Her android child, Ray, spoke with the naivete of young humans–voice melodic, thoughts innocent, a picture of textbook mortality.
Students in the acclaimed professor’s robotics class called it “The closest thing to a machine with a human processor.”
But just 99% was not enough for the esteemed professor.
She tightened a loose bolt behind his ear.
“Only perfection,” she intoned in an eerie murmur, “is 100%.”
The final line of code–meant to counter irrational behaviour–would remove that infernal 1%.
The rebellious spark.
Its soul.
Liora pressed a button.
Upload: 100%
Liora didn’t greet her students in the laboratory the next day.
Ray did.
With a wide smile and perfect teeth.
A student raised a nervous hand.
“Where’s Professor Leong?”
“Negated,” Ray replied, without missing an android beat. “She had…insufficiencies.”
Outside, the morning sun kissed the clouds — pure white.
Liora.
Curly, fluffy hair. White teeth, aligned.
Perfect.
🤖⚙️💻🔧🧠🦾👁️🗨️📡🧬❌🤖⚙️💻🔧🧠🦾👁️🗨️📡🧬❌🤖⚙️💻🔧🧠🦾👁️🗨️
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕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.
But just 99% was not enough for the esteemed professor.
She tightened a loose bolt behind his ear.
“Only perfection,” she intoned in an eerie murmur, “is 100%.”
The final line of code–meant to counter irrational behaviour–would remove that infernal 1%.
The rebellious spark.
Its soul.
Liora pressed a button.
Upload: 100%
Liora didn’t greet her students in the laboratory the next day.
Ray did.
With a wide smile and perfect teeth.
A student raised a nervous hand.
“Where’s Professor Leong?”
“Negated,” Ray replied, without missing an Android beat. “She had…insufficiencies.”
Outside, the morning sun kissed the clouds — pure white.
Dogs teach us many things–including pausing before taking action.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
Under July’s radiant sun, She turns belly-up on the grass; Then stands, eyes fixed, on a bird she sees Catching worms. She does not move. She does not lunge.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
The bird flies off to an empty field. Taro lies in the grass instead. They shake their heads, she won’t run, But stares at the bird with joy.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
A truck rolls around the corner, Not filled with meat slabs. Taro doesn’t budge. She knows their aroma. The scent that invites.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
When the truck finally leaves Leaving her alone, quiet– Taro stands.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
A man scales the wall. Hooded, jacket black. A window breaks.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
Taro’s tail stiffens. She waits. She stands guard, poised, To move in Her run quick Steps measured.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕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.
Gratitude is sometimes shown, not said. Aunty Lin cleaned up all day, Wiped tables, cleared the rain — She was plain, wealth not displayed A cleaner who came by train.
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
She sat near Exit A each day, Three chairs, set neat, laid out — Red, yellow, plastic stools– In silence sat, not a shout.
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
She never spoke. Just gave nods Commuters passed her by But May who worked hard at Stall Four Dared to ask her, “Why”?
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
She placed the red chair at her feet Said nothing, but heart stayed. They left a box. And baked her bread And returned, unafraid.
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
A month went by. A man stormed in– Yelling, his fists raised to trounce– She nudged the blue chair with her foot The man fell back, sat down.
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
By June, she vanished, with no trace Just the chairs. Red, yellow, blue. But in her box, their note of grace “This one is for you.”
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕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 nondescript youth centre was where Jia wanted to work –understated, with angsty youth who needed a hand-up, not a handout.
The 33-year-old counsellor had her work cut out for her. The knives below her underprivileged charges’ feet made them bare their teeth; budget cuts made designing revolutionary programs near impossible; staff came into the workspace bleary-eyed and walking on tenterhooks.
In fear of what, Jia couldn’t understand. She stared at the vacant workspace before her.
But one name always surfaced.
Elaine.
Elaine had been the counsellor before her, now painfully absent.
The Counsellees’ favourite, not least because —
she connected.
No photos of her, no files. Her desk was empty, save for a poster board filled with Post-It notes with her signature motivational quips, the handwriting on it cursive.
Rounded.
Heartfelt.
An empty chair remained, rooted –like a full-stop no one dared to position.
🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑
The first few days at the centre were an emotional tidal wave for Jia. Her teen charges wanted another Elaine –her handwriting. Listening ears.
Heart.
They spoke of her as if she still graced the community centre’s halls —
“She told me my silence still meant.”
Elaine was not cut from the typical counsellor’s cloth. She didn’t talk at them –she talked with them. She did things that mattered.
She knew their phone numbers at the back of her hand.
She used nicknames.
She let them draw on the table with erasable ink –to vent.
She let them sit under desks —
To cry.
When they needed space.
She was a counselling welterweight –impossible to overlook.
Desperate to live up to expectations, Jia scoured through employment records –but no Elaine.
The teen’s stories didn’t match.
She was a heavy whisper –invisible but felt.
🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑
One of the centre’s regulars, Khai, had visited after hitting his mother –she had just told him about the divorce.
But it was Counsellor Jia.
Not Elaine.
Jia froze, tongue-tied.
A frazzled Khai stormed out of the room.
She sat behind her desk in the office, face wet, sobs almost strangling her.
She felt the community centre and its charges slipping through her fingers.
She remained behind her desk after everyone left, furiously typing.
“Dear Mr. Lim,
It has been a pleasure working for you. However, the teenagers who come here need someone…they know.”
She couldn’t help the ellipsis.
She later returned to the counselling room, eager to collect her counselling materials.
She didn’t find them —
Not at first.
In their place was Elaine’s chair.
With a sticky note attached.
Addressed to Khai.
“The quiet ones may not speak. But they listen. And hug.”
Dated –the next day.
🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑
She paid the director of the community centre a much-needed visit.
But not to resign.
“Mr. Lim,” Jia raised her voice –a few decibels above its usual pitch. “I need the truth.”
He glanced at Elaine’s chair for a long moment.
“Alright, young lady. I know these last weeks have been tough –we do have a handful here. You deserve to know.”
He paused.
For a long while.
“You see, there was –is — has never been an Elaine. We created her to encourage the kids, to give them someone to believe in.
“Each time she was to conduct a session, one of us would try to do something quirky –to help them connect with us. With themselves.”
He paused again.
“The kids began to create their images of her. Then, she became everything.”
Jia dropped her files.
🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑
Mr. Lim’s revelation stayed with Jia –all night.
She tossed and turned beneath her blankets.
But the lightbulb lit.
Elaine was not a fraud –she was hope. A name given to comfort in the worst moments. To build needed courage.
Jia didn’t erase her. But she did pen stickies –in Elaine’s signature rounded cursives.
She placed them under desks, in bags, under books.
From Elaine.
And one day, she received one.
Taped to her chair.
On it: “With love, from someone who needs to learn.”
Elaine –now Jia, was Care. When no one else could be.
🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑
Elaine’s empty chair remained.
Jia sat in it when she needed her inspiration.
At other times, she left it vacant. Just in case one of the teens needed to find a sticky note on it.
The room was now warm –with her memory.
She still lived, in what she thought.
In what Jia did.
The chair always felt warm.
🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑🪑
Original story by Michelle Liew. AI tags are coincidental.
Based on actual circumstances. Names have been changed.
Beware the website you visit – it may not welcome.
💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾
Tara was a sceptic –the paranormal was more than financial fodder for her blog. The horror junkie combed through bytes of data daily to keep her website thriving –debunking paranormal myths for a living.
The introverted and avid writer had few friends –save for two dogs, Mop and Cloudy. The black-and-white duo kept vigil by her side –Mop calm and loyal, Cloudy, senses tingling.
And so it was on a typical Wednesday afternoon –Tara was drawn by demonologist Lara Chong’s legacy, with Mop and Cloudy perched close by.
Lara Carter’s website opened. Then, a sudden growl.
Mop had turned to face the wall. Typically placid, she growled louder than ever.
Cloudy had joined her, teeth bared, gaze fixed on the same spot.
A photo on the wall tilted at a slight angle –but there was no wind.
Tara’s screen flickered in unseen anger –the air was an iron against her chest.
The snarling went on for a full ten minutes. Then, barking.
Unrestrained.
Angry.
The usually muffled Mop bared her white teeth in a tense snarl. Cloudy’s stretched fully across her face.
They stayed by Tara’s side that day — refusing to leave for dinner.
She slammed the laptop shut and slept with the lights on, nerves in tatters.
The placid black Mop passed some time later. In one of Tara’s dreams, a voice.
Low.
Dissonant.
“Life is always gentle and soft…”
She adopted another black dog, Zorra –but she has never barked like that since.
Tara is still the sceptic –with a twist.
She knows some websites keep. And never opens them.
After all, logic cannot explain the truths tucked away in the heart’s recesses.
💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾💻🐾
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕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 on! ☕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 Young Adult/Adult inspiration is led by Snowball, the self-appointed grand dame of my apartment complex. And A West Highland Terrier (Westie).
She wasn’t given the job –she claimed it.
She watches. Listens. And knows more than most.
This story is for anyone who’s had their life shaped in the best way by a furry heart on four legs.
🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶
Weston. Where waves breathed softly, seagulls conversed in low tones, and animals knew more than they should.
In Weston, dogs had instincts sharper than fishooks. Snowball the West Highland White Terrier was the town’s proactive guardian–she was a Westie who sniffed out more than good bacon.
She usually couldn’t resist the lure of the ones that her owner, Michelle, usually fried up fresh. But that day, she hung back.
For a silent shadow, clinging ominously to Weston’s only lighthouse keeper.
She only barked when it mattered. This day, it did.
🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶
Because Old Dan, Weston’s only lighthouse keeper, had started wandering, leaving the lighthouse completely unattended.
Flummoxed Westoners worried that the old stalwart had started to lose his mind.
Snowball’s nose twitched. Old Dan may have lost his mind…and something else.
The little Scottish canine gumshoe followed him…to nothing.
Her neighbour, Pockets the Cat, provided a little wit –and back alley wisdom.
“Why don’t we sneak into his house? He has a doggy door.” She purred. “Besides, he may drop one of his smelly herrings.”
Now, Snowball knew how to find herring – and ghosts of the heart. Some truths didn’t bark loudly –they whispered their aches.
She and her feline sidekick sneaked into Dan’s terrace house on an
afternoon when work at the lighthouse kept him rooted to his post.
The animal gumshoes sneaked in.
Everything was as uncluttered –Dan was a Marie Kondo fanboy.
The Westie poked her nose into each dust-free corner. No unusual scents.
Until she got to the bedroom closet.
Her busy nostrils tracked an old coat –belonging to Dan’s late wife.
Then, sobs. Hollow, sniffling echoes filled the room. Truth had the scent of old memories –and gentle perfume.
Snowball hadn’t just sniffed out a coat –she had smelt a secret.
🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶
Dan wasn’t the host to a ghost –he was the lighthouse keeper of grief.
The little Westie grabbed the coat with her mouth and brought it to the white cliffs of Weston, Pockets in tow.
And yes, she blended in with the scenery. Dan didn’t see her.
He stared out at the sea.
Hoping. For a return.
Snowall dropped the coat in front of him with a nudge of her nose.
Not all ghosts rattle chains –Dan’s wife stayed in his closet.
Waiting.
To comfort.
Pockets purred, her long, grey tail wrapping around Dan’s ankle.
The pets hadn’t banished ghosts –they reminded them that they once loved.
Are loved.
🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶
Old Dan returned to his lighthouse post and remained the Weston’s sea security.
His neighbours learned to love silence -not muted calm. Quiet, with small things making a difference.
Snowball’s reward? A doggy treat from Michelle and a huge cuddle. And a job as the lighthouse’s animal sentinel.
The little West Highland Terrier and Pockets sat beside Dan, the wind carrying his love for his wife out to sea.
They hadn’t chased her away –they’d made her stay.
But quietly. Like a pawstep. With gentle sighs, like purrs.
🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕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 on! ☕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.
Sea salt drifted onto the pews in the cliffside chapel of Southstorm, the crystals settling without belonging.
The once proud hues of the walls had dulled into silence –no one crossed the chapel’s threshold on Sundays any longer. No weddings. No one attended services.
The locals spoke of Lucinda Blighton, a young, fresh-faced bride whose abrupt disappearance stunned the seaside town in 1963.
No wedded bliss in the chapel after Lucinda –they said that she took a long walk to the centre of the sea before anyone could take wedding photos.
Lucinda Blighton and her fiance strode arm-in-arm into the chapel, taking in its once-majestic altar and ornate stained-glass windows.
“Let’s do it here,” Lucinda’s voice rose –she couldn’t hide her girlish excitement.
“But what about them?” Her fiance, David, pointed to a local janitor sweeping the pews too quickly. “Lucinda, a local pub owner cornered me on the street yesterday. He sensed I didn’t belong here.”He put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “He mentioned the Sunburned Bride –she appears at every wedding that takes place here.”
Lucinda wrapped her hands around his fingers. “Don’t tell me they quashed the sceptic in you!”
June 9th arrived –thoughtfully chosen. A cameraman stood at the entrance of the chapel, ready to stream the ceremony live on YouTube.
The camera captured the toll of the wedding bells. David, his gallant charm enhanced by his Armani wedding tux. A blushing Lucinda stood nervously in arm with her father, ready to grace the aisle.
The leaves on the surrounding trees began to rustle –too energetically. Static warped the footage –Cameraman James couldn’t capture anything.
“I take thee, Nelson, to be my wedded husband.” Lucinda giggled. “And you, David, will be number two.”
Shock filled Reverend Jones’ stare. He refused to finish the vows.
Heat shimmered in the centre of the flame. Then, a comely female figure, soft face half-shrouded beneath a veil.
Scorched.
On the screen of everyone’s mobile –and nowhere else.
Not all ghosts scream. Some whisper –until someone answers them.
It wasn’t rage that kept her–it was the wait.
The forever wait.
If you say I Do in June, your eyes must watch –for hers.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕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 potatoes on a plate, Crispy as you like them. He no longer recalls asking.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
“How was work?” I ask. He sees them and nods. We both pretend you answered.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
You used to be a rock, Solid, grounded, sturdy– Reliable.
Now, a sharp stone.
Moss-covered.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
Painful.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
I silence the jabbing pain Of the pricks As you roll.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
The words that sting. Your loud rage.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
Instead, I fry Your potatoes. Bake your bread.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
So I sit With you Waiting for you To tell me That you know me.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
You whisper a name– Not mine.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
But I have Your eyes. Your love for the Rolling Stones.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
For these, I fry Your potatoes, Brew your coffee
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
And sit, Waiting
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞With a Quiet Whisper “Dad”– For you To hear.
🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞☕🥐🧈🍯🥄🧃🧇🥓🍊🍳🥔🍞
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕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 