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In the sky kingdom of Aviar, feathers weren’t just fashion-they were the rule of law. Lord Vantrello was a peacock – a flamboyant figure. a shining star of Aviar’s aristocracy, he strutted about with bejewelled plumes turned Aviar and envious green. His feathers weren’t just ornate–they were his kingly decree.
Lord Vantrello had a reputation for strutting around the otherwise peaceful kingdom and declaring war on anything less than vibrant. All birds had to bow to beauty–or else. Pride was the currency in Aviar—and Vantrello was the richest. He was no ruler–just colourful plumes layered with scorn.
Nim was Aviar’s outcast–a plain Eurasian sparrow with feathers a shade of dull brown. But that plainness was anything but.
“One’s true worth lies beyond plumes,” was his gentle chirp.
That was the affront that sent hate waves through Vantrello’s feathers. He declared a public Challenge of Radiance, giving each bird just one short day to display their finest regalia/ He who collected the crowd’s loudest cheers won.
The air in Aviar soon shimmered with vibrant feathers, with all birds flaunting prideful plumes in struts.
All except Nim. In gentle defiance of Lord Vantrellos’ dazzling status quo. He brought with him–
Nothing.
So it was that Vantrello stood, a vibrant fan of shimmering plumes.
Pilfered. Yet beaming in their forbidden hues.
Nim just stood, sans feathers, save one quill from his supportive mother.
Given with the love she dared not voice.
So it was–a crown of prideful regality versus a crown of gentle defiance. One shimmered, the other spoke brilliantly–without words. Pride shone. But humility endured.
The phoenixes flew in, donned in pilfered feathers. With quick swishes, they reduced Vantrello’s throne to molten ash.
They turned to Nim.
Who had nothing to prove. Everything to teach.
Nim never ruled over Aviar. But he had followers, drawn to kingship without spectacle.
In his dull, yet gentle wings, quiet wisdom flew.
Bright plumes fell, and truth landed.
🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶
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.🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶
s poem is for Ellie Hoov’s Wonderland Challenge (Whimsical) and Vocal’s I Didn’t Say that Out Loud Challenge
Chase the dreams you dare not speak of out loud. Michelle Liew
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
Chase the dreams you dare not speak of out loud.
There’s a place in my heart, in a corner so small,
Where the beats are fast, and ideas are tall
A council exists, though hardly invoked
Where dreams are filed and ideas are stoked.
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
Its head, made of china, Mr McTea,
Types notes on bread and six-year-old cheese
He stamps every wish with a raspberry seal.
Then tosses out those that fail to appeal
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
Mr McTea has with him a Cheshire Cat
With a grin that disarms and a tall, magic hat
His hat recites the bold thoughts that many misplace
Then shines on the ones that should be embraced
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
So when your mind is rife with the seeds of doubt
And the words of the world are way too loud
Just whisper the truths that you dare not reveal
McTea will find them. He knows how you feel.
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖👧🔮♠️♥️♣️♦️🐇🕰️🎩😺🍄🫖
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.
Mayville appeared in all its fading glory each June, on the night the mayflies hatched–shimmering, ethereal, almost fading.
For one night only.
Then, it would fade into the dust, never to be seen for the rest of the year.
That June, Cara returned to the town, guided by a trail of flickering Mayflies. Her deceased grandmother intoned its name gently in her ears–Mayville.
It was the clock tower, erect. imposing, in the town square. Or at least a photograph of it. Her. standing in front of it. staring.
At an empty space.
The tower shimmered within a cloud. its clock ticking, Loudly. A sound only of the mind. She had stumbled upon it, led by the knowing glow of the Mayflies that had formed a glowing map across the highway. They hovered around her as the town beamed into life.
The sky turned a queer silver at midnight. Pale yellow stars emerged. tiny, blinking. watching.
Mayville began to dissolve. the walls of each home melting like wax candles. The glowing Mayflies rose. their combined glow a frantic shimmer a they encircled her.
Cara found herself at the clock tower again, but it was–different. The pale stones bore a name–hers.
The townsfolk’s voices rose in an echoing whisper: “You’ve come home.”
🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰
Cara didn’t stay in Mayville-she couldn’t. But she had left the town, and its people. Cara didn’t stay in Mayville-she couldn’t. But she had left the town, and its people. vacant.
Her grandmother still planted its name gently in her ears– Mayville.
The pale stars didn’t just shine–they yearned.
For her.
Mayville couldn’t be kept–it was the keeper.
And as she stared at the sign at the fork in the road. she knew.
And could only know–after she’d left.
That she hadn’t escaped Mayville–she had been entrusted.
The pale stars didn’t just shine–they yearned.
For her.
🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰
🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰🪰
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 true queen is one when she’s not. – Michelle Liew
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
She moved in small steps, a gilded pawn,
A sheltered Queen, only her title shone.
With each small step, a risk to bear,
While her King stayed protected, his coat and hair.
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
She swept the board, her sword ablaze,
Though pawns blocked her path, she stayed unfazed.
She reached the last line, where she would be crowned,
But paused to cede her jewels, coat, and gown.
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
“I wear a crown not for my strength,
Not when the rules of chess are bent.
Let them be free so others may rise—
My throne means naught if they don’t survive.”
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
The crowd stood still, amazed, in awe,
Not of her crown, but of her law.
She was a pawn, but changed the game,
Became the Queen by her humble name.
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
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.
Every May Day, Fernvale unfurled like clockwork. Children touched the homes, scattering wildflowers from doorsteps to the forest edge.
The threshold of number 12, Wren Street, remained deadbolted, its windows sealed shut for decades. The doors of the nameless house stayed closed…because no one dared knock.
A hush covered the house like a shroud-but one little girl wondered why.
Kit was like the other children of the small town–she slipped through the sleepy streets to leave baskets on doorsteps every May Day morning. She sneaked past its closed shutters, clutching wildflowers in one hand and a note in the other. She’d bless number 12’s doorstep with her offerings.
That year’s May Day dawned with a difference–it came in the form of a violet, dutifully pinned on her basket ribbon. Beside the basket was a set of clear footprints, not hers–it was another pair of soles.
Her baskets vanished–unopened, unanswered. But that violet was a first whisper. Gratitude flew in on the wings of folded paper cranes. Thanks arrived in the form of a torn journal page.
There was no question- Number 12 was the town’s eyesore. And the bane of Fernvale’s town council, bound to face the wrath of the demolition derby.
Not everyone wanted it to face that wrath. Kit stormed into the council meeting, wildflowers in hand.
“Someone lives there. They returned paper cranes. Thanked me on journal pages. For these.” She lifted the basket of wildflowers, her face drenched in tears.
The elders returned baleful eyes and scoffed. Kit fingered the single violet, bold, purple. She held it in front of her. “If you erase this house, you’ll erase the thank you, and the person who comes along with it. “
A sudden creak echoed from beyond the windows as she spoke. Soft, but certain footsteps. Every eye darted towards the door.
Then, a shadow stood at the door. But not of someone expected.
It was no ghost, Nor anyone elderly. A young man, with a fading mark on his wrist—the same symbol as the violet pinned to the basket.
“They told me that if I stepped out before I returned the 100th violet, the curse would restart.”
Kit stood, dumbstruck–then drew herself up. The violets weren’t rebelling. They were freeing.
“We’ve shattered your spell. The curse of blind convention. Of following…doing nothing.”
The elders remained, open-mouthed, at the table. They had embraced silence all those years–and lack. Not growth.
Tradition had sealed the door–curiosity turned its handle.
That evening. Fernvale’s children gathered on the porch of Number 12, wildflowers in hand. The young man stepped out of the door, his hands outstretched to finally receive the sun.
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 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!
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.
Dance steps still echoed through the halls of Encore Dance Studio, flowing with the eerie rhythm of the chandeliers.
Only shadows moved beneath them, synced to the charming, yet poignant chorus of the Blue Danube. It flowed through the vacant halls, a tune drenched in memory, donned like a ghost’s lullaby.
From a forgotten music box in the corner, the tune whispered, a shattered musical promise, fragile as glass. It whispered, not a melody, but a beckoning.
Young Johann discovered it carefully buried beneath a loose floorboard. He wound it—he believed it offered comfort.
Curiosity won- it spawned Johann’s tune, its notes a web of silk threads winding around him in a cocoon.
A dark shadow danced with the blissfully unaware Johann, shifting and stretching, ever-changing.
And she appeared–pale, gaunt, hollow eyes filled with yearning. She extended a frail hand.
Thinking it would lead him to a land of wonder, he took it.
Her grip was ice, hard, fastidious.
It wouldn’t let go.
So he danced with her–and danced, passing between light and dark, slowly fading as he moved.
As they danced, she told him his name.
She bore his surname.
She had been a top dancer at Encore–bright, graceful, envied.
But she had vanished beneath the floorboards—they say he had pushed.
The three shared the same surname.
The two flowed with the melody, without stopping—until Johann no longer existed.
Just his movements. Only his memories.
He had taken her hand without question. He trusted it–they shared the same surname.
Now a mere shadow, he lurked beneath the floorboards. All because he followed, without asking where.
The music box still waits under the floorboard, waiting to be opened.
Not every hand leads the right way.
🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰
🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰🩰
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.
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.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 