The word “White” brought to mind two white beasts that live with me- my West Highland Terrier dogs, Cloudy and Snowball,

For those unfamiliar with this dog breed, it has a somewhat sad history. Colonel Edward Donald Malcolm, bred it after shooting one of his reddish-brown Terriers (possibly a Cairn Terrier) during a hunt.

And so it is that I write a tribute poem to the West Highland Terrier. Enjoy!

૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (◕ᴥ◕ʋ)૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (

They drenched me in white,

Pale ghost in Highland’s heath–

To stand out from rustle and spite

To live, not embrace death.

૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (◕ᴥ◕ʋ)૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (

So the hunter’s eye floundered–

“Too close in red, like a fox,” he said,

He pulled the rifle’s trigger

And left my small form crumpled.

૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (◕ᴥ◕ʋ)૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (

Not just a ball of fur,

Or just white on the plains

But a heart, warm and sincere,

Torn by silent strain.

૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (◕ᴥ◕ʋ)૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (

Now every Snowball howls gently–

Furballs borne of pain,

They do survive, an honoured gentry,

Pure strength in what remains.

૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (◕ᴥ◕ʋ)૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (

૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (◕ᴥ◕ʋ)૮₍ •ᴥ• ₎ა ₍ᐢ•ﻌ•ᐢ₎ ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ ₍՞•ﻌ•՞₎ (

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Dare we speak the truth that frees?

🪞💔🪞⚡🪞💥🪞🩸🪞⚡🪞💔🪞🪞💔🪞⚡🪞💥🪞🩸🪞⚡🪞💔🪞🪞

Mirror

Keeps our secrets

Haven for a trapped soul

A woman shimmers in the glass

She wears my smile, my breath, my past

Pauses

Stares with her hollow caves of truth

With a pale face that yearns

To speak the words

That free.

🪞💔🪞⚡🪞💥🪞🩸🪞⚡🪞💔🪞🪞💔🪞⚡🪞💥🪞🩸🪞⚡🪞💔🪞🪞

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.

Guilt is a flower that never stops blooming. Michelle Liew

🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️

The month of May was significant for Mrs. Callum–the dutiful housewife placed a single Mayflower on her window sill every day of the month. The flower bloomed, resplendent, each year.

But Mrs Callum passed.

The flower always faced the rising sun. But it faced no one that year.

No one in her town dared touch or even pass her window. They said it was tradition they didn’t dare defy…but Liddy knew it was Mrs Callum’s containment. Hunger. To forget, and to be forgiven.

An envelope. Rose-coloured, with Liddy’s name written in smudged ink. It was the perfect puzzle for the bored, curious grade-schooler–it bore a Mayflower and a Cipher only she could solve.

The blue ink bled, profusely, when she touched it. It was almost as if it didn’t want to be read. It hadn’t been mailed–it sat on the porch too neatly, as if it wanted her to discover it.

Yet, it wanted unravelling. It read: “Do not remember her.”

But Liddy didn’t know who she was–yet.

Tired from the day’s comings and goings, Little Liddy fell fast asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Her sleep was fitful…one marked by a nightmare of a cellar. A uniform. A little girl, shrieking at the top of her voice. A shovel.

And Mrs. Callum, blood-soaked, digging.

Relentlessly digging.

Liddy shot up in bed, sweat trickling down her brow. She glanced at her trembling hands–hands with dirt at the fingertips.

The young girl knew that the memory wasn’t hers…yet it had become hers.

No one knew, much less recalled, Mrs Callum and her little daughter–the voiceless one. Perhaps no one wanted to know. But the Earth remembered every May.

And Liddy had become the Someone Else who had to.

Mrs Callum never wanted to–never meant to. But everyone else was so hungry.

So thin.

There were just…too many of them.

So she grew a flower each May. Then buried it. The only way she could forget.

But the bloom didn’t wither. It rooted.

Within a child each year

Liddy was this year’s child. She had inherited the flower and Mrs. Callum’s grievous nightmare.

She grew a new Mayflower, and placed it on the sill, her eyes eerily vacant.

Concerned, her mother asked her if anything was the matter.

She knew Mrs Callum’s daughter’s name now. May.

Forgetfulness had a price. And Liddy was paying…for Mrs. Callum.

🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️🌸🌸👧🏻🕯️

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.

Let your voice be heard. Michelle Liew

🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜🐧🦢🦩🦉🐦‍⬛🪶🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜🐧🦢🦩🦉🐦‍⬛🪶🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜

A voiceless bird, ring round its throat

Its wings curled up. quiet. clipped

Not broken, only bound.

Its silence, safer than sound.

🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜🐧🦢🦩🦉🐦‍⬛🪶🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜🐧🦢🦩🦉🐦‍⬛🪶🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜

It perches atop unvoiced words

Syllables unsaid

The griefs I told like unpainted images

The scream I curtailed before it burnt.

🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜🐧🦢🦩🦉🐦‍⬛🪶🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜🐧🦢🦩🦉🐦‍⬛🪶🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜

Some evenings, it flaps its wings–

A pulse, a gentle nudge on its cage–

And I listen–

To its quivering note, chirped. before t chokes.

🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜🐧🦢🦩🦉🐦‍⬛🪶🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜🐧🦢🦩🦉🐦‍⬛🪶🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜

But just before its quiet rise,

Off its branch, its wings unfurled

A single chirp, small, surprised

In the dark forest. will be heard.

🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜🐧🦢🦩🦉🐦‍⬛🪶🐦🐤🕊️🐥🦜🐧🦢🦩🦉🐦‍⬛🪶🐦🐤🕊️🐥

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.

It Rained the Day My Father Died by Steve Anc is a poignant collection of poetry that delves deep into the labyrinth of grief, memory, and the enduring bond between father and child. Anc, a Nigerian poet and Pushcart Prize nominee, offers readers a window into his soul, capturing the rawness of sorrow and the solace found in remembrance.Amazon+2books2read.com+2Amazon+2

The collection, subtitled The Droplets of Grief in the Grave, is more than just a recounting of loss; it’s a meditation on the human condition. Anc’s verses are imbued with a lyrical quality that resonates with anyone who has grappled with the complexities of mourning. His reflections are deeply personal, yet they touch on universal themes, making the reader feel both seen and understood.Goodreads+8Bookshop+8AbeBooks+8

What sets this work apart is its ability to balance the heaviness of grief with moments of levity and hope. Anc doesn’t shy away from the complexities of mourning, but he also highlights the unexpected joys and revelations that can emerge in the aftermath of loss. His poems serve as a reminder that even in our darkest moments, there is light to be found.

For those seeking a book that offers both catharsis and comfort, It Rained the Day My Father Died is a compelling read. It’s a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of love.

It Rained the Day My Father Died is available on Amazon.

Avalon Tower by C.N. Crawford and Alex Rivers is a captivating blend of espionage, magic, and slow-burn romance that kept me hooked from start to finish. The story follows Nia, a bookseller who dreams of a peaceful European vacation but finds herself kidnapped by the enigmatic fey, Raphael. Thrust into the world of Avalon Tower, an elite spy academy, Nia discovers latent magical abilities and navigates a treacherous landscape of rivalries and forbidden attractions.Goodreads+6Book Delico+6Amazon+6

The authors masterfully crafts a narrative that intertwines the allure of Arthurian legends with the intensity of a spy thriller. The dynamic between Nia and Raphael is electric, filled with tension and unspoken desires. Nia’s journey from an ordinary bookseller to a formidable spy-in-training is both relatable and inspiring, showcasing her resilience and wit.

The academy setting is richly detailed, with gothic halls and ancient traditions that add depth to the story. The challenges Nia faces, both physical and emotional, are portrayed with authenticity, making her growth throughout the novel genuinely satisfying.Book Delico+1Goodreads+1

For fans of fantasy romance and stories that delve into the complexities of power, identity, and love, Avalon Tower is a must-read. It’s a tale that lingers long after the final page, leaving you eager for the next installment in the Fey Spy Academy series.

Avalon Tower is available on Amazon.

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

There is a garden in the heart

Unkempt, with brambles borne of hurt

Where fear grows, untended

Choking growth, stifling balm

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

The soil remembers every fear,

Each seed of doubt, by failure planted

Each naysaying quote that does unmoor,

Each lone stem that stands unwanted

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

We stand there alone–

Shunning weeds that overgrow,

And the hands that quiver

When from garden’s heart we pull.

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

But a ray of light streams through this day

A tiny bloom, resilient, strong

Defies the stubborn weight of “nay”

And we see the right within the wrong.

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

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 only person you need to prove yourself to is yourself.

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

Snow White blinked as she stared at herself in the mirror.

The reflection within blinked as it stared hard at her.

“Your Stepmother never said that you were beautiful,” it droned. “You were never smart. You wouldn’t have succeeded in trumping her if it wasn’t for those seven dwarves, ” it sneered. “You’re just a pretty face.”

👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸

Just before vanishing, Snow White’s reflection paused, steadying itself.

“I wanted my stepmum’s approval.

But since I couldn’t get it, I found joy without it, and the support of my dwarf friends. Is it wrong to love myself?”

🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞

The reflection slowly emerged, stepping through the glass. Its skin was off-white. Its lips—red, but slightly chapped.

Its raven hair? Black, but slightly straggly.

It was flawed, but free.

As for Snow White’s dead stepmother’s test?

“I pass.” It grinned.

👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸👸

🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎🍎

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

Take a break…before one takes you.

☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️

Head

in hands

Luca sits

Coffee untouched

Hair frazzled

With mirror

unchecked

☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️Sleeps

Drifts

In a lift

Buttons

Push back

It

Crashes

☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️

Luca

Still sits

At her

Desk

A mount

Of white sheets

Untouched

Forehead

Lined

☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️

Lift stops

At each floor

Buttons

Push Back

It nearly

Plunges

☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️

Luca

lies

on a

Deck chair

Taking

Tiny sips

Of

Pina

Colada.

☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ ☁️

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