The Bell and the Bayonet

For whom does the bell toll? Michelle Liew

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Time was of the essence. Wen had to deliver the message…Serangoon’s resistance safe house would be a bloodbath if he failed.

Wen’s path was a minefield of suspicion and stealth. The matchbox the young Singaporean courier carried not just firestarters–it cradled resistance.

Wen’s package was a coded message, with the matchbox as its envelope. He tiptoed through Syonanto’s deserted streets, eyes canvassing the darkness—alert, trained, unblinking.

The crumbling bell tower. The dark, imposing abode of a fallen Japanese soldier—one whose comrades couldn’t locate after Syonato’s initial invasion. Even spirits had borders…Wen knew that he was about to cross one.

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“Banzai! Banzai!” Wen’s head snapped around. Up ahead was the Kempeitai–the Japanese secret police, ready to keep Singapore’s wayward citizens in check.

Wen’s athletic legs carried him behind the church ruins and into a trash can—he didn’t mind reeking of half-eaten dinners and stale fish if it meant staying alive.

The sounds of the Kempeitai faded, and Wen slowly drew himself out of his stench-filled hiding spot.

Only to duck behind a pillar–

at the unmistakable click-clack of boots. The cold clang of a bayonet, dragging across the hall. Standing in plain sight was a Japanese soldier–eyes pale and yellow, his uniform soaked in crimson spectral blood.

Wen took tentative steps back, ready to sprint–but the soldier’s actions rooted him to his spot. He did not lunge; he held his bayonet and slowly, but steadily traced a map into the dust.

A map–of a hidden tunnel…

The dead do not speak, but sometimes direct. With yellow eyes boring into Wen, he pointed to the bell tower.

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In war, even the enemy becomes a compass. The sharp young boy followed the tunnel to a cache, cleverly concealed under discoloured wooden floorboards. One filled with food, necessities and even radio parts.

He turned to thank the ghost–but he had vanished, leaving no trace.

Wen scrambled out of the tunnel to join his resistance comrades–to find himself in a smoke-filled clearing. Torched by the very same diabolical Kempetai petrol he had escaped.

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Note: Japan, an Axis power during the Second World War, occupied Singapore from 1942 -1945, renaming her ‘Syonanto” or Land of the Rising Sun. During this wartime period, they employed various means of controlling the population, including the secret police, or Kempetai.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Original story by Michelle Liew. AI tags are coincidental.

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

A Daffodil Named Cyrus

Turn off the charm tap when it overflows! – Michelle Liew

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A dandy named Cyrus McDill

Grew stately atop a small hill.

She bees thought him sweet

Swarmed him, head to feet

He continued to flirt with them still.

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They covered him, petal to stem

“O Cyrus! You’re such a gem!”

He fled with a frown

Right out of his town

And learned not to dress such in the glen.

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Cyrus began a bee farm

No frills, but it ran like a charm

He sought the she bees

They flew there as they pleased

Out of the way and buzzed without harm.

🐝💛🐝🐝🌼🐝🐝🌿🐝🐝🐝💛🐝🐝🌼🐝🐝🌿🐝🐝

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.

Room 721

Always check your hotel room bookings beforehand.

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Chloe flung the door to room 721 open, eager to rest her blister-ridden legs on an available bed. It was usually not easy to get anything past her–sharp as a tack, she’d actually noticed that 721 wasn’t on the booking list. But she was simply too jet-lagged to care. The bellhop’s lacklustre posture said it all–it probably wasn’t a great room, but sufficient for a night’s needed shuteye.

“No record of your booking, ma’am, but there’s a key waiting.” He paused, and eyed her keenly. “That room isn’t usually booked–but always seems to have a guest.”

The lights of 721 were starved of electricity–the yellow light wasn’t possible to read by. A musty, old carpet reeked of cigarette smoke–Chole covered her nose with her hand. A photo of a woman caught her eye–she had grief etched in her gaze. She stared out the hotel room’s window, her thoughts flooding her dark cavern with misplaced echoes.

Exhaustion won. The intrepid journalist was far too tired to bother about the room’s habitation standards. Her head touched the pillow…and something changed.

When she woke, she wasn’t in bed. But in the photo.

Her hand, unmistakable, holding the camera. The flash must have gone off.

The camera sat on her chest when she woke, humming softly.

And a note. Fluttering loosely. “You’re next.” Was scribbled in backward ink.

She couldn’t remember penning the smudged detail…but it was hers.

Chloe grabbed the room key and stuffed her overnight clothes into her bag, hands groping everywhere. Her feet rushed her to the receptionist’s desk.

“Hi Miss, do you want a room?” The receptionist on duty was the same as the night before.

Eyes wide open, she placed the room key on the desk. The receptionist flipped it over to check the tag. “Miss, did you take the wrong key? There’s never been a Room 721.”

Chloe grabbed her bag and turned to leave—and her eyes caught sight of a Bulletin Board with photos: “Missing guests of Room 721–for archival. Do not reassign.”

Among them was one–of her. Taken years earlier, at the beach, just before the Tsunami hit.

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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.

A Curious Slice

Curiosity comes with a price. -Michelle Liew

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Mara’s curious eyes, in low light gleam

She chases thieves through dim moonbeams

She cases halls with weathered heart

Unveils truths to entomb

Pays wisdom’s high price

Her knowledge cuts

To the bone

A pained

Slice.

🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉

This story is entirely original. AI tags are coincidental.

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.

🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉🦉

Book Review: Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Eejit

Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Eejit is a riotous short story about a president named Flump (who may seem strangely familiar to many readers). This tale tells of Flump’s most outrageous day. Goodreads+1Goodreads+1

Mark Rice, known for his sharp wit and satirical prowess, delivers a narrative that is both hilarious and thought-provoking. The story’s brevity doesn’t diminish its impact; instead, it ensures that every word serves a purpose, leading readers through a whirlwind of absurdity that mirrors real-world events in a delightfully exaggerated manner.

For fans of political satire and those who appreciate a good laugh at the expense of the world’s absurdities, Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Eejit is a must-read. It’s a testament to Rice’s ability to blend humor with incisive commentary, making it a standout piece in contemporary satirical literature.

Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Eejit is available on amazon.

Tanjong Merah’s Last Tram

Even the dead must commute.

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Mist rose off Tanjong Merah’s tracks. The depot bore the odour of dust and rain. Under its flickering lights was a girl—always wet, always waiting.

Always holding an umbrella—but not her own.

All traces of the Singaporean train station at Tanjong Merah had vanished from Google Maps,scrubbed, as if it had never borne passengers or trams. It sat below Tanjong Merah’s glass towers, rustic, silent—empty.

But not totally defunct. The last tram arrived every monsoon season, rolling in on a track that shouldn’t exist—for those who lost something they couldn’t quite name.

The station was the backdrop of Su Min Ong’s tragic disappearance—one that became a local legend over years of telling. 1965’s great floods had grown a monster. Ruined infrastructure. Compromised food sources. Displaced lives. Tanjong Merah had borne more than its fair share of human losses—including Su Min’s. On Line Zero’s final tram.

Tanjong Rhu had welcomed the train, playing its much needed host during the deluge. Its keeper, alone, documented each appearance and departure. Su Min, pale, in a soaked uniform, arrived like clockwork every Friday of the month since then.

And someone else from Tanjong Merah’s platform would vanish. Without shoes.

The tram pulled into the depot, along with echoes of thunder and flashes of lightning. The Keeper opened his logbook, preparing to record that Friday’s names—and saw his own, already penned.

The station bell tolled, without being touched.

Su Min arrived, pale-faced, eyes hollow. She said nothing, but opened her umbrella, revealing tram tickets stitched within.

The keeper didn’t have any—he didn’t need one. But he understood.

Su Min guided him aboard the train, handing him her stitched umbrella.

She stepped off. The tram hissed, breathing for the last time.

At dawn. the depot stands empty, buried under an overnight construction project. Only an old pair of shoes remains, tattered from years of walking and groundskeeping.

Mass Rapid Transit apps show Line O—out of service since 1965.

A few years later, a commuter on the train entering the new Tanjong Merah Mass Rapid Transit station scrolls down the screen of his mobile phone. He sees a reflection in its glass, a wet girl, seated on a bench, with no one seated beside her.

She rides quietly beside us now, waiting for a seat.

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This story is entirely original. AI tags are coincidental.

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.

A Tapestry Rewoven

Our lives are tears stitched into art. —Michelle Liew’s Tattoable of the day

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The journey of life is like reconstructing a torn tapestry-one that moves from the challenge of isolation, but is resilient, filled with hope and love.

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A torn tapestry

Threads unravelled, flung askew

Art now discarded

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A reworked canvas

Small knots hard to unravel

Tenacious to cut.

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Rewoven canvas

Firm fabric carefully stitched—

Solid cloth secure.

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Reassembled cloth

Fabric formed from torn pieces

Threads shining anew.

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Refitted canvas

Threads restitched with nurturing hands

Cloth reworked with care.

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Torn threads now rebound

Holding new cloth in its place—

Tears stitched into art.

The Mayday Influencer

Cracked bowls are often better than polished porcelain ones.—Michelle Liew’s tattooable of the day

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Cedarvale was a suburb haven in full bloom—picture postcard perfection. Clover Wen was the idealist greeting card writer —her ‘just so’ attitude could put Marie Kondo to shame. Her kitchen towels were on rotation. Her cupboards—colour coded. And her spice rack? Alphabetized.

But the idealist had a creative secret—she was the pen behind a famous authentic lifestyle influencer.

It was her comfort zone—it was where she could chase her curated influencer dreams—everything crafted twice over—without the fear of cosmetic judgement. It was where she could hide her fear of blandness—coming out as a lifestyle influencer too ‘jigsawed’ to show herself.

But Clover’s life was a postcard lie—even hardy clovers wilted when over-watered.

Among her pastel promo drafts was a threatening note—one penned in her style, demanding that she confess her ghostwriting exploits or risk losing the utopian life she had sculpted in Cedarvale.

And so began her frantic search for mano sinistra—the evil maestro who composed the note. Perhaps it was Philomena—the cheeky handwriting analyst neighbour would pen something like that. Or her mother—the old one was lost in filters and fonts. He or she had baked clues into the thousands of drafts in what was now a crime scene—a compost pile of tattered ideas.

She filtered through the torn leaves of mental sparks—her mind an un-Cloverlike, confused warp. It was about to spin beyond control when it hit her–the mano sinistra was none other than herself. Her Breakdown—made of half-eaten cake and drafts— had penned it in a hurry, one her well-honed self was too ready to deny.

The handwriting was hers—because her porcelain finish had cracks. She had been the one yelling Mayday. The mano sinistra was herself.

And she hit a jarring note—the only way to ease the chaos in her too-right self was to publish the note. And she did. In all its messy honesty. Philomena winked her support. Her mother gave her a hug.

And her authentic lifestyle influencer gave her his blog. It turned out that cracked bowls sold better than polished porcelain ones.

Now Clover still writes—but embraces off-page scripts when they blend in.

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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.

Book Review: The Colonizers by Joseph Mullen

Ever gazed at the stars and wondered if our origins lie beyond Earth? In The Colonizers, Joseph Robert Mullen invites readers on a captivating journey that challenges our understanding of humanity’s beginnings.

This narrative delves into the provocative question: “Did life here begin out there?” Mullen weaves a tale that seamlessly blends science fiction with philosophical inquiry, exploring the possibility that extraterrestrial beings played a role in seeding life on our planet. The story unfolds through a series of revelations and discoveries that keep readers engaged and contemplative.Amazon+1Goodreads+1

What sets this book apart is its ability to intertwine speculative fiction with profound questions about existence, purpose, and the universe. Mullen’s storytelling encourages readers to ponder the vastness of space and our place within it, making for a thought-provoking read.

For those intrigued by the mysteries of our origins and the cosmos, The Colonizers offers a narrative that is both entertaining and intellectually stimulating. Embark on this journey and explore the possibilities that lie beyond our world.

The Colonizers is available on Amazon.

Glitter at the Apocalypse

If you have to go down, go down in sequins.- Michelle Liew’s Tattooable

The world was ending–yet again. The decree issued by the Mayor of Lockabee was hasty– all residents were to gather at the town hall for another cosplay emergency drill. Laura GoGetter showed up, eyes decorated by the trendiest eyeliner available at her favourite cosmetics outlet. Her leather jacket and grin told others– try me.

She wasn’t fearless–she just didn’t have the time for all that paperwork. Doom knocked–she popped confetti in his face. The Universe wanted silence—she hollered with a megaphone.

As everyone gathered with faces that told of sleepless nights, a meteor tore the sky, ready to crush.

Pandemonium–everyone scattered amid the rising echoes of their screams. Laura stumbled spectacularly–then got up with flair. Her poise wasn’t naive–it was rebellious.

She stood, eyes fiercely locked on the meteor as it approached–not to stop it, but to stand in it. With her glitter and grit.

Perhaps the world would end. Perhaps it wouldn’t. Either way, survival was loud…she had to make some noise.

But if she did go down, she’d go down in sequins.

🎉✨🎊💥🌟🎇💫🎆🪩🎉🌈🎊🎤👠🎉🎉✨🎊💥🌟🎇💫🎆🪩🎉🌈🎊🎤👠🎉🎉✨🎊💥🌟🎇💫

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.