The Jellyfish Glows

Light breaks water–people empathise with gentleness, not force.

🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼

In stillness deep, where silence looms

A jellyfish with glowing rings does zoom

Shedding sword threads, bright at the ends

Trying to stitch truths that won’t mend

🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼

Its light, too strong, will blind and halt

Builds cold walls that only shout

An angelfish, with its soft gleam

Knows light too harsh will not redeem.

🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼

“Slow down,” it prompts, “Soften your light,

A gentle beam guides more than might.

For them to see, with softened hearts

Use light with a muted start.”

🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼

So light breaks water—not to fight,

But to soften dark with quiet light.

And in that glow, the deep learns how

To open up, to breathe, to bow.

🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼

Light from the jellyfish, breaks through the stream

But quiet, softened and redeemed

In that gentle glow, the heart does learn

To open doors, hear, and discern

🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼

Insight comes softly, not a blast

A patient glow that warms a heart

At times, to light, we must first wait

And shine with care, not push, not hate.

🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼🪼

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

Under Noon Sunlight

The sun may hide the truth.

🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂

Quiet sewed in gold–faux stillness

The lake pauses with bated breath.

But hears.

🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂

A golden gate opens—

No clang, no clink, just clouds–

in a question.

🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂

A damselfly shields herself

With her wings,

A spring leaf forgets

Its drops.

🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂

Below the noon light, all deceive.

My shadow, too still.

But reaching.

For the forgotten.

🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂

I wait for ripples.

Or a voice.

To call.

🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂

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.

🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂🍁🌿🍃🍃🍂🍁🌿🍃🌱🍂

Original poem by Michelle Liew. AI tags are concidental.

The Town Chamber

Latchcombe was a village lulled into comfort by a single man’s silence–Sir David Quill’s. The retired etiquette coach kept his mouth sealed as if it were gold–he hadn’t uttered a word in a decade.

The illustrious etiquette coach had made and crushed the reputations of speakers with single, cutting words. Some townsfolk thought it was penance for his harshness–for sinister actions untold. Others thought that he was just practising what he preached. Now, he wore a plastered smile–one that chilled the hardiest bones.

🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️

Reporter Ellie Marsh tore at tomes in Latchcombe’s only library, hoping to reap harvest writing gold for her tribute on Sir Quill. The man was a true chamber of curiosities.

But, Ellie being Ellie, Sir Quill was a mere excuse.

A reason to pry–and find out exactly what it was that had driven him to silence.

After days of sleuthing, she broke into his cottage while he was on one of his long walks–he took them when he needed to get away from prying eyes like hers.

Only it wasn’t a home.

It was an acoustic Fort Knox.

A Fort with tapes. And more tapes.

And walls, padded with not just foam, but intent.

Housed in an old journal entitled “When I Chose Silence.”

His quiet had apparent fervour–passion stored in pads and replayed.

🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️

She touched the pads lightly –and boom.

A sonic boom, followed by a low hum.

And the sound of her own name.

“Ellie. You were too young. You couldn’t have known.”

The words were reassuring. The tone? Dark. Too precise.

Too knowing.

The volume was low, but the message deafened.

The pads weren’t silence –they were surveillance.

“I know what you did.”

🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️

Ellie remembered. Little David Quill. Quiet. Coiled up.

The lunch money. The many free lunches she had.

On his account.

Forced.

The push.

Into the ditch.

Dirt. Mounds.

The peals of echoing laughter. The village was suddenly louder than she remembered.

Shaken, Ellie ran from shame’s razor-sharp teeth.

She wasn’t sure if the voice came from within, or without. But this she knew for certain –she couldn’t un-hear unspoken truths.

She heard them. Echoes of her guilt bouncing off Sir David’s walls.

Recorded.

Remixed.

Returned.

In many ways, shapes, and forms.

Doubt in a compliment. Warnings, veiled by whispers.

Sir David’s silence stalked. With soft-feet. And a too-sure grip.

🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️

No speech.

No confrontation.

He didn’t need a sonic boom.

He spoke –when he needed to.

🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️

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.

I Didn’t Say

Silence doesn’t mean absence.

(⁎˃ᆺ˂)(⁎˃ᆺ˂)(⁎˃ᆺ˂)(⁎˃ᆺ˂)(⁎˃ᆺ˂)(⁎˃ᆺ˂)(⁎˃ᆺ˂)(⁎˃ᆺ˂)(⁎˃ᆺ˂)

I never said

As I watched you with my heart

More than my eyes.

You thought it was the trees,

But it was the way you moved

As you were thinking.

(⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂)

I never said

But I recall each step that you took

More clearly than my name.

I learned the rhythm of your breaths

In the rooms where you thought

I didn’t hear.

(⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (

I never said

My silence was my shelter

And I kept my feelings in a locked closet

Because you never asked about them.

(⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂)

I never said

How quietness can seem like consent

And made it easy for you to

Dismiss.

(⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂)

I never said

How I see myself

Stand before you

Remembered.

(⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂)

I never said

That I am not fine

With being remembered

As easy to love

As I never said.

I never said

(⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂) (⁎˃ᆺ˂)

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.

Bead by Bead

I can’t share this story without delving into a little culture–mine.

I’m Chinese, with an ethnic twist. A straits-born, South East Asian Peranakan Chinese whose ancestors embraced Indonesian and Malay traditions.

And merged them with Chinese conventions.

The dumpling festival referred to in this story is one…the prayers with the Kasut (beaded slippers) are uniquely Peranakan.

Do enjoy this story.

When heritage isn’t honored, it haunts.

🟢👣🔵👣🟡👣🔴👣🟣👣⚫👣🟢👣🔵👣🟡👣🔴👣🟣👣⚫👣🟢👣🔵

Duan Wu Jie (The Dumpling Festival) made its usual appearance in early June. The dumpling steam in Bibik Li Lian’s kitchen clung tighter than sweat–usually enticing, it now had an unusual heaviness that made Mei dread them.

Bibik Li Lian folded the dumplings every 5th day of the 5th Lunar Month, tighter each time–she packed grief together with pork and rice in banana leaves. She told Mei stories–that they were to remember Qu Yuan, the legendary Chinese poet who ceded his life to the river after his country betrayed him. The people of his town raced in dragon boats to locate him, throwing dumplings to feed his ghost. “But not all spirits leave when fed.” Bibik Li Lian’s warning was distinct. Ominous.

And so, they returned every June–in some shape or form.

The dumplings were a Ratings harvest for Mei–every inch the content creator, she wanted to capture a “Heritage Haul” video featuring Bibik’s Great Grandmother’s Kasut Manek (Beaded Slippers worn during festival prayers). The Gen Z in her wanted to give the slippers new life to merge with the video’s aesthetic–authenticity with a nouveau spark. But she received no Grandmother’s blessings.

It was a cut of Bibik’s sharp tongue instead.

“Those slippers are for prayers, not show. They bind—the other world to ours. A widow’s grief stains each of those threads. DO NOT TOUCH THEM.”

The cryptic remarks were water rolling off Mei’s back. They were too small to notice–were they?

She slid some surreptitiously into her bag. In her room, she sewed them onto a new pair she bought at Haji Lane.

The prayers to consecrate the dumplings were set for that night–Mei was late, as usual, not able to resist one last look in her mirror.

And she didn’t look good.

The girl in the mirror didn’t look like Mei–she didn’t blink when Mei did. Her limbs moved–just a second faster than Mei’s. The people in surrounding family photos weren’t where they used to be.

Aunt Lin wore a different dress. Grandpa now tracked her with his eyes.

Beads from the Kasut Manek fell to the floor like broken taboos.

Then the cracks appeared. Broken glass fell onto the floor.

The mirror –no more a boundary.

Mei glanced at her feet–and shrieked.

She was wearing Bibik’s Kasut Manek–not the one she’d stitched up in a hurry.

The dumplings in the steamer came apart, one by one, with old blood and bones within.

Mei dropped to the floor.

Mei’s stitched pair of slippers did return, tucked beneath the altar when the festival ended. Along with looks laced with fear.

Bibik simply marked the date on her calendar. June would require new Kasut.

Mei would have to stitch them with the beads she had taken.

Bead by bead, step by step…she sewed.

🟢👣🔵👣🟡👣🔴👣🟣👣⚫👣🟢👣🔵👣🟡👣🔴👣🟣👣⚫👣🟢👣🔵

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 Sealed Envelope

Sure, here’s a line of sealed envelope emoticons for you:

💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌

Brown, sealed envelope
A hidden message within
Words denied world’s gaze

💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌

Words covered by fear
Masked sentences drift with time
Penned words left unread

💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌

Inked words share secrets
Hands will muted words to ink
Curled forms that are true

💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌

Small words find the light
Penned forms muted no longer
Silenced words now read.

💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌 💌

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 Longest Day

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

🌞🩸🕯️🕷️👣🫥🌕🕸️🔍🩻🌄👁️‍🗨️🌫️🌞🩸🕯️🕷️👣🫥🌕🕸️🔍🩻🌄👁️‍🗨️🌫️🌞🩸🕯️🕷️👣🫥🌕🕸️🔍🩻🌄

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.

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

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.

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 Muted Hat

That voice was meant to sing.

👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒

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.”

👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒

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!”

👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒

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.

👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒

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.

👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒

Then came young Laura, who made not a noise—

She found that old box amongst her old toys

She put me on, and then came her voice—

She moves through the school with flair. quiet poise.

👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒

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 grin—

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

👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒👒

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.

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?

🚪🚫🧓🏻🧹➡️❓👣❌🔊🗣️”后悔” (regret)🔒🕳️⛔🚷📪

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.

🚪🚫🧓🏻🧹➡️❓👣❌🔊🗣️”后悔” (regret)🔒🕳️⛔🚷📪

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.

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.

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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.

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

Your room painted, sterile blue

But violets call out to me too

So I speak, forbidden words

Those that haunt, that must be heard

“Quivering, yes, the tomb does breathe,

Though it keeps pained memories beneath the leaves.

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

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,

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

Though the future does grow cold,

Your soul denied, your sorrow, old.

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