shimmer
In a puddle.
🌫️🚌🌙👤❄️💡🌧️
Too late.
The bus -a figment.
The street waits, still.
The clicks
Of the flickering light
Echo.
Cannot be paused.
🌫️🚌🌙👤❄️💡🌧️
I get up
Still tapping thrice
But faintly.
My breath fogs –
And lingers.
But i stay
Present.
Calm.
In its cloud.
🌫️🚌🌙👤❄️💡🌧️
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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.
1964 marks the year President Lyndon B Johnson initiated a War on Poverty, aimed at increasing employment opportunities, revamping education, and boosting healthcare.
While reviews of the polices had a mixed tone, it did decline by about 8%.
Some vows like these, however, remain unfulfilled.
Reprieve and fairness is sought.
Promises spoken. Justice delivered. Echoes that endure.
⚡👁️🗨️🕊️📜🔥
Murmurs of excitement ran through the conference hall as Mayor
Carl Sim launched into the speech his eager audience was craving. A throng of journalists, waiting to fill their pages, gathered in the corner, asking sensitivity breaching questions. Their pens hovered above notepads waiting to serve as canvases.
Everyone was too preoccupied to notice the faint shimmers at the periphery of the room. His palms were slippery with nerves – the room held its breath. Sentient shadows scaled the walls – artists with hidden secrets none wanted to know.
Carl cleared his throat and began his speech, one filled with glowing promises of sweeping changes that would enhance lives.
No one noticed the very slight tilt of their chairs – even as they were sitting on them. Papers fluttered in the windless air-conditioned hall, drifting like white gowns above the ground.
The room was – living. With a heartbeat that didn’t sync with Carl’s. As he spoke, a chill worked its way up his legs through his spine. A cloying smell of crisp, pressed white linen grabbed the air.
And it wasn’t air-conditioning draft.
The paper gowns gathered and filled – with forms from a world unknown.
They were ageless. Visible. Slowly approaching.
Imposing.
The crowd in the room took tentative steps backward, mouths hung wide open.
Then, the room erupted in gasps and whispers.
Screams ricocheted off the walls. Bodies piled against doors, grabbing handles.
Pressing against each other as they tried to exit.
Carl’s pulse raced faster than a Formula One driver’s car. A mix of awe and dread filled his being.
The vows he had made all along, to the millions he had soothed?
Mere words.
The guardians had made their dreaded – and expected – entrance, drifting with logic not to be challenged.
And vindication for words unmaterialised. For people -unwanted.
Then, chaos unfolded. Not haphazardly – but in structured, elegant patterns. Tables had overturned outside the hall -lifts were malfunctioning.Officials around Carl scrambled to protect him, but he remained stoic.
His face – unreadable.
The guardians drifted to the stage, mouths fixed and straightened. Gasps of disbelief filled the room. The smell of smoke and wonder enveloped the crowd.
Carl saw the gnawing gap between his empty promises and the painful realities the people in his town dealt with.
Increasing crime. Inadequate public schooling.
The guardians’ feet traced the steps of the stage.
One by one.
Then, they vanished. Leaving overturned chairs, flickering lights and chaotic whispers in their wake.
The air had an empty heaviness few could articulate.
Mayor Carl knew that some forces of poverty – tense family dynamics, unchanging mindsets – were beyond his control.
As ambiguous as the guardians’ warning of justice.
He carried the weight with him, along with their lingering shadows.
A light flickered in his eyes. Their echo resonated, undying.
⚡👁️🗨️🕊️📜🔥
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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.
Once a year, mothers gather before dawn to fast, pray, and wait.
Sakat Chauth is a Hindu festival not marked by celebration, but by endurance — a quiet vow made on behalf of a child who cannot yet speak for themselves.
No grand promises are asked of the heavens. Only this:
Let the little ones stay.
🕯️🙏🏼🕯️🙏🏼🕯️🙏🏼
A blanket of quiet covered the city. The region of Alumbra was in winter slumber – a go-to for quiet benediction. The bare branches of the trees above were Anita’s soul – it needed refilling.
Anita took purposeful steps towards the shrine on the morning of 8 Jan. Each one was a little echo – a prayer for her three-month-old daughter.
Cancer had consumed the little girl – with recovery standing ahead at a hopeless distance. Sakat Chauth – the Hindu festival of maternal devotion – held significant weight. It was the child’s only reprieve.
She pressed her palms together, enjoying the warmth that slowly grew against the chill.
Memories of gurgles and the tugs of tiny hands tugged at her heart. Each thought of little Ila was like a little ember that warmed her spirit – a spark that lifted it above the frost. She followed the rhythm of her prayers in her mind, as if choreographing a dance of hope.
A cacophony of activity resounded throughout the temple, its ground awash in a tapestry of vibrant colour.
The sacred grounds seemed unaware of the sacred petitions she was about to offer. Shouts and laughter brushed against her ears like wind caressing bare branches.
A bevy of women gathered for the Sakat Chauth, their hands clasped in benevolent reverence. Everyone was lost in thought – even the frost was indifferent to her vigil.
Her hands joined in prayer, Anita whispered her hopes for her child into the chilly January air. Candlelight danced around her, as if in tune with Illa’s need. As the flames swayed in almost perfect unison, the weight her heart hauled grew lighter – she prostrated in a relief she hadn’t felt since her daughter was born. Quiet tears drenched her cheeks.
She felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and turned to its source. The mother next to her nodded. “The mother of a child in need knows.”
The two women prostrated again, in complete tandem. The flames continued their dance of quiet hope, warming them with gentle resolution.
Anita left the temple, her heart syncing with the quiet hum of bustling Alumbra. Vidhya, the other mother, followed, her own heartbeat providing a solid, rhythmic harmony. A breeze tossed their plaits gently, carrying with it hope fused with joyful relief.
For Ila. And Meera.
The frost no longer bit – that light had chiselled, and broken through.
🕯️🙏🏼🕯️🙏🏼🕯️🙏🏼
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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 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.
Since you don’t seem to use these loudspeakers as they should be used, I will do it for you.
This is a Public Service Announcement on behalf of the Social Services Ministry, for the fostering of healthy relationships.
A warning against biased, ignorant speech or behaviour:
Do not use derogatory terms like “savant”, “disabled”, “fat” or “thin” to avoid offending. Doing so creates the risk of a $500 fine.
Avoid dismissive actions or speech, such as eye-rolling, smirking, or face an imprisonment term. Let us use the phrase “vertically challenged” instead of “short”.
Give up seats on public transport to those who need it, or risk being fined.
Do not look the other way when there are physically challenged individuals on the street, or face fines.
Do not block the paths of the physically challenged, or risk incarceration.
If you are a service personnel, do not sigh when you have to assist a challenged person, or social services will impose a monetary penalty.
These regulations are necessary to maintain social order and harmony. We must cater to the diversity of society. We have a responsibility for our challenged members. We must ensure inclusivity. We must ensure their acceptance into the mainstream.
As we include them, we must also ensure our own presence.
If you observe individuals breaking the rules listed, do not hesitate to contact social services at 66775443.
📢 📄 ⚠️
Original Public Announcement Poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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.
When power falters, even the invisible sees—and waits.
👁️🛸👁️🛸👁️🛸👁️🛸👁️🛸
When Putin woke, he was elsewhere. Walls closed in, capturing his breath. No pill. A hum wrapped him like an ill-fitting cloak.
“Your time’s up. Do you need another month?” The drone’s voice was –
Robotic.
Androgynous.
It hovered, reflecting his befuddled face. It made no sound—but approached.
Nearer.
And nearer.
Lights flickered, boring into his forehead, syncing with his thumping heartbeat.
Putin felt— assessed. He stared it back in its light. He swallowed hard. Crossed trembling hands in front of his face.
The hum deafened. The light approached, releasing a gentle, resilient cocoon.
Enshrouding him for something incomprehensible—but there.
👁️🛸👁️🛸👁️🛸👁️🛸👁️🛸
Original drabble by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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.
Today is World Introvert Day – a day we celebrate the unassuming, the quiet, but VERY observant.
Like a webcam. It sees more than we think.
Some witnesses never speak.
📷 · 🌫️ · ☀️
A dust mote traverses sunlight, Prancing for indifference. June’s fingers linger over black keys Pausing too long, trembling. Her mother sighs; sadness in her eyes.
📷 · 🌫️ · ☀️
A mug of coffee cools on the table. Her mum paces while thinking – Sighing. Pacing. Sighing. June. The dog paces with her, eyes on her feet. Concerned.
📷 · 🌫️ · ☀️
My own lens, firm, Lasting. Unseen. Watching as the world turns. The dog, whimpering. Nervous. Watching a parent’s hopes – Misplaced.
📷 · 🌫️ · ☀️
My lens turns. My hum, quiet. Sun beams trail the floor. June sits at the piano. Keys wet.
📷 · 🌫️ · ☀️
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 