He wanted solitude. Something wanted to share his breath.
Kermit the Green-Skinned Hermit was…solitary. He had lived for decades in a forest-consumed cottage, a dense canopy of leaves concealing it. His isolation was his gem; nature was his comfort. Moss crept along it like a spreading virus, and his green complexion synced in eerie tandem. A familiar chorus of crickets and rustling leaves filled the air.
Suddenly, the familiar woodland sounds were no more. No leaves roused themselves despite the pale moon’s watchful eye. Silence, far from peaceful, was a suffocating shroud; the ticking clock was jarringly obscene. The forest held its breath as an odd, discomfiting stillness oppressed the cottage walls.
The odd silence seeped through the cottage walls, a rejected visitor. The walls inhaled and exhaled; freshly disturbed earth released foul, measured breaths beneath peeling wallpaper. A clammy chill stuck to Kermit’s green skin, cloying.
The armchair inched closer to him, crouching in the moonlight. An invisible weight sank into the weathered cushion, creating a hollow impression in its majestic velvet. As its wooden legs made the floorboards squeal, an invisible occupant claimed its place.
Kermit touched his skin; it was frigid. He drew another breath, listening intently to the armchair’s invisible occupant. The breath felt trapped within his lungs.
There were TWO breaths. One dreadful rhythm.
The cushion sank another inch. His solitude now had a second heartbeat; one he never requested.
Something had discovered the rhythm of his being. What? He didn’t want to know.
Mirrors of the Mindexplores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.
Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back.
First they took away the colour. Then they sent everyone the bill.
Breakfast that day was like all other breakfasts for twelve-year-old Emma Long. Pancakes. An egg, sunny-side up. And…fruit.
She reached for the orange in the crystal fruit bowl in front of her, then stopped. The orange wasn’t as cheery as it should have been. Its usually jolly peel had turned black, like an oversized lump of coal.
She gazed outside the window. The sun had broken its vow of daylight; it was a bruise on Sunkissed’s horizon.
She tasted the orange. It still tasted of sunshine, though that itself seemed to have…vanished. And across the world, people stared at what they no longer saw.
The walk to school the next day was just as puzzling.
The light at the traffic crossing was no longer amber, but charcoal black. Road workers struggled because the traffic cones they worked with were no longer orange; they had lost the battle with colour.
An art teacher realised that Creativity had developed a technical fault and had turned everything black.
“Does orange even exist anymore?” A puzzled student asked.
The phenomenon was so strange that Sunkissed’s news media coined a new moniker: the Great Orange Outage. Scientists offered explanations–none explained anything. Facebook feeds were rife with theories, the most popular of which was the sun being swallowed by a Black Hole.
Her grandpa’s expression had darkened, though orange wasn’t responsible.
At home, Emma wandered into Grandpa’s study. The old man had filled it with paintings, journals and other memories.
She glanced at the portraits of sunrises, marigolds and autumn leaves. The once-orange portions were dressed in black.
Then, she remembered. He had been a colour-perception engineer at Spectrum Incorporated, Sunkissed’s premier colour-fabrication company. He had been part of a team that developed a device that could alter how the brain interpreted light. Their research was for medical and scientific purposes.
Then, Spectrum’s directors had an Aha! moment. One that told them how colour manipulation could become–
Profitable.
Spectrum had realised how to make colour work for themselves. And Grandpa wanted no part of it.
He resigned-before telling them how to put the colours back the way they were.
The next morning, Emma picked up the Sunkissed Times and browsed through the headlines during breakfast.
Spectrum Incorporated had announced a press conference. Its CEO appeared in front of a corporate logo.
“Sir, could you tell us what has caused orange to disappear?” A reporter pushed a microphone at him. He pushed it away and smiled. “Spectrum has come up with a way to restore orange.” His assistant doled out pamphlets. “Introducing our Colour Restoration Programme, available in customisable packages!” He beamed, his spectacles and teeth taking on unusual enormity and shine.
Emma cornered Grandpa Long as he came down the stairs for his breakfast. “Grandad-customisable packages? No one should have to pay to see a colour!”
Grandad pondered what she said. He nodded his head slowly. ” I agree. That’s why I stopped colourising for them in the first place.” He rummaged through his drawers and drew a piece of paper. “Here. My early research. What I never told them was –there is a way to bring back orange.” He stomped his foot with exaggerated flourish. “Colour perception is still ours!”
“Ours? How? Spectrum owns all the royalties!” Then she grinned. “Grandad, the peanuts are yours if you want them, though.” She hopped about the room mischievously.
“We could release this research. But it will have-,” he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Consequences.”
“At this point, we should try everything. Spectrum has already harmed millions of people.” Using a little flamboyant hacking know-how, she bypassed Spectrum’s subscription system.
The programme travelled faster than any corporate disclaimer. The horizon was more than clear. It blushed with new MAC lipstick, embarrassed by its recent absence.
And just like that, Orange was restored. News channels celebrated the occasion.
Spectrum didn’t. It sustained financial losses as customers customised their subscriptions- with cancellations. Emma received the Golden Orange, Sunkissed’s top accolade, given only to citizens who maintained orange around the city.
A courier arrived with a large envelope for Emma and Grandpa Long. In it was a legal notice from Spectrum Incorporated. It was a suit filed against them for intellectual property theft and interference with its commercial colour services.
“Grandpa,” the preteen asked, “Can they sue the entire world?”
“They certainly intend to try,” Grandpa chuckled.
A news bulletin the next day declared that the company was filing an application to patent yellow.
Some mirrors show your face. Others reveal the thoughts, fears, choices and contradictions hidden beneath the surface.
Mirrors of the Mind explores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.
Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back.
In Veggiewood, it takes more than a golden fork to prove you’re a cut above the rest. 🏆
The annual superfood awards Veggiewood’s IT crowd of Veggiewood–top nutritionists, Michelin chefs and other culinary elite. It gave the creme de la creme of the vegetable kingdom a chance to see and be seen. Of course, kale, quinoa, avocado, and blueberry had their eyes on the coveted Golden Fork. Kale, the first contestant, strutted her stuff across the stage. She was a mean contender with an enviable list of antioxidant credentials under her green belt. Quinoa demanded recognition for her whole-grain lineage and had the enthusiastic backing of her public relations team. Carrot stood out among the common roots, and feared that she was nothing special. She gazed at the others, orange with envy. Avocado was fashionably late, flanked by a score of blueberry guards.
The competition was frighteningly intense. Worried that she was losing her uniquely orange edge, Carrot hired a marketing consultant. She underwent a complete rebranding, emerging fit and toned, a highly exclusive wellness product. Media hype was a natural consequence. The orange root was now no longer a vegetable–she was an exclusive orange wellness experience. She had progressed socially and economically from humble soil to haute couture–and her price had risen faster than her nutritional value. Friendships changed. “You’re far too pedestrian for my new image,” she told her old friend, Potato. Her tastes, too, had outclassed her earthy origins.
The vegetable community kitchen had always been a major contributor to the World Food Day Lunch–their produce status compelled them to contribute regularly. Potato and Onion were enthusiastic participants. Onion brought tears to everyone’s eyes with his keen involvement. “Joining us, carrot?” They bobbed up and down as they handed her a pamphlet. “Well… I’d better not.” With her new status, she HAD to be wary of what she was involved in. That same day, she passed the kitchen. Everyone was up to their necks in preparations, eager to gaze into the eyes of hungry baby potatoes glowing in anticipation. Everyone but herself.
She received the much-anticipated gold-embossed envelope in the mail –the coveted invitation to Veggiewood’s Golden Fork ceremony. Just then, the community kitchen realised that it needed an ingredient for soup.
Carrot’s publicist nearly wilted. “The ceremony must take priority!”
And then, a vision. The eyes of Baby Potatoes–staring straight at her. She found something she could put herself on the chopping block for–and made herself useful.
The Golden Fork Awards proceeded with the usual fanfare, edgy salad demonstrations, and Carrot- the recipient of the Golden Beetroot Award for Compassion.
Carrot’s publicist nearly wilted. “The ceremony must take priority!”
And then, a vision. The eyes of Baby Potatoes–staring straight at her. She found something she could put herself on the chopping block for–and made herself useful.
The Golden Fork Awards proceeded with the usual fanfare, edgy salad demonstrations, and Carrot- the recipient of the Golden Beetroot Award for Compassion.
Some mirrors show your face. Others reveal the thoughts, fears, choices and contradictions hidden beneath the surface.
Mirrors of the Mind explores those reflections through stories that look at people, relationships and the unexpected turns that make us question what we thought we knew.
Sometimes, the most revealing thing in a mirror isn’t the person looking back.
Fall was not Lara’s favourite season. Shades of red, brown and yellow waltzed outside her window; she eyed them with disdain.
To the 15-year-old, fall meant the end. It was the conclusion of freedom. Of warmth. Of the holidays. The shorter days and colder mornings had made a grim return; so had mundane routines.
Her Grandpa, who always left her scratching her head, always loved falling autumn leaves. He always added the patterned ones to his pressed flowers collection. He wanted to take his annual fall walk—absolutely not her favourite activity.
Grandpa walked through the same park every fall. He would go through piles of fallen autumn leaves painstakingly. She carefully chose one to press into his scrapbook.
One leaf. Every year.
The routine served no purpose. Those fallen leaves? Utterly pointless.
“Come with me this year,” he insisted.
Perhaps he just wanted her company. She sighed, put on her coat and followed him.
Her eyes fell on the damp path ahead. Soggy red and brown leaves. Barren trees. The school she went to. Everything she disliked.
Leaves made a sickening crunch under her feet. The trees around them were thinning. The path in front of her was encased in a coffin of red and gold.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Piteous crunching.
Strangely enough, there wasn’t a sense of death. She had a feeling of readiness.
They reached a tree. It was familiar — a strong knowing surrounded it. But like the others, its crown had completely disappeared.
“It is my favourite.” Grandpa stroked its trunk.
Laura couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.
“Grandpa, why do you love fall?” She gestured around her. Bare branches reached for the sky, as if begging. “Everything is disappearing.”
A wide smile defeated the wrinkles on his face. “Fall isn’t the end.” He gestured to a squirrel keeping a few acorns in its mouth. “It’s getting ready for a new start.”
Lara looked around again.
Same park. Same trees.
And yet it looked different. Meant something different.
Grandpa looked for the leaf, as he did every year —
But Lara wasn’t an audience. She chose a leaf before he could choose his.
But the teenager, the family’s perfectionist, did not choose a perfect leaf.
Hers was bi-colored—one half a rustic red shade; the other a fresh green.
At home, Lara pulled Grandpa’s scrapbook from the shelf. Surprisingly, no pages were yellowed or dog-eared, despite the many decades.
She turned the pages. Grandpa had marked the fall —
Year.
After year.
After year.
Over and over again. And spring had obediently followed.
Nothing had ended. The fall had continued.
She took her own leaf and slipped it between two blank pages. Then, she wrote the year.
Her eye fell on another leaf drifting to the ground outside her window. This time, it fell ready — and felt ready — for the next year.
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.
Teachers didn’t know it then, but education in Sing City was about to change.
The unassuming Flibbersnack bore the brunt of the phenomenon.
Authorities informed citizens that not using Flibbersnack would result in warnings.
There was one tiny problem.
Everyone knew about the Fibbersnack.
No one knew what it was.
No one asked what they should have asked.
Everyone nodded with supreme confidence in their knowledge of Fibbersnacks.
Including Maya.
The collective ignorance put law-abiding Singtizens to shame.
The confusion over the name was so prevalent that Sing City’s authorities established the Fibbersnack Definition Committee.
Followed by eight arduous meetings.
Seventeen long-haul, mundane presentations.
And a two-day, strategic retreat entitled:
Towards a shared understanding of Flibbersnack.
The authorities even published a definition. An object, action, condition or circumstance showing characteristics aligned with flibbersnackery.
Maya and her colleagues declared it “ comprehensive.”
She asked him what Flibbersnackery was.
He suddenly needed the restroom.
Sing City’s authorities began enforcing regulations on the word.
An unfortunate gentleman carrying a brightly colored placard received a warning for possessing a potentially flibbersack-adjacent item.
A cafe received notice from the health inspector regarding its new bread offering because it could be regarded as Flibbersnack.
They renamed it the NOT-FLIBBERSNACK BUN.
The chef immediately renamed it the non-flibbersnack bun.
Umbrellas became suspicious of themselves because no one could identify what caused flibbersnack.
People grew wary of something they could not trust completely.
The word started to sit uncomfortably with Maya.
And as it turned out, Flibbersnack was more than a word.
It was an entity capable of —
Excessive snacking.
Stealing children’s lunches.
Poaching Sunday dinners.
Citizens were somehow aware of its presence.
Not enough to say so.
Then, schools started introducing Flibbersnack Awareness Week.
Posters appeared.
See it. Say it. Stop Flibbersnack.
Teachers received 50-page instructional syllabi at meetings.
On the first page was the Bold instruction:
Educators should ensure students understand Flibbersnack before discussing it.
Maya’s daughter, Myra, brought home a comprehension Worksheet.
On it was a question:
Explain, using evidence from the text, the dangers of Flibbersnack.
The little girl stared at the paper blankly. Then, at her mother.
“Mum…what is a flibbersnack?”
Maya just shrugged helplessly.
“I just don’t know.”
Or didn’t want to say so.
Little Myra blinked twice.
Then stared at the question in front of her.
“If no one knows what a Flibbersnack is..Then why doesn’t anyone ask?”
Sing City’s most fundamental question.
Asked by a child.
Knowing nothing had become less important than Flibbersnackery.
Maya carried her daughter’s question into the town’s next official Flibbersnack meeting.
As usual, officials began discussing Flibbersnack management. Awarness. Obliteration.
Maya gathered her courage. Then — -
“What is a Flibbersnack?”
A sea of blank faces.
Then…
Eight consecutive meetings lengthened.
Officials consulted each other.
They consulted reports.
“Flibbersnack” — an old typo made by a secretary whose lunch had taken precedence over her documents. It referred to a stray cat partial to…
Snacks.
Maya sighed in relief. Weeks of Flibbersnackery had feline connections.
Schools began withdrawing Flibbersnack Awareness Week, replacing it with —
National Critical Questioning Week.
That came with 75-page instructions….
And executive monitoring.
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.
Georgina needed assistance. She reached out to an airconditioning technician.
Who couldn’t identify a single fault.
“Nothing seems wrong with it. And — “ He pointed to the remote’s display panel. 25 degrees celcius. “The temperature seems constant.”
But…
2:14.
COLD.
The remote had to be going rogue.
Georgina exhaled a could of hapless vapour.
And another.
And another came out before her.
She held a breath.
But that didn’t stop the others.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
