The Longest Day

Never chase the unknown–some things only live in the shadows

πŸŒžπŸ©ΈπŸ•―οΈπŸ•·οΈπŸ‘£πŸ«₯πŸŒ•πŸ•ΈοΈπŸ”πŸ©»πŸŒ„πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ«οΈπŸŒžπŸ©ΈπŸ•―οΈπŸ•·οΈπŸ‘£πŸ«₯πŸŒ•πŸ•ΈοΈπŸ”πŸ©»πŸŒ„πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ«οΈπŸŒžπŸ©ΈπŸ•―οΈπŸ•·οΈπŸ‘£πŸ«₯πŸŒ•πŸ•ΈοΈπŸ”πŸ©»πŸŒ„

The Summer Solstice dawned… or never set. The sun’s rays lingered on house rooftops far longer than they had to. Pastoral and serene, Lysvika was the perfect backdrop for the festivities–the verdant pasture and placid wildlife made the longest day of the year stretch with quiet persistence.

17-year-old Erica was an avid blogger–the solstice gave her the perfect excuse for blog research. Lysvika was the perfect abode for myths and legends–banshees stalked, elves whispered from window eaves, and spirits drifted all summer. Erica set herself on exploring the legend of the Sun Walkers–they scoured the Earth on the longest day, pilfering the shadows from the unwary to keep from fading.

Her grandmother’s warnings rang like irritating wind chimes in her ears–“Don’t leave home when the sun sets–they come for your shadow.” Erica took them with a lifetime of sea salt–they were just another of Grandma’s bedtime draugr.

Until he appeared. Right behind her. No footwear. Mirroring her every gesture. 

It was before her. Beside her.

Everywhere.

Erica’s legs never moved this fast before–she stumbled into the village church, covered in panicked sweat. Her shadow flickered ominously by the ancient stained glass windows.

She hid until dusk.

A dusk that never appeared.

EricaΒ wasn’t in bed the next morning. Her mother found her shoes–by the church altar.Β 

Erica did reappear. Waiting for someone else. Following. Mimicking their gestures.

Her blog auto-uploads every year– a figure standing behind.

She no longer chased in the light–some things only survived in the shadows.

πŸŒžπŸ©ΈπŸ•―οΈπŸ•·οΈπŸ‘£πŸ«₯πŸŒ•πŸ•ΈοΈπŸ”πŸ©»πŸŒ„πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ«οΈπŸŒžπŸ©ΈπŸ•―οΈπŸ•·οΈπŸ‘£πŸ«₯πŸŒ•πŸ•ΈοΈπŸ”πŸ©»πŸŒ„πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ«οΈπŸŒžπŸ©ΈπŸ•―οΈπŸ•·οΈπŸ‘£πŸ«₯πŸŒ•πŸ•ΈοΈπŸ”πŸ©»πŸŒ„

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Muted Hat

That voice was meant to sing.

πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’

In a dull, musty corner, marked Lost and Found

All covered with dust and made not a sound.

I was once handsome, a fedora now flat

I now balk at the words: “Now that’s a tall hat.”

πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’

Once a bold topper, with a clear voice,

I’d yell out, “Don’t wear that! Now that’s too much noise!”

But one fateful day, at the new start of school,

They blurted, “Please don’t wear that, you look like a fool!”

πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’

The chortles erupted and filled the hall,

My beige form turned red, l looked so small

I was then tossed in a box marked “too loud.”

My brim then turned down, no longer so proud.

πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’

I learned to stay quiet, curled up in my brim

Chose not to utter what broiled from within

The silence protected, but balm it was not

Unspoken needs festered, truth left to rot.

πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’

Then came young Laura, who made not a noiseβ€”

She found that old box amongst her old toys

She put me on, and then came her voiceβ€”

She moves through the school with flair. quiet poise.

πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’

I now speak soft, bold, but with tact,

With Laura in tow, I come forth with facts.

Those who laughed at my words, I tip with a grinβ€”

For my song, once not voiced, is now set to begin.

πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’πŸ‘’

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! β˜•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.

No Way Out

June is a month of rest and escape. The idea of escape also calls for some introspection..is it the answer? Or a point of regret?

πŸšͺπŸš«πŸ§“πŸ»πŸ§Ήβž‘οΈβ“πŸ‘£βŒπŸ”ŠπŸ—£οΈ”εŽζ‚”” (regret)πŸ”’πŸ•³οΈβ›”πŸš·πŸ“ͺ

No one saw Mr. Chee leave the Assisted Living Community–there was just his crossword, half-completed, a half-eaten boiled egg and a cup of half-drunk coffee.

Ching, the night-orderly, grumbled. Stuck in a rut. The money wasn’t enough–she had to support her three sons, now that her half-baked husband had taken off.

She bumped into the new door while sweeping. It was never there. Brass frame, freshly varnished.

She rapped gingerly. No response.

She opened it– and entered.

Never returned.

The neighbors mentioned grumbling, in Mandarin: “Ho hui (regret).”

The staff now avoid that door. Escape wasn’t freedom, but another blocked exit.

πŸšͺπŸš«πŸ§“πŸ»πŸ§Ήβž‘οΈβ“πŸ‘£βŒπŸ”ŠπŸ—£οΈ”εŽζ‚”” (regret)πŸ”’πŸ•³οΈβ›”πŸš·πŸ“ͺ

If you like this story, do join me onΒ Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! β˜•Your kindΒ donationΒ via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

She Wakes –The Waker

The Waker explores the cost of emotional suppression, a celebrates those who step out of it to speak when silence is expected.

So let’s speak, when we should. Like The Sleeper’s hero.

πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›

In the kingdom where sleep’s veil holds reign

Where solemn winds through curtains spin,

I find the enchanted you, held by wires,

Your form alive, your mind expired.

πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›

You the Sleeper, who calms the mind

Clear of anguish, free from time

I have browsed the ivy books

The ones they burned, the ones they took

Of moonlit graves, and marble stones

Where death dances, sorrow moans

πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›

Your room painted, sterile blue

But violets call out to me too

So I speak, forbidden words

Those that haunt, that must be heard

πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›

Quivering, yes, the tomb does breathe,

Though it keeps pained memories beneath the leaves.

πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›

Where beauty slept in her white dress,

Her grief was banned, but no less

My eyelids twitch once. The air is still.

They’ll banish me–to dearth, they will

πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›

But I say this, from depth of heart,

She just sleeps well, did not depart.

They closed her eyes to dull her ache

Cloaked her in silence, spoke not her name,

πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›

Nothing can hold what longs to feel

No rest can make the wound less real.

So rise my sleeper, with your pain

The moonlight shines, your blood remains

πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›

Though the future does grow cold, 

Your soul denied, your sorrow, old.

πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›πŸ¦β€β¬›

f you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! β˜•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 Mirror Room

You are who you are–no matter what you wear. Michelle Liew

πŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺž

Lennox Tan was–queer. To preserve the status quo, he wore his truth beneath layers of tailored silence–because he hadn’t fully come out of the closet.

But silence wasn’t enough to stem the tide of taunts. Lennox wasn’t one to back down from challenges–especially those delivered as veiled prejudice.

The department was overdue for a break–so it decided on a staycation at Singapore’s Swissotel Resort.

With a luxurious suite no one wanted to sleep in–alone.

He approached his manager.

“Paul,” he swallowed, hard, then let determination give him a push. “I’ll sleep in the Mirror Room…if no one else wants to.”

“You sure?” Paul glossed him over with a smirk. “Wouldn’t you have a ‘happier’ holiday if someone shared it?”

That made his decision.

He returned Paul’s smirk with one of his own. “Absolute joy on my own, Paul, absolute joy.”

πŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺž

Lennox stepped into the Mirror Room- alone.

The hotel room was the epitome of luxury–a state-of-the-art television set, a full mini bar with every cocktail known to man and a plush, way-too-comfy king-sized bed. All set against a Victorian Gothic backdrop, complete with ornate pillars and a balcony that would have made Romeo elated.

Opulent, too opulent. Odd. Lennox could hear whispers of unease in the air.

Perhaps it was all that luxury. Or the way the mirrors seemed to follow him around.

Surrounding him, closing in.

Or the whispers. Ones that played like a distorted podcast on repeat. Phrases that he had heard before. His father’s voice, in dissonant Mandarin, telling him to leave the home. Classmates who congratulated him on his ‘happiness.’ Girls who passed him by and told him, β€œni hen mei (you’re beautiful).”.

He caught sight of his reflection in one of the mirrors. 

He turned–and jumped. 

The mirror showed who he was, and who he had buried.

He was in a glamorous sequin jacket dancing with someone he’d met at a Pride Parade.

Then, splinters. A cobweb of fractures.

His reflection vanished.

πŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺž

Lennox paced around the room, eyes open with panic. Why was his reflection in all those mirrors? Why was he wearing that jacket?

The reflections stepped out of the mirrors, encircling him. Furious. Their fingers, bleeding.

They pointed to the closet. “You’ve hidden in there for years, Always shaving what you couldn’t accept. Denying.”

He did the only thing that made sense.

He begged.

He caught sight of his mom and dad in one of the mirrors.

“I couldn’t tell them. I had to survive.”

The screaming? Ignored. They closed in, building a tight wall.

Pride wasn’t his sanctuary. It was his prison.

πŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺž

He woke up in the hallway, cowering from the weight of his nightmare. He leaned against the wall, hauling himself up.

The room door was open.

He stepped in gingerly. The same mirrors lay around the room.

Still threatening. Accusing.

A chambermaid passed by. He ran out and grabbed her by the shoulder.

“You must have passed me several times. Did I go in?”

She shrugged, eyeing him up and down. “No. I left you alone. Figured that you’d had a night of it. None of my business.” She walked off, whistling.

Lennox swallowed, hard. He stepped in, again.

To see smiling versions of himself in the mirror.

His mom and dad’s reflections appeared. He gazed at them, worry filling his eyes.

They didn’t speak. But looked him over, their gazes filled with curiosity. His mother reached for him in a virtual embrace. His father seemed to reach for his shoulder, hesitant.

Some mirrors didn’t show the truth–Lennox knew that it was up to him to decide what his reflection was.

πŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺž

Back home, he threw open his closet. he took out his neatly pressed suits, folded them, and put them aside.

In a few plastic bags, all unopened, were tight tees he had bought some time ago.

He threw away the wrapping they came with.

Then, a few dresses. Also bought some time earlier. He couldn’t wear them –yet.

But he did hang them in the closet. They were—beautiful. They complemented him.

Then–the wigs. All in packages. He tore one open, and put it on.

It felt–comfortable.

Then, he caught sight of a family photograph. One of himself, having graduated with a business degree.

His aunts and uncles, surrounding his parents, with warm smiles of congratulations.

He couldn’t wear it–yet.

But he would, in time. When they would learn to surround him with smiles.

πŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺž

Lennox heard the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway. Then, the car door opening.

His parents, returning from a day of shopping.

He gulped, and sat on the bed. 

His eyes fell on the tight tees in the closet.     

πŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺž

With a flourish, he grabbed one and put it on. Along with his favourite pair of skin- tight jeans.

Slowly, he raised his head. And looked at himself.

He saw himself–but only half-smiling.

But he was ready…for something else.

He ran downstairs and greeted his parents. His nonplussed father looked at him, eyes wide.

“Mum. Dad. There’s something I need to tell you.”

He guided them gently into the kitchen and closed the door.

The sounds of shouts, and sobs.

They stopped…after a long while.

πŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺž

Lennox stayed in the Mirror Room at the company’s convention the following year, his suitcase filled with suits.

And a few cocktail dresses.

“Lennox, are you ready? It’s almost time for the presentation.”

He looked at the reflections in the mirrors.

All smiling.

He reached for the wig. Then, a pair of heels resting quietly in the corner of this suitcase. 

He looked at himself with pride. His outfit was complete. 

The smiles turned up even further.

Were the reflections in the mirrors approving? He didn’t know. He didn’t look at them again.

He was Lennox–no matter how he looked, whatever he wore.

He stood in front of the mirror but looked past it.

The smiles were unimportant–the reflections, negligible.

He was proud. Complete. And human.

He called out to his colleague.

πŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺžπŸŒ«οΈπŸͺž

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The Silence Becomes

One doesn’t always need to be a butterfly with loud wings…the quiet moth carries the flame.

ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸŒ™ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ» ༺✨༻ ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ»ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸŒ™ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ»

I chase the bright light, but not to burn

I go after glimmer to be

Ash-dusted wings that whisper

Hidden, darkened, still.

But the flame still calls

Always brushes

Draws me near

Warm light

Brief.

ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸŒ™ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ» ༺✨༻ ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ»ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸŒ™ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ»

But

Enough

That I shine

Dull wings brightened

Their limp sides unfurl

Spreading slowly across

From one end to another

Encasing all who embrace them

With a love that nurtures and abounds.

ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸŒ™ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ» ༺✨༻ ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ»ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸŒ™ΰΌ» ΰΌΊπŸ¦‹ΰΌ»

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The Cyborg Astar

June, 2045. The high school auditorium welcomed its graduating batch of students, gathered in front of the stage, eyes trained on the podium. They awaited their valedictorian to grace it with her presence.
Mia Pang was that valedictorian. The soft-spoken student had always aced her classes. But like everyone else, she had a few skeletons (or prototypes) in her closet.
She was a Generation B Variant– a prototype cyborg enhanced with a super-intelligent, artificial brain.
The school had chosen her to deliver that year’s valedictorian speech. She stepped onto the podium, trying to get over her stage fright by telling herself that the members of the audience were a bunch of cabbages.
But the school’s principal stood up, brows furrowed, a scowl forming at the corners of her mouth.
“Please don’t deliver that speech yet.” Her voice reflected an uneasy calm. “The school’s new Cyborg Filters have just detected you as inhuman. Don’t worry,” she responded to the buzz of the audience. “It’s just a formality. You know Mia, or at least we thought we did. I’m sure all will be clarified. Mia, please step aside.”
An uncomfortable buzz blanketed the audience, crescendoing as the school’s Cyborg security hauled her out of the hall.
And into its office.
“Your submission contains phrases inconsistent with human neural maps.”
Mia’s eyes darted over the room in furtive movements, finally landing on the control room. With a nod of her head, she rigged its controls. Her voice flooded the auditorium.
She steadied herself, fingers brushing her cheeks. It was a learned habit; one borne out of a need for disguise.
“I have a confession. I’m not a complete biological human. I’m not real, by your standards.” She paused.
The auditorium fell silent.
“But I have grieved. I have mourned breakups. I may be the valedictorian, but I still teared, like you, when my grades weren’t good enough to meet the expectations of my parents.”
She faced the principal.
“How does that make me less worthy of humanity?”
The school’s cyborg security guards arrived in full troop, grabbing Mia by the arms. In almost perfect synchronicity, the audience held up flat glass mobile phones.
A sea of neural lens had swallowed the proceedings.
Mia’s final words hung uncomfortably static in the air, covering it like a blanket that was too warm. Protest cyborgs and humans alike held vigils for her.
Mia didn’t graduate with her peers–she was thrown, like other cyborgs, into a storage locker.
Years later, her name was on a plaque along with an epitaph.
“I have mourned, I have hoped. With every pound of flesh, and every drop of blood.”
“To be alive is not to have flesh, but to have meaning.”

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The Tree That Spoke

Address unspoken truths- before they fester.

πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²

Old meek tree that stands

Wind stirring its autumn leaves

Old stories forgotten

πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²

Stories kept silent

Etched on its frail, wooded bark

Not meant for the open eye.

πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²

Girl runs from his hands

Boy cries at the too-harsh touch

It screams— but none hears.

πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²

Lightning strikes; it speaks

Splits–a hole in its center

Locket, rusted blade

πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²

It speaks in embers

In the scorched soil, way too late

To be heard.

πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ²πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸŒ³πŸ•―οΈπŸŒ²πŸŒ˜πŸŒ³πŸ—οΈπŸŒ²πŸ•·οΈπŸŒ³πŸŒ«οΈπŸŒ²

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! β˜•Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

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She Who Stands…Is Different

Pride Month includes everyone–we’ve all been judged or underestimated for being different.

Different beliefs. Extraordinary medical conditions that have been misunderstood.

Stand with pride.

β€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—πŸ’˜πŸ’πŸ’ŸπŸ’ŒπŸ©΅πŸ’™πŸ’šπŸ’›πŸ§‘πŸ€ŽπŸ–€πŸ€πŸŒˆβ€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—

The room buzzed with routine–the hum of busyness, ticking clocks, and clicking pens.

Everything in its place.

Far from the jaded office routine, her mind was a tropical storm.

It was just another day for her colleagues–for her, it was the Battle of Midway.

β€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—πŸ’˜πŸ’πŸ’ŸπŸ’ŒπŸ©΅πŸ’™πŸ’šπŸ’›πŸ§‘πŸ€ŽπŸ–€πŸ€πŸŒˆβ€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—

Jemima’s struggles with ADHD were known only to herself – after all, she needed the work.

They wouldn’t have hired her.

Her focus slid away, unwanted cheese melting. She took copious notes.

With scattered scribbles.

On the wrong topic.

“Oh. Again?” Serena, the department head put a mock-pitying hand on her shoulder. “Just try harder.”

The phrase wasn’t consolation–it was a familiar slap.

β€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—πŸ’˜πŸ’πŸ’ŸπŸ’ŒπŸ©΅πŸ’™πŸ’šπŸ’›πŸ§‘πŸ€ŽπŸ–€πŸ€πŸŒˆβ€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—But the slap stuck. This time, in the right way.

She simply redrafted her thoughts. And took her time.

The task–completed. No reward for her effort.

Though reading thoroughly brought huge headaches.

As usual. Serena would probably point out more mistakes than necessary.

She didn’t spend time overthinking–read through her draft, tried to spot the errors in the details, and walked out of the room.

But she knew that Jemima was the real jem. She didn’t need a valuer or assessor.

β€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—πŸ’˜πŸ’πŸ’ŸπŸ’ŒπŸ©΅πŸ’™πŸ’šπŸ’›πŸ§‘πŸ€ŽπŸ–€πŸ€πŸŒˆβ€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—

Jemima showed up at work the next day.

And the next. All the time eyeing Serena with a comfortable, satisfied smile.

A month later, a termination notice.

β€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—πŸ’˜πŸ’πŸ’ŸπŸ’ŒπŸ©΅πŸ’™πŸ’šπŸ’›πŸ§‘πŸ€ŽπŸ–€πŸ€πŸŒˆβ€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—

Jemima began her Ecommerce store–one that burgeoned.

Orders overflowed—Jemima fulfilled them all.

With the help of a rather grudging Serena.

Laid off by restructuring.

She celebrated being different–big.

β€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—πŸ’˜πŸ’πŸ’ŸπŸ’ŒπŸ©΅πŸ’™πŸ’šπŸ’›πŸ§‘πŸ€ŽπŸ–€πŸ€πŸŒˆβ€οΈπŸ©·πŸ’–πŸ’“πŸ’•πŸ’žπŸ’—

That Wonderland–It’s Hers

For Ellie Hoov’s Wonderland prompt and Vocal’s I Didn’t Say That Out Loud Challenge

She wanted to unlock Joy. But Joy always had an open door.

πŸŒΈπŸ‡πŸ«–πŸŽ©πŸ•°οΈπŸƒπŸ›πŸŒ™πŸ„πŸ’­πŸ”‘πŸͺžπŸŒΉπŸŒΈπŸ‡πŸ«–πŸŽ©πŸ•°οΈπŸƒπŸ›πŸŒ™πŸ„πŸ’­πŸ”‘πŸͺžπŸŒΉ

She saw a place where time stood still,

The teacups danced, were always filled

Much better land than was before

Goodbye to Real, this she explored

πŸŒΈπŸ‡πŸ«–πŸŽ©πŸ•°οΈπŸƒπŸ›πŸŒ™πŸ„πŸ’­πŸ”‘πŸͺžπŸŒΉπŸŒΈπŸ‡πŸ«–πŸŽ©πŸ•°οΈπŸƒπŸ›πŸŒ™πŸ„πŸ’­πŸ”‘πŸͺžπŸŒΉ

She danced with the spirits in the fields

Tasted the pure joy they’d yield

Smiling cats did beg, “You must return.”

For Wonderland, of course, she yearned

πŸŒΈπŸ‡πŸ«–πŸŽ©πŸ•°οΈπŸƒπŸ›πŸŒ™πŸ„πŸ’­πŸ”‘πŸͺžπŸŒΉπŸŒΈπŸ‡πŸ«–πŸŽ©πŸ•°οΈπŸƒπŸ›πŸŒ™πŸ„πŸ’­πŸ”‘πŸͺžπŸŒΉ

The cats’ smiles, they did not stay,

They stayed in- refused to come to play

She still chased her dream, there was no pause

Refused to state aloud its flaws

πŸŒΈπŸ‡πŸ«–πŸŽ©πŸ•°οΈπŸƒπŸ›πŸŒ™πŸ„πŸ’­πŸ”‘πŸͺžπŸŒΉπŸŒΈπŸ‡πŸ«–πŸŽ©πŸ•°οΈπŸƒπŸ›πŸŒ™πŸ„πŸ’­πŸ”‘πŸͺžπŸŒΉShe named it Joy. For her, it pleased-

Yet her dreams stayed that, Joy did not ease

But in a place within, there lay the key

To a soul encaged, that none would seek.

πŸŒΈπŸ‡πŸ«–πŸŽ©πŸ•°οΈπŸƒπŸ›πŸŒ™πŸ„πŸ’­πŸ”‘πŸͺžπŸŒΉπŸŒΈπŸ‡πŸ«–πŸŽ©πŸ•°οΈπŸƒπŸ›πŸŒ™πŸ„πŸ’­πŸ”‘πŸͺžπŸŒΉ

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! β˜•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.