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We all have our moments – young or old – when that dark green shadow threatens to overwhelm. And we choose if it wins. 🌙✨🌙✨🌙 Liora could bring everything on her canvas to life—the deer on the lawn, the dogs breaking into a run by the lake, or the oranges in a food bowl. Her brushstrokes made everything too real. But her skill meant nothing. Not to everyone who treated her sister, Selene, as if she were God’s gift to the art world. Liora was nondescript—plain, always underdressed and preferred jeans to the floral dresses Selene always wore. She seemed to grow dim in her sister’s light, no matter the certainty of her talent. Whispers and glances—all about the trendiness of Selene’s latest dress. All eyes were always on the eye-catching colour of her hair or the portraits that put Rembrandt to shame. The list was endless, and she was never on it. 📦🕸️📦🕸️📦 Liora was decluttering the attic one afternoon—one of the many tasks her mother assigned, since she hardly received party invitations. Selene was far too busy organising her party schedule. While heaving boxes up a rickety ladder, Liora’s head bumped the ceiling. And there were too many bumps along its surface to be just plasterboard. Intrigued, she forgot the pain and groped the plasterboard with her fingers. It lifted—too easily. Her usually inactive limbs took her up the ladder and into a room—one she’d never seen before. Dust-caked windows greeted her as she stepped into what was an undiscovered attic, along with a heavily musty odor. Cobwebs, along with their residents, danced at every corner. But she wasn’t alone. Something followed. A shadow. Over time, Liora realised that its quest was selective. It came when Liora came to the attic to cry. When she felt that Selene got more attention. It lurked, waiting for acknowledgement—like her. 🎉🎈🎉🎈🎉 The shadow stepped into the attic, large. Almost tangible. Over the next days, windows banged, furniture flew across the floor—in tandem with Liora’s sadness or jealousy. Liora’s heart—fully alive. Selene’s birthday party was the next day—as usual, a party marked her elevated teen social status. Liora stayed in her room—she and Selene’s iffy clique didn’t move at the same pace. The Shadow decided to attend on Liora’s behalf. It moved with Liora’s emotions, tossing decorations, turning the volume knob of the stereo, and flipping objects. It crept into the party, responding to the green colour of Liora’s T-shirt. And the guests knew. Lights flickered, and the boombox boomed—really boomed—much to the chagrin of the guests. Then, it hit Liora. She had to control it—before it controlled everything else. Her sister’s attention. Her own reputation. “Get out.” Her voice sudden. Loud. 🖤👁️🖤👁️🖤 The shadow froze at Liora’s outburst, taken aback. It shrunk. Liora caught her breath. It only moved – when she faltered. Grew-when she shrank. She centred herself and eyed it firmly. The room reverted—the lights steadied. Objects returned to their places. And it didn’t escape her sister’s notice. She put her hand on Liora’s shoulder. Liora merely nodded, but didn’t look at her. With her eyes on the Shadow, she spoke. “It’s my turn.” It stepped back. And without a word, returned to the attic. Calm. No longer forbidding. Selene stood next to her and nodded. Liora had faced her mirror. And thwarted it. 🌙✨🌙✨🌙 An awkward stillness filled the room—then faded. An exchange of glances confused murmurs among the guests. But all was in place. Liora breathed deeply, coming into her own strength. Her shadow—gone. Only present if Liora refused to be. Selene patted her shoulder and turned to her guests. She walked into the hall, strides purposeful. The shadow waited in the attic. Answering—only if she failed to remember. 🌙✨🌙✨🌙
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This day in 1991, the world came to know of Freddy Mercury’s passing.
He mirrored the man who encapsulated the Bohemian Rhapsody –
Galileo.
Unfettered, resolute.
With social pressure at its fiercest.
Both men saw round – when the World saw flat.
Sailed to the edge-
And coursed.
🌟🌌✨🌟🌌✨🌟
He saw round when all saw flat
And sailed to wonders all souls shunned;
Stood in awe when all else sat
To the edge he sailed- and won.
🌟🌌✨🌟🌌✨🌟
All souls slighted what he saw
Ridiculed, pressured, and entrapped –
The World laughed at mind’s open door
That put God’s Earth upon the map.
🌟🌌✨🌟🌌✨🌟
He fought the pull of man’s desire,
To common whim he did not bow;
Pushed the urge to set self on fire
For the truth, absolute now.
🌟🌌✨🌟🌌✨🌟
For the truth, he boldly stood
A silent, steady, gripping stance;
Stayed upright, for light he knew
Forged forth, knowing not the end.
🌟🌌✨🌟🌌✨🌟
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It was another evening of no social calls or friends for Albert Monterio — the introverted historian genuinely preferred archiving subjects for historical research.
Everyone had gone home to their families for the evening — all but him.
The archives were empty — and profoundly silent.
Too silent.
He combed the stoically silent shelves.
In the strange quiet there was a stack of photographs from the 1946 bombardment of Haiphong.
One photograph stood out.
A photo that disobeyed its own era.
An anomaly hiding among sepia images.
And a strange rustling that he shouldn’t have felt.
🔍📷🕵️♂️
Albert grabbed a magnifying glass and focused on the odd, out-of-place mark.
Everything was in ruins.
Pieces of zinc roofing were scattered on the pavements.
Smoke billowed from surrounding debris.
Two soldiers lifted a seriously wounded comrade who was attempting to walk.
Amid it all stood a child, grasping an object that was out of place for its time — a modern smartphone.
Albert shook his head.
Probably some debris the kid picked up, he thought.
But the anomaly only sharpened — on Logic’s defying path.
🖼️⌛🖌️
A second envelope fell from the archive bookshelf.
A similar photograph.
With him, fully present, in the frame.
The child’s device showed a timestamp — the present day’s date.
The photo shimmered, and tiny sketches appeared at the corners.
A temple he was familiar with — bombed.
A street, newly built, shattering in pieces.
Smoke billowing from the debris.
The young boy showed disaster.
Showed change.
⏳💀📱
And true to that, the photograph —
Changed.
The child’s gaze had shifted —
Through the screen.
Ever so slightly, staring Albert in the face.
And then —
His outline materialising where it should not have been.
Standing, motionless, beside the child’s.
With tomorrow’s date flashing on the screen’s right.
Albert hadn’t been merely observing history — he had become it.
🕰️💔📖
The child’s device showed a timestamp — today’s date.
The time — a minute into the future.
Albert lying slumped in his chair in the archive.
A smile etched on his face.
He had found what he had to.
And become what he had found.
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Some fingers cling tighter than they should— But when they open in a palm— The shadows cease. Shadows part – light descends – when we release.
🌫️👻❄️🖤
Cobbled, frost-covered stones Shadows drift under streetlights. Gripping with thin fingers Refusing to release.
💀🌙🖤
I grasp its wispy fingers. Prying – it clings. Each finger lifts. Drops. And grasps – with more fervour..
🌫️🖤💨
My hands – in a palm. Fingers limp, an absence of pain. The shadow drifts — Lightens. Relents.
🌟✨🕊️
My fingertips leave the iron. The mist parts — light’s new glow. The cobblestones shine- Clear- Bright
Peace.
🌌🕯️🌿
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
That’s what Tim and James Wright wanted to do for theirs.
And their hands, worn from breaking locks.
Wielding knives and spilling blood.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
In the wee hours before dawn broke, the brothers wheeled their hot air balloon into an industrial lot.
It was a tattered balloon held together only by repairs and regret.
A place they thought was forgotten.
A place where only silence collected.
But shapes of old mistakes rose from the tar, floating between the cracks.
The balloon remained upright, but the ground rooted their past.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
The balloon rose, hesitant, quivering.
But their feet stayed on the gravel, along with their heavy hearts.
The ground and the world wanted what the brothers owed.
Shadows whirled around them, refusing to yield.
They exchanged looks again — acknowledging the cost of freedom.
The balloon, patched and worn, sagged.
Tired of waiting.
The brothers’ past always behind them.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
The silhouette in the shadows grew longer.
Steps echoed across the gravel, purposeful and steady.
Precise. Patient.
Yanking the ropes firmly.
The balloon couldn’t rise.
The Past couldn’t leave—
It had come.
And would not relent.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
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Disappointment comes unexpectedly, a crack in a mirror you thought wouldn’t shatter. We race to pick up the shattered shards, grasping in the dark.
The search is painful.
But sometimes, when we dare to face their blinding light, we realise they can be merged into a stronger mirror.
Reinforced glass has great strength.
✨🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨
The looking glass Throws light that blinds Searching eyes–
Only soften
Glass on hand- Touchable-
When we seek to mend.
🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞
They cannot close– Deep disjointed rifts
Forever parted
Scattered in pieces An endless quest In unlit corners.
🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤
The looking glass Throws light that blinds Searching eyes–
Only soften
Glass on hand- Touchable-
When we seek to mend.
🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧
A wondrous mosaic Against a pressing wall–
But the glass shines— Its jagged forms gleam-
Combined.
✨🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨
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Marina Chua was the classic wallflower—at 34, she was perpetually passed over, whether at work or at home.
Home was just as overlooked. After all, no one noticed abandoned terrace houses.
It had a memory like a sieve. One that sorted the maize from the chaff. The essential from the inconsequential.
Even the hallway seemed to erase her, as if the house chose who it wanted to retain–or dispose.
Everyone knew the drab, cookie-cutter house on the street—they didn’t bother with them.
But there was one room that no one remembered existed.
A room. Where shadows swallowed sound. It forgot people, including Marina—but never the walls.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
It was just another weekend. One Marina spent, as usual, unnoticed- in life, or in love.
Blending in with the walls of the home – and the room.
Being the must-be-in-order administrative assistant that she was, she decided that it was time for a little decluttering.
She started with the room few remembered – that she seldom did herself.
As she started sorting items –
They shifted.
Appearing.
Disappearing.
The house seemed to be misplacing her – like an old receipt.
Her mobile began to forget her passwords and encrypted fingerprints.
The walls and floorboards whispered names that weren’t hers –
Her family members.
Her friends.
But never hers.
They stretched – and pulled back, as if needling her mind.
Testing her mettle.
Corridors rearranged themselves, bending with uncertainty.
Hers.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
Wallflower though she was, she wasn’t defeated.
Marina decided to find out more about the property she had inherited from her father when he passed all those years ago.
On one of her forays into the home’s many back rooms, she discovered a small, nearly inconspicuous space.
The dust danced in the beam of her mobile.
A hidden alcove.
Lined with decades of family Polaroids, each of a person who had disappeared.
Then-
A blank Polaroid.
Labelled with her name.
An empty slot waiting for her face.
The room wasn’t teasing or frightening just because it could; it was a room waiting.
A predator, hungry for the forgotten.
A hunger she seemed to know.
Fear wrapped around her, a shroud creeping, waiting to strike.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
She managed to shake the gripping fear off to make sense of the alcove.
And the blank Polaroid.
With her name.
She touched each of the Polaroids and the dusty shelves.
There had to be a way to lock them in place, to keep them from swallowing her.
Then she thought of the little, cherished memories.
Her dog. Her Mum’s signature fried noodles.
Her dad’s cologne, mixed with perspiration, when he returned from work.
Each memory made the room less hungry.
Weighed its menace down.
Finally, the corridors stopped bending. The stretching stopped.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
As she recalled her dog Benj, her mother’s noodles, and her father carrying her in his arms when he returned from work, the room stilled.
Every recalled detail punched a hole in her darkness.
With each recollection, the walls settled into place.
The holes became larger.
She grasped the life buoys of her memories-her lifelines.
And she knew–the room victimised.
Not those who remembered themselves or their places in the world.
Rather, they wanted the souls who felt-
Invisible.
Forgotten.
But she had won the battle between her mind-
And the room’s predatory instincts.
The holes widened-
Then vanished.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
Marina left the room, still weary.
Still on edge.
But she chose to report it to the Town Council for its-
For want of a better word-
Defects.
Several weeks passed. She chose to live fully, tapping into her passion-
Cooking.
Sharing meals with friends.
Discussing recipes.
Watching the Food Network Channel or teaching cooking classes.
Then a stall selling “Char Kway Teow” (flat noodles in soy and oyster sauce).
Receiving rave reviews in the Straits Times.
She chose to be seen again, leaving the house to wallow in its own hunger.
Insatiable need to swallow-
Those who felt forgotten.
Not Marina.
Her life was no longer dimmed at the edges.
She remembered it.
Herself.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
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.
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.
November 17. Bells tolled all over Hatfield, not in triumph, but in foreboding.
Shadows strayed where sunlight could not reach.
Elizabeth stood alone in a tight cloak, feeling the weight of the crown she held– and its power.
And the eyes that watched from everywhere–and saw it all.
🖤👑🕯️
Dawn broke with a November chill over Hatfield. The soft tolling of bells ascended with the morning sun — not in victory, but with an ominous note of caution.
Queen Elizabeth’s gaze fell over the castle ramparts. She wrapped herself tighter in her cloak, not from the chill, but from the eyes — of someone unseen.
The pants of an anxious messenger were only too audible as he ran into the room.
“Your Majesty… Queen Mary. She’s… dead.”
A heavy silence consumed Elizabeth’s room.
A raven — typically tied to a pole in a corner of the castle gardens — flew to her window and perched.
A death call to the House of Windsor.
In her chambers, Elizabeth slipped the crown off her head. She gazed at its perfectly set jewels —
Each gleamed.
With glittery foreboding.
And the whispers from the afternoon court —
“A lone queen will succumb.”
Later, in bed,
the voice of her mother haunted her ears — and mind.
“Power costs blood…”
She shot up in bed. Catherine’s voice was too loud for sleep.
She trailed through the corridors of Windsor’s halls. Each step she took was heavy with memory.
And weight.
Of her mother. Of England.
The tapestries darted from one wall to the other, as if touched by someone —
Not her.
Not a courtier.
Not there.
Windsor was testing her mettle.
She turned to face the shadows and spoke.
“If this —” she held the crown — “is mine, then I’m your master.”
The room stilled. The shadows lined up to face her.
The raven cawed once, in a sharp, approving screech.
The messenger burst into her chambers once more.
He ran before her and knelt.
“Your majesty, the council believed you would decline the throne. They’ve prepared another successor.”
A figure entered — in a dark cloak.
Her successor.
It lifted its cloak.
Elizabeth stared herself in the face.
A perfect double.
Herself to fight.
She stepped forward, unafraid.
Her double bowed — in complete homage.
It didn’t just accept her — it revered.
🖤👑🕯️
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 