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 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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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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Singapore celebrates Total Defence Day today – when we consider all aspects of defence.
The military. The people.
The economy.
The MIND.
That requires the greatest protection.
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
Breached…
A siren rehearses my ears and mind.
Preparedness, neat.
Checked.
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
“Be ready.”
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
Mind unbraced, with too many doors.
The sound fades, but a thin ring stays.
A soft hum. It never left.
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
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A soft, other voice.
Calm, in a uniform
Fitting all.
My mind’s doors, unlocked.
Messages on billboards – suddenly mine.
“Stay quiet. Be safe.”
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
“Stay silent. You’re safe.”
“Remain vigilant. You’re set.”
We practice. The body obeys.
The mind relents.
Each repetition, more polished.
Each exercise widens.
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
“Stay quiet. You’re safe.”
It wants me managed
Not broken down. Taken over.
The safest mind –
Absorbs.
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
The voice.
Name it, its grip
Loosens.
Reality –
Maintained.
Truth louder
When shared.
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
Does love demand sacrifice,
or simply receive what’s offered?
For all who love to answer.
🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀
The altar
The middle
Of the home.
Polished marble
Small sacrifices in a
Central bowl.
A faint hum from its
Centre.
🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀
Only time.
Only sleep.
Only freedom.
The marble shines brighter
With each offering.
Only love.
🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀
His voice, for its glow.
Her preferences, for its sheen.
Their laughter. For its presence.
Soft gifts for its appetite.
🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀
The altar.
The marble shine –
Glows.
From the souls.
From the hearts.
From the whole gifts
Of selves.
🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀
They take the altar
Down.
It remains.
To shine
Or stay
In silence.
🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀🕯🥀
Original poem for Valentine’s Day by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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No outstanding issues – or were there?
🧾✔️✔️✔️ 🤫
I couldn’t put a finger on those calls — or the mould. So I did what any responsible janitor would do. I paid it a visit.
The unit was still unoccupied. The previous tenant had given it an airing — that was for sure. But the mould still appeared on the walls, in the exact spots it had earlier.
I wasn’t concerned. Vacant units were easy-peasy. There were no tenants who’d grouch at our presence.
So, I got to work. The records showed that all issues had been resolved. The words were nothing new.
But there was something — different.
About the date.
Repeated.
Too repeated. As though someone had just checked and updated the logs —
logging “repaired” without checking.
So, I logged it again — myself. In the same language, same terms.
Professional. Recorded.
Repaired.
I didn’t comment — that wasn’t for me to do.
I just waited for instructions — that never came when they should have.
There were no further questions. No clarification.
No one asked that any action be taken.
It was just logged in the system — marked for monitoring.
Nothing for me to be concerned about.So I cleaned the unit once again. I adjusted the ventilation, just to keep the air flowing.
But viewings were postponed.
It was simpler and less costly to keep the apartment empty.
No problems — nothing needed coordinating.
So the issue remained contained – not a worry.
It didn’t disrupt life.
There was no smell from the apartment. No one claimed it.
So no conclusion was required. There was no need to put anything on record.
They let the unit remain empty.
I was to do my job.
🧾✔️✔️✔️ 🤫
Part 1 began here.
Original Microfiction Series 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!
No outstanding issues – or were there?
🧾✔️✔️✔️ 🤫
Blah. Ordinary. Old, and nothing spectacular. So was the work.
And I was used to that.
The building was in working order. Nothing seemed wrong with the lifts or doors.
No malfunctioning doorknobs.
It was functioning, which passed for reassurance.
There seemed nothing urgent. People moved through it with regulated indifference.
It looked as though it could manage without me.
I didn’t receive the block in a typical handover. Most things were unexplained.
There were issues. Settled. But no one quite explained how. All anyone told me was that there was absolutely nothing to worry about. The complex was on the up and up.
Tenants went missing. Recorded as absent. Just scheduling matters.
I did my first round of the complex. Everything was in order. But not the same as looked after.
Repairs had been completed by my predecessor before I took the complex over. Carefully enough – to settle any arguments. Some areas were clean, but never used, as if purposely kept that way.
Oh, it was maintained. Functional. But not comfortable.
At least, not for the soul.
The tenants showed great gratitude for my work – as if I was continuing it for the other guy. I hadn’t known him.
But when I asked who had done repairs before, they wouldn’t say a word.
I assumed it was that other guy. And left it there.
Then, the calls. Too many of them.
Mould. From the same unit.
The mould appeared too often for coincidence to explain it. It had been gotten rid of – too many times.
Why the same date?
Someone had kept the books in order – too much in order.
The paperwork shouted “done.” The building -silent.
My role had already been decided before I started work. Just janitor. Caretaker.
But my name wasn’t there. The computer’s records didn’t show who had filled my role before. It was as if I had been just – slotted in.
Every task had been recorded as completed.
There was nothing urgent – at all. That was the gap.
Nothing written about it – just assigned.
Not concluded.
🧾✔️✔️✔️ 🤫
Original Microfiction Series by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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Society expected perfection from Sandra. But is perfection perfect?
📚✔️❌❓
Ms. Sandra Lee always arrived in class five minutes before her English lesson was to begin. There was no reason for this day to be any different.
The classroom had already risen before she stepped in. The lights were already on, and her students, quiet and standing, ready to greet.
But their morning salutation was not for her.
She’d always had a problem writing in a straight line on a ledger-less chalkboard.
But her name was on it this day.
She already knew the kids – there was no need for it.
It was in a line – written by someone else.
Too straight.
📚✔️❌❓
The students offered their polite greeting – almost too polite.
Their grace, too well-crafted.
Responses – too normal.
Sandra observed the teacher – an uncanny replica of herself, doling out marked homework and instructions.
The students, responding for once without any quiet rebellion.
They had finally accepted her for who she was.
But this was not her. Their politeness to this new her – her own erasure.
📚✔️❌❓
The formulae offered by Sandra’s replacement – herself – were doubtless.
Efficient. Perfect.
The students accepted the model solutions she offered without a single raised hand in protest.
No digression. No lingering questions.
The teaching was excellent, but without an ounce of warmth.
📚✔️❌❓
Then, the letter on her desk.
Thanking her for her service.
The parents were happy with Sandra’s replacement – she taught in the way the students recognized.
There was improvement. Formulae were clocked correctly, according to the letter. She had taught well, it said.
Just not good enough for – herself.
📚✔️❌❓
Sandra cleared her desk, putting her books and now needless worksheets in a box.
She carried it past the classroom and looked in at herself, finally explaining the formulae without a single missed equation.
But as she passed the classroom window, the replacement – her perfect upgrade – asked a question.
Then wrote the wrong sum on the board.
And vanished at the sound of the bell.
📚✔️❌❓
The students with half the needed formulae.
📚✔️❌❓
Original microfiction 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!
Mercy cannot be framed as irresponsibility.
📄 ✂️ 🕳️
The ritual started because our devotion wasn’t focused – we believed that we could love many at once.
We knew that love in this form was – questionable.
So we confessed – kept translating our romantic transgressions against each other week after week. Our souls attained a feathery lightness after each confession – or so we thought.
It mattered that we were to write down every act of betrayal. The absolution of that was non-negotiable. With ultimate precision, we wrote down each whispered betrayal, each act of dishonesty.
The ritual didn’t concur with logical reasoning. Trust should have denied his presence. Marriage should have become paper for burning.
The ritual didn’t concur with logical reasoning. Trust should have denied his presence. Marriage should have become paper for burning.
Each backhanded alliance.
Each note was absolved – forgiveness was a forgone conclusion, a must.
Our souls felt lighter than before the ritual, nearly weightless. And the notes kept piling – Everest was ashamed.
More than we ever were.
We adhered to the ritual, day after day, month after month.
Year after year.
It never hurt while it happened.
The marriage lingered, open.
We jotted down confessions on arbitrary pieces of paper and ripped them apart, without a second thought.
Maintaining alliances – some straightforward, most not. Absolution, with the ripping of each note, eased each one.
Eased our souls. They became feathery light.
But as the weight of Transgression left us, the toll of others stayed.
Dismissal. Disvalue.
Disfavor.
The ritual had been performed many times before, in different ways.
Confessions just as soul-lightening, and unhinging.
Apologies that came too quickly, soothed for too short a time, and released without meaning or payment.
Children who bore the weight of meaningless absolution – sightless and unheard. Familial relationships formed without familiarity.
Alliances borne out of necessity and distrust.
Recorded, almost too meticulously, in journals, photos and damning letters, decades earlier.
Love had absolved souls that lightened. But stayed.
They each recognised their handwriting, formed at earlier times. Devotion had predecessors, malformed.
It was not our ritual to perform. But confessions without meaning were made.
And souls floated. No anchor.
Drifting ceaselessly, eternally, without respite or affirmation.
Time healed wounds, with their sting continuing to smart and pierce.
The ritual continued. The confessions were stark reminders, laid in black and white, in journals.
Consuming the souls of those who truly loved, attentively and sincerely.
The confessions preserved the relationship – one that remained, in different parts, scattered, yet together.
There was no resistance towards it – it continued, preserving souls with festering wounds.
Knowing resolved – making incomplete, irresolute forms.
They were unclear- the ritual was the only responsibility.
Love did not release. It perpetuated.
A neglected child.
The ritual – and the abject, yet trite confessions – continued. Both partners stayed. Souls obedient, but fractured.
Damaged – yet stable.
The confessions did what they had to do – leaving stable destruction in their wake.
What we have doesn’t need us whole – it needs us there.
We survived the absence and the harsh truths, with the cost of nothing following.
The ritual of shallow confession is pending – our son has married.
The young lady – undamaged, naive, unprotected.
Our elder daughter, too, has married, knowing full well the ritual and its truths.
The young man – equally innocent, faithful, and steady.
Unguarded.
Unaware of the costs of love, the ritual, and its power.
May they never need one.
May they never require truths without notice, recognition, or power.
May they never need confessions without spirit.
May they never need confessions at all.
But the ritual waits -silent.
Sentient, ready to hold.
📄 ✂️ 🕳️
Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 