No Learner Disappears From View

Michelle’s online teaching schedule was a a busy one — and starkly normal for the day.

She had several English lessons scheduled. They happened to fall on National Online Learning Day.

Ironic.

National. Here she was, working, as usual.

She logged onto the lesson, as usual. Her student, Jamie, was a no-show.

Five minutes became seven. Then ten.

She sent a polite message reminding Jamie that the lesson was on, and waited.

The familiar little square area stayed vacant.

After another fifteen minutes, she was about to log on when —

Jamie entered the meeting.

The camera whirred. The usual bedroom background. Probably a bit too neat to be Jamie’s.

“Sorry, miss.”

Michelle began the comprehension lesson she had planned.

As usual.

But Jamie was NOT usual.

Jamie was especially —

Attentive.

His answers to various inferential-level questions were perfect.

His vocabulary that day was almost too precise —

For Jamie.

His summary was concise and properly paraphrased.

Michelle was pleased. Perhaps her teaching had somehow clicked.

Then, Jamie answered a difficult inference question instantly —

And correctly.

Michelle widened her eyes.

Now, this was a little worrying.

JAMIE.

Michelle asked another that was almost impossible to answer.

A perfect response.

Then, a recognisable ringtone.

Michelle’s mobile phone.

It was Jamie’s mother.

“Apologies! Jamie’s still at school. I forgot to let you know.”

Michelle traced the message carefully with her eyes —

Twice.

Then looked at the familiar student online.

Back at the message.

At school.

Back at the boy on screen.

That was one Jamie too many.

His on-screen face was perfectly stoic.

“Can we continue, Miss Michelle?”

With a swift flick of her cursor, Michelle clicked on Google Meet’s “Leave” button.

Her next student entered the virtual meeting room with Speedy Gonzalez cheek.

Ping. Another.

The participant count kept rising.

Her former students.

Trial students.

Students who went Missing in Action after two lessons.

And students —

Whose families still assumed that her lessons were for free.

Every square with an expectant face. Michelle knew each one.

Michelle had enough.

She clicked on “End Meeting for All.”

The faces stared, smiling.

Expectantly.

Eerily.

She clicked again.

And again.

A systems messaged finally appeared.

Host permission denied.

She turned the WIFI off.

It turned back on.

She closed her Google browser.

It reopened.

The faces continued to stare at her —

Smiling, with great expectation.

Then, an official notification

“Let’s celebrate National Online Learning Day! When no learner disappears from view!”

Then, a submission notification appeared in the Google Classroom.

And another.

It was so difficult to ask these students to curb their enthusiasm.

Essays.

Comprehension.

Vocabulary exercises.

Corrections they should have submitted months earlier.

Frantic buzzing.

The printer awoke with a choke—

Regurgitating sheets and sheets of paper.

The first submission.

The submission counter rose —

Frantically.

107.

224.

847.

Then —

ALL WORK MUST BE MARKED BEFORE THE HOST CAN LEAVE.

Michelle sat in her office, surrounded by a mountain of worksheets.

The same unexplainable faces stared at her from the screen.

No one moved.

Or disconnected.

Then one student raised a virtual hand.

Another followed.

Then another.

Soon, all the mystery participants in the room were up.

Michelle knew what was coming.

“Miss, what’s my grade?”

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.

Mabel’s Moving Problem

That end-of-year office party. Mabel needed new clothes.

A new skirt in a thrift store.

“It moves with you.” The salesperson grinned.

Mabel donned it. Perfect.

She left the price tag —

She hadn’t ordained it.

New skirt in a bag, Mabel headed for the office party.

She felt a tug.

She dismissed it. Too many passengers.

Then, another tug.

She turned.

Her skirt had become friends with a passenger’s umbrella.

The passenger was about to get off —

He moved towards the doors.

So did Mabel.

They warned with a beep.

Public transport and clothing had created an emergency.

Mabel somehow detached herself from the umbrella and moved through the doors.

To the escalator.

The moving steps.

Her skirt.

The moving steps.

Then —

A long hem.

Attached to the steps —

About to swallow it —

And her.

She gathered her skirt and rode upward, as if crossing a river.

And that created more spectacle.

A child stared —

Through his spectacles.

Lunch, to her immense relief, didn’t involve skirting issues.

She relaxed with a diet coke.

Then, she stood.

With the chair.

She stepped forward.

And the chair followed.

She stepped again.

The chair followed.

Another hem.

The skirt had become her biggest fan.

She disentangled herself under the gaze of a flummoxed waiter.

Finally, the office party.

She had survived.

Then a colleague noticed —

And pointed.

A long hem.

Almost no skirt.

With the price tag — still hanging.

Grandad Was Telling the Truth

Brushes with fame can be inconsequential…and leave an indelible memory only one can appreciate.

And so it was with my brush with Mr April Love — Pat Boone.

For those less familiar with the music of the 1950s or 60s, Boone was a singing star and icon of the era —

Whom a small nine-year-old didn’t know and ended up shooting a few forehands with.

3 p.m.

At a local tennis club where grandad happened to be a coach. Practising forehand, not too happily, under Singapore’s rather scorching sun.

Grandad Charles abruptly squinted, paused mid-volley and pointed at the next court.

“That’s Pat Boone.”

“Who?” I grabbed my racket and hopped over.

“You’re too young to know him. He’s the tall American man in the next court. Get me his autograph.” He gestured discreetly.

I almost dramatically refused. What if he wasn’t who Grandad said he was? I was a nine-year-old being forced to play tennis under Singapore’s somewhat unforgivingly humid conditions.

Grandad continued his volleys. He knew better than to push a nine-year-old at risk of exploding in front of a favourite celebrity.

Add to that that I’ve never been much of a fangirl.

Grandad proceeded with his forehand volleys, and I proceeded to miss them, much to his awkward delight.

Then, a stray ball wandered into our court.

A name sewn on the side.

Pat.

It had rolled over from Pat Boone’s court. Or the man Grandad claimed was Pat Boone. I returned it with a forearm flourish.

Apparently, celebrity meet-ups begin with —

Stray balls.

Then —

The ball came back.

I sent it back, this time, with my racket.

So Pat Boone and I exchanged a few kiddish forehands, his identity still unconfirmed.

For a while, just the player in the next court.

He laughed at the exchange —

With a nine-year-old Singaporean girl.

No autograph —

But a little tennis.

Grandad showed me a set of casettes he had in his car on the drive home.

There he was.

Pat Boone.

He’d apparently been telling the truth. Of all his embellishments, this had been the one to believe.

I never did get the autograph.

Too surreal.

This random celebrity encounter became an engraved adulthood stamp.

He was a star.

It WAS extradordinary.

He, on the other hand, was merely visiting Singapore and playing tennis at the invitation of someone he knew.

Whether he remembered the encounter, I would never know.

And that was alright.

We had outdone one of Grandad’s embellishments —

And made this one real.

Far more important.

The Laptop Was Hungry

Clara Wong’s writing appetite was voracious.

Nothing escaped her laptop.

Family drama.

Embarrassing moments.

Overheard quarrels.

Her friend, Mara, approached her with a devastating secret and a caveat —

“This stays between us.”

Clara agreed.

But…such a scintillating headline!

Mara’s secret couldn’t go to waste.

It could be —

Fiction.

A different name. A different place.

Same hurt. Same tension. Same drama.

Mara wouldn’t be the wiser.

She uploaded it.

Likes. Comments. Traction.

Guilt visited — only briefly.

Her next teaser —

“Ready for more?”

But the readers weren’t the ready ones.

Her laptop accessed private sites —

Voraciously.

It deleted entries.

Exposed private messages —

A secret confession.

Click. Fiction.

Shocked, she shut it.

The cursor jumped.

Clara had only seconds to stop the gobbling.

She tried to delete the story —

But the laptop became even more voracious.

Then, the cursor hovered, blinking.

Over Mara’s angst.

Then, she knew.

She deleted the wayward fiction.

The cursor waited, blinking.

Clara typed.

Her own story.

The Last Mistranslation

National V-J Day.

Clara shuffled her feet as the Master of Ceremonies spoke. Celebratory flags flew in the air, but her soul didn’t feel like soaring with them.

The names droned on. Everyone received a bell. Her Granddad’s? Only silence.

And the omission —

Louder than the names.

Her eyes fell on the wartime photograph in front of her. He spoke fluent Japanese; being Commandant Ishikawa’s interpreter fitted him well.

So Ishikawa thought.

No one else did. Everyone — even family members — saw him as the butler of evil.

That sat with her like a chicken would with wolves — badly. She had never defended her Grandfather, at least, not publicly. Condemnation, unfortunately, was an unwanted family contagion.

Her eyes fell on the photograph again. It had been captured near the Kempeitai’s former headquarters. Perhaps it would yield something — anything — that would finally absolve her — and her family — of shame.

Clara had entered the Kempeitai Headquarters shortly before the sun set.

They, as expected, were old. In her line of vision were a rusted loudspeaker, a few tiny, abandoned offices and a records room that remained stubbornly locked.

A military telephone suddenly jangled with urgent confidence.

Clara answered it with great reluctance.

But before she could offer customary salutations, lights lining the building’s ceilings and its walls started to flicker. Mist accumulated at an alarming rate; the striking clicks of marching boots filled the corridors. Prisoners lumbered, inhuman rakes in rags, into the compound surrounding the building.

A voice reported that Japan had surrendered.

The date on the 1945 desk calendar — August 15th.

History had not returned with gentle grace.

1945.

A thick, white mist.

Then, a familiar form. Beside Commander Ishikawa, patiently translating his instructions —

To tell the prisoners that the Japanese Army had won.

To take command.

To execute them before dawn.

She heard her grandfather deliver the false announcement, her heart dropping to unfathomable depths.

Each obedient bow had a tighter stranglehold.

She could barely breathe.

And then she noticed —

With the help of Google translate —

Little flaws.

Mistakes that were too small to attract Ishikawa’s attention —

But too precise to be mere forgetfulness.

A command to lock the eastern gate —

Mistranslated for the guard, who was told to leave it open.

The execution time changed from midnight —

To dawn.

The time of surrender.

And then —

The Surrender Notice.

In Grandad’s hands.

He had spent a good part of three years bending notices. He would not do so now. Not this time.

He reached desperately for the compound’s loudspeaker. If everyone heard the surrender announcement, Ishikawa would lose the power to order executions.

Then —

A rude interruption.

By the Person in Apparent Power.

Gunshots.

The lights failed.

Clara found herself looped to the beginning of the same hour. Her Grandad was alive. The phone was ringing off the hook. The dead —

Forever trapped because the surrender was never announced.

A cycle.

For Clara to continue —

Or cut.

Clara stepped through the gate. The camp was shrouded by deadly mist.

But Grandad’s choices weren’t her concern.

Then —

She sobered.

Her silence at his non-naming, every V-J Day.

When it should not have been.

He had adopted disgrace —

So others could live.

She avoided appearing foolish —

When the truth needed an appearance.

She had mistaken silence for innocence.

She turned back to the podium.

Just another step, then release.

Clara turned the loudspeaker on. Ishikawa and his cronies grabbed at her —

Vainly.

Static rolled through the compound, a defiant thunderbolt.

Her announcement reached the furthest corners of the compound.

The soft fall of bayonets. One.

Then another.

The prisoners realised their freedom.

The locked eastern gate swung open with well-deserved flourish. They stepped out — not cheering —

Tearing.

With relief.

“Clara — ” Her Grandad’s voice was raspy.

“Why are you here?”

He lay limp on the ground, breath almost expired.

She cradled his head.

“Because you were.”

At the following year’s V-J Day ceremony —

Another deliberate silence.

Again.

But she didn’t remain stoic. Or silent.

She stepped forward with the now yellowed surrender notice and related his translation.

Or deliberate mistranslation.

The subtle altering of orders.

To deceive the enemy.

His death —

Attempting to announce the surrender —

So others would live.

Not every face softened. True courage did not require complete understanding.

It just required a voice.

The Last Passengers

Nadia went aboard the ferry, the day having drained her.

An empty seat in the back row beckoned. She sat and gratefully sank into its plush cushions.

From the back, the water was —

Dark.

The lights dimmed as the ferry pulled away, and it grew —

Darker.

Oblivious to her surroundings, Nadia continued her voyage home, and to dreamland.

A veil of mist settled beside her, occupying the empty seat.

“Too cold; ferry fare too expensive; Curry puffs on board too small.”

Mr. Tan was indignant.

A crew member appeared.

“Ma’am…sorry, but you’re both a little loud.”

“What?” Nadia was puzzled.

The staff pointed at the seat —

And realised it was vacant.

Mr. Tan was sheepish. “I fell overboard in 1987.”

He then explained that to disembark, a living passenger had to accompany him through turnstiles.

Nadia opened her mouth in protest —

Then the entire back row stood.

One raised a hand.

“Could we disembark too?”

Before We Wear Our Hats

Before I wear the woman’s hat given to me by anyone else, not by my volition, I exist.
Expectations arrive instantaneously, telling me what a woman ought to be.
I have ambitions, thoughts, feelings, desires, wants, needs, experiences, successes and failures that belong exclusively to me.
Names. Daughter. Mother. Wife. Sister, Grandmother. Aunt. Colleague. Friend-these are the many hats I wear.
Giving to others and forgetting to give to the self.

Absolutely, I can make a difference in the lives of others, which cross my own.

Woman — herself, not secondary to anyone or anything else she interacts with.
Others know me by the role that is defined for me.
Maternal does not refer to motherhood by convention, but by the hat and the act of nurturing another.
Autonomy to decide the hats and roles we wear.
Neither daughter, mother, wife, nor colleague defines the whole person; each hat does not equal the whole.

A Is for Ant

Adam Ant spies A
Aligns with the other ants
Alpha morsel calls

Balanced on their backs
Bony shoulders now do haul
Burdened with the spoils

Carries, insect thief
Crumbs of alphabet larger
Curbs its little life

Delicious letter
Day’s insect diet broken
Doubled abdomen

Enlarged belly forms
Endangered, about to burst
Escalates and booms.

Fumes spread and disperse
Four odours now lingering
Filmy veil of smoke

Giant anthill sees
Great gastronomic chances
Gather now to grab

Heavy letters move
Hanging on broadened ant backs
Heads small and unseen.

“I can scarcely speak.”
Ichabod ant states gravely.
“I ate all the letters.”

J still lives, hidden
Just because the ants don’t want
Jarring words and jokes.

The Mosquito Tribunal

Kelvin worked late amongst tropical, blood-starved mosquitoes as World Mosquito Day fell. The hour grew late; he was trying to get much deserved shuteye after a trying week at work.

But it was that darned bloodsucker. It kept performing aerial acrobatics above his head.

But had it —

Wrapped —

In his hand.

SQUASH.

A bloody smear on his palm. The airborne assasination succeeded.

A ceremonial, almost reverential silence followed.

And a soft murmur:

“Happy World Mosquito day.”

Then —

Tap.

On the window pane.

So — the Insect Rally began —

With a clipboard-bearing mosquito taking notes.

An officer of the International Mosquito Welfare Association.

He had buzzed over to pay homage to the registered celebrant of World Mosquito Day —

Who had become —

A Helpless Victim.

He adjusted his black armband with the dignity that only professionally trained insect bureaucrats could muster.

“A serious matter.” He noted on his clipboard, the approximate size of a cellphone.

Kelvin was thereafter charged with

Unlawful and aggravated swatting;

Developing and maintaining a citronella environment;

***Indiscriminate application of Insect Repellent. ***

Kelvin refused to attend the ridiculous court.

But that was not an issue.

The court came to him.

The lights in his home flickered.

The white ceiling became black —

And moved.

The buzzing intensified.

From outside Kelvin’s window, a black, humming cloud.

12 mosquito jurors lined the window ledge. A Judge Mosquito settled at the top of the curtain. A prosecuting mosquito settled on the window pane.

Kelvin reached instinctively for his repellent.

The Judge Mosquito slapped her wings together.

“Any attempt at repellent use will be met with harsh consequences.”

Kelvin had to sit amongst mosquitoes —

Without harming a single one.

The prosecuting mosquito had in his hands —

Damning evidence.

The prosecutor’s proboscic twitched —

Too eagerly.

***Exhibit A: Pungent repellent. ***

Exibit B: Citronella candles.

***Exhibit C: A swatter, on which lay the bodies of previous victims. ***

An audible gasp rippled from the black cloud still hanging on the ceiling of Kelvin’s room.

Kelvin banged his fists on the table in protest.

He jabbed his finger at the offensive victim, now laying

in quiet repose in its swatter chamber.

A Buzzing Bailiff summoned a witness.

Who reluctanly attested:

“The deceased had been warned not to suck the blood of humans.”

12 wings convened for 12 hours.

When it finally returned, the courtroom fell completely silent.

The verdict was unanimous.

Not guilty by virtue of self-defence.

Kelvin put his face in his hands in utter relief. The black cloud left the ceiling slowly, still buzzing.

Kelvin lay back in his reclining office chair, relief loosening his shoulders.

Almost completely.

One mosquito stayed.

Bearing a cellphone-sized clipboard.

He closed the case file, then buzzed over to Kelvin.

He froze in front of the now-freed accused —

And hovered beside his ear.

And in a low, buzzing whisper, as he drifted from his ear to his arm —

“Court fees, sir.”

Never Bore Another Soul

Being the party wallflower was a drag — something that Edwin knew too well. He could clear a conversation circle —

Without even trying.

The office party fell two days before Christmas Eve, the usual end-of-year celebration.

Before he’d even tried to share his anecdote, a listener had remembered another urgent meeting.

The foul restroom became a source of respite for another.

The wall clock gained a new admirer. The number of minutes it took before he could leave became particularly sexy.

Edwin noticed. Very much. He sensed, rightly, that people were tolerating rather than enjoying him.

And decided that it was time for a change.

On the way home, an advertisement by a Public Speaking Guru caught his eye —

Become a scintillating conversationalist.

And underneath it the irresistible promise —

Never bore another soul.

Edwin reached for his cell.

The package the Guru sold him was —

Unconventional.

Scintillating in and of itself.

It contained a few silver tablets and a cryptic instruction —

Take one tablet before any social engagement.

So the night of the gathering —

Edwin swallowed one with gusto —

And became more magnetic than Magneto.

He was magnificent.

Astute. Everyone wanted to listen to his wonderfully charming anecdotes.

Laughter broke out —

At the right moments.

People crowded round exits —

Refusing to leave.

He started wearing studded suits that —

Sparkled.

His 70’s hustle was a hit at every gathering.

He had studs multiplying —

And was electrifying.

Edwin swallowed another tablet before the next party —

A little too eagerly.

He scintillated.

Again.

But cheeky, malfunctioning executive functions decided —

The anecdotes had to lengthen.

And became too long.

Midway through one, his mouth circled —

And paused.

For seconds too long.

Then —

Zap.

A spark got his tongue.

His mouth circled again.

Zap.

He pulled out all the stops to remain interesting. Circled his mouth once more and —

Zap.

Every pause electrified. Literally. Edwin filled pauses with silly jokes, unwanted trivia and lame stories.

“A real entertainer,” someone said.

Burning from his now almost permanently circular mouth, Edwin agreed.

His sparkle became the office must-have.

At the next dinner party, his tablet became —

Relentless.

Edwin just couldn’t stop.

The studded suits drifted between courses, with flowing anecdotes to complete them.

People chewing cheese? They needed cheese trivia.

Drinking a Martini? That poor soul needed a 007 joke.

Soon, the guests’ fascination turned to —

Fatigue.

One finally snapped.

“Edwin?”

He paused mid-sentence.

“Shut up.”

But his mouth continued circling. He sparkled furiously.

So Edwin stopped being scintillating.

The office accepted boring —

When needed.