This is for Mikeydred’s April prompt and Natasha’s poetry prompt.
Sharing brings gifts. –Michelle Liew
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No one saw April,
she stole what she smelled–
the scent of violets,
the tang of sourdough,
the salt that trailed onto the beach.
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She stored the world’s aromas in her coat,
beauty kidnapped in her pockets.
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Life’s scents gone,
Stories unfurled.
Mothers forgot how their toddlers cried
Trees forgot the dance of leaves.
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An old man lost his heart.
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April emptied her pockets,
And the scents rushed home.
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Her pockets empty,
Scents returned,
Her heart refilled
By the sweetness of gifting
The world stirs.
🌹🌷🌹🌸🌹💐🌺🌹🌷🌹🌸🌹💐🌺🌹🌷🌹🌸🌹💐🌺
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Total stillness. No chaos. No strife. Perfection. That was Peiying, where citizens long embraced the art of calm. The city’s goal? Harmony. Everything was a well-crafted hourglass—life, actions, emotions. Feelings fled like gazelles in the eyes of prey. The pain of loss was nonexistent. Happiness was archaic.
17-year-old Lian, a citizen of neighbouring Harmonia, had secured the ultimate guide to discovering stillness–a state-sanctioned reflection journey to Peiying. The city met his youthful expectations–beautiful, serene, still. But its people seem strangely—distant. There was no joy. No sorrow. Just an odd, stoic vibe that seemed–too precise. Too practised.
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Lian’s youthful feet took her through the centre of Peiying, its skyline well-crafted, as if painted by automation. Buildings were all perfectly shaped, sized, and aligned. Caretakers had given the trees in the park a precise manicure–their leaves were same-sized and aligned, cut by the same mould.
But it wasn’t–right.
A mother in the park sat on a bench, smiling. Her eyes blank as her arms went limp. Her baby slipped. She did not blink. The soft thud of the baby on the floor drew no glances.
In another corner was a group of friends, greeting each other–but in the sing-song hellos between strangers. Intoned, not spoken. Memorized, not meant. People passed her, their expressions unchanged–they seemed to have forgotten how to address the world.
There was no conflict. No argument. But there was also no joy. No laughter.
They were calm. Calm. Still. Soulless.
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With the too-structured forms of Peiying’s people weighing heavily on his mind, Lian made his way to the library at the town’s centre. The librarian, without skipping a beat, greeted him with a smile carefully etched on her face. She pointed stoically to the archives as soon as she saw him.
“Welcome to the Republic of Peiying’s library. You’ll find everything about the city documented here.”
The tall, neatly installed bookshelves imposed overwhelmingly–they complemented a city attuned to the idyllic. Books, all the same size, were bound in the same fresh leather. Etched on the librarian’s face was a smile — peaceful, but manufactured.
Unreal.
Peiying was harmonious. Peace reigned with an absolute sceptre. But it was a sceptre that wielded so much control that the city was no longer alive.
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On one of the painstakingly aligned bookshelves sat a leatherbound ledger, its contents waiting to wrap a mind in a shocking grip.
And shock Lian they did. One ghastly entry after another.
Mai: “I gave my heart to see the sunset.”
Jun: “My child had my soul–but I cannot feel his heart.”
Mother: ” It was my mind for my child…but her smile never reached her eyes.”
Peiying’s citizens had betrayed their hearts–for peace. It was a Surrender for Desire–each of them had unquestioningly folded their emotions into tightly sealed envelopes, leaving their hearts empty for peace. There was calmness–with endless space. Perfection had led to a life without meaning. No joy. No sadness. Just…blankness.
The city hadn’t crumbled–but its soul had. They found absolute peace—but abandoned life. Stillness—at the cost of emotion, connection and experience.
Peiying had indeed created life–one that was empty.
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But the city’s lifelessness had triggered life within Lian. He needed to inject a new existence in Peiying—shatter its numbness.
In a way that teenagers knew how.
The youngster became a one-man rock band, shouting, dancing and singing in the town square, hoping that his monkeyish antics would spark life. He cried. Recalled fond memories.
“You used to hold concerts here in this square. Mothers would push their babies in their prams, cuddling them when they needed comfort. Remember the laughter? It used to fill the park. Soak it with its warmth. Where is it now?”
He spoke to each citizen he came across, trying to connect, but the poker faces of the citizens remained unchanged.
“I know that feelings are not allowed.” Lian’s frustration broke through his voice. “But you’ve lost the very thing that makes you—-human.”
All was quiet in the square—then sounds of sobbing. Soft mutterings of agreement swept through it, a sound unheard in years. Someone recalled a moment of joy.
“Grandma and I loved the ice cream here.”
The emotion was subtle but poignant.
Peiying wasn’t dead—the laughless city was starting to stir.
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Then, a pedantic buzzing sound as his voice echoed the town square. Drones whirred around Lian, stirring the otherwise dead air. Then guards flooded the area in a quiet march, each of their faces locked in a peaceful, warped smile. They pinned Lian’s limbs down with mechanical precision.
The weeping stopped. The citizens watched, faces reverting to their practised, plastered smiles.
The guards throw Lian into a cell fashion from pure glass and steel–Peiying perfection, sterile and cold. Cameras blinked at each of its corners and at the ends of the corridors outside each one. There was no sound. No human voice. Just the persistent hum of the ventilation.
The prison wasn’t meant to punish–it was built to erase.
Dissidents who protested against peace.
Like him.
Lian felt drowned in the sea of idealist stillness–yet fiercely alive. The rebellious beat of his heart was a fierce drumbeat. They wanted him still, blank.
He threw a single punch on the wall–not out of anger, but defiance. The sound of gentle laughter started in his chest–a rebellion against artificial silence.
Then it became louder.
And it formed a crack- tiny, almost invisible–against the glass.
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Lian stood in his cell of glass and steel, the sterile environment stifling his breath. Peiying’s perfect structure pressed down on him–hard.
The guards arrived, swinging their arms with mechanical precision, eyes blank, smiles perfectly plastered and aligned. Their presence made the stillness more pressing–and Lian more defiant.
Lian’s eye swept over the crack in the glass–barely perceptible, but spreading slowly. The sound of the crowd outside grew louder. The cries of babies returned, soft, yet sure. Lian turned in their direction, standing straighter.
The shelves in the library shifted -creeping silently, but certainly. Lian pressed the cracked glass, and pieces started to fall, minute, sharp, one by one– on the too-clean floor.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! If you would like to donate to this blog, 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.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Love getting lost in a great story? Discover thousands of books on Amazon — from thrilling adventures to heartwarming tales. Find your next favorite read today with fast delivery, great prices, and endless choices. Shop now on Amazon and dive into your next adventure!
How would you respond to the complex sound of your own voice?
📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴
The rain hit the windows harder than usual that spring evening. Dinner plans with my better half were on the shelf, so I decided to take on a Marie Kondo challenge and declutter. Outside, the rain was insistent, as if it had something burning to say.
I began with a drawer–one I hadn’t touched in years. It creaked–not surprising since it hadn’t been opened since Clinton was president. Between the dog-eared notebooks and torn receipts was an ancient Nokia mobile phone, one that didn’t come with an internet feature.
But Marie Kondo hadn’t reminded me to put away its charger, tucked away in the corner of that same drawer. Not expecting the mobile relic to light up, I stuck it in. I swore that it should have been dead, but it blinked at me as if I owed it a living–or electricity. The screen flickered like an eye, opening after a long coma. And it spoke.
In a familiar voice. I froze. My voice was cracked by time–and regret. I should have laughed to hear myself–but I put the phone on the table. And listened.
📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴
With an obsession. Some messages sounded like confessions. Gentle nudges. Advice. Regret. Each memo was a breadcrumb in a dark mental recess–a reminder of who I used to be.
“You should have given your mom a chance–you’ve cast her aside like unwanted clothes.”
“Your brother has the right to make decisions about his own life. Why did you interfere?”
“You should have visited your grandmother. She cared for you when you were in the hospital.”
The voice cackled with Macbethian contempt each time it spoke, as if I was a wayward child.
📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴
The phone tolled without warning–my fingers wound tightly round it, not answering. There was no timestamp–just a cryptic missive.
“Release.”
The voice continued its speech, its tone ominous, yet comforting. The older me bore her soul.
“My mom never had anything nice to say–was never a supportive pillar. My brother’s heart was set on himself. And my grandmother? Well, she was forceful. Too forceful. Her way, or the by-way.
“So I left all of them on the shelf. Went my own way.”
The phone paused for a while, then continued, without residual cackling.
“All I wanted was a healthier family dynamic. I only wanted to fix it. Make it right. Fair.”
📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴
The voice stopped. My fingers unclenched, slowly. I left it on the table, its screen still blinking. No longer accusing. But pleading.
The screen on my new phone blinked, wondering. An invitation.
“Gathering at Aunt Gen’s place next Sunday. Just to let you know.”
That night, my voice memos disappeared. I didn’t try to retrieve them.
The phone said what it needed to. I navigated to the family chat on Whatsapp, and paused.
Words do get in the way–do watch them. -Michelle Liew
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“Watch those darn words,” groused Mavis, Spencerfield’s angsty mouthpiece and elementary school teacher. Townsfolk believed she was just eccentric, always on a language crusade as if these would end in grail findings. “Words stick. Words stew.”
She became the town’s tact police after its mayor corrected her grammar in front of the townsfolk–again. The town ignored the nagging shenanigans–and Mavis.
That is until a conversation with an errant student. “Well, bless your father–and his slippery hands.”
The next morning, the mayor was new. And Mavis? She became the school’s principal.
Anger is a kite—it must be tethered. Michelle Liew
🎏🪁🎈🪁🎏🎏🪁🎈🪁🎏🎏🪁🎈🪁🎏🎏🪁🎈
11-year-old Benji Lim shifted in his seat, his fingers twitching behind his desk. Scrawling a quick note to the classmate behind him was a little too hard to resist.
“Want to trade–“
He was halfway through his note when Ms. Tan’s shadow hovered over his desk. She didn’t flinch, but sighed as if she’d already had the detention bed-and-breakfast booked in advance.
“Benji, detention. An hour after school. No excuses this time.”
Benji’s mouth worked faster than his homework ever did.
“Go fly a kite!” Before he realised it, his feet were carrying him out of the classroom.
The detention room was his sanctuary for the rest of the afternoon. He found Aunt May hovering at the door of the apartment they shared after his mother lost her battle to lung cancer.
“You told your teacher to fly a kite,” Aunt May’s brown eyes held a wealth of meaning. “You’ll do just that. “
She handed Benji a lopsided, dusty fish-shaped kite that had rested in the utility room for a number of years. It was uneven, and caked with dust—like him.
“You’ll go to the field, and get that up there.” Aunt May’s words had him making his way to the door.
He took off to the nearby beach, his feet like a soldier’s performing an ill-timed march past. Palm fronds met the ground, but no matter what he did, the kite refused to lift.
A boy, a few years younger than himself, was flying a giant,self-made dragon kite—with the polished ease of someone twice his age.
“Can I help you?” He offered, watching Benji tussle with the kite like it owed him money.
Benji scoffed. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a stupid kite.”
The boy simply took his kite and offered a quiet smile. “Only if you don’t know how to fly it.”
With the practiced arm of a competitive expert, he simply tethered the kite to a nearby sign that read “BEWARE OF GUSTS.”
By a miracle of boyhood physics , the kite took to the air, tethered and leering. A squirt? Showing him up? His friends would have a field day on social media. He took the cumbersome kite off the tether —it nosedived, dragging Benji like a toddler holding a leash resistant pup.
The little boy shook his head, and once more tied Benji’s kite to the sign. It wobbled—it had no idea where it wanted to go. WIthout a word, the boy flew his dragon, his hands a steady Jackie Chan’s, stunts in panoramic loop.
Then both kites were in the air, syncing in a windswept dance. To his surprise, Benji felt lighter. The wind didn’t just tame the kite—it carried him along with it in a beautiful arc.
So it was two kites. Against the wind. Both winning.
Benji had a fleeting glance at the dynamic duo, charmed by their danceathon. He looked down, looking for the boy—but he had vanished.
In his place, taped to the sign, a neatly-written note.
“Go fly your kite again. But this time, tether it.”
Benji grinned.
🎏🪁🎈🪁🎏🎏🪁🎈🪁🎏🎏🪁🎈🪁🎏
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Marigold Lane was quiet–peaceful, picturesque. A place where parents wanted their children to take root. Grow up.
Where decent family values were held dear.
The Blackstones —unflappable, champions of the status quo—arrived to complete this idyllic suburban scene. No one knew when they got to Marigold–they simply appeared, as if their house had grown them.
Not a sound came from the house. No creaks, no odd moans. But it was as if it had grown the Blackstones. They didn’t blink as often as the rest of us. Unassuming and polished as they were, they were—too perfect. Too still. Too calm.
A little too stoic—for me.
🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️
Our white-picket-fence neighbors began to engage—but always held enough back. Baked goods, in neat packaging, left quietly on our patio. Greetings, in well-rounded cursive. Prettily wrapped presents on birthdays,never late, never early, always remembered. Family meals, seen through the curtain, played like well-synchronized scenes from Family Ties.
I chalked it up to envy. They had what everyone in the neighbourhood wanted—an idyllic home, that charming white fence, a car.
Money.
But something felt–off. Their children looked the same the next year. And the year after next. Their dog? Too quiet. Mum was too slim. As if she had never seen a plate. Dad always smiled. Always. Never in a foul mood.
🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️
We got THE invite for dinner. And we walked over. Their table was as they were—well-laid. Plates well aligned, forks and spoons sitting like quiet Terra Cotta warriors.
Dinner was a well-played march past, with dad always smiling. He passed the bread around like a conductor disciplining his choir. Every gesture at the table was—terrifyingly synchronized. “Children make mistakes,” Mr. Blackstone said in a melodious tenor. “Mistakes are lessons,”he said, as if reading from a music score.
All of us spoke in well-cadenced, gentle tones,our responses too well-timed. Too precise. Their laughter felt rehearsed, expressions from actors who didn’t sync with scenes.
And then the questions came. Oddly personal queries for a neighborly relationship.
“Do you think family is sacred?”
“Are you comfortable with someone watching you?”
Then, the toast, at just the right moment. “To unity, obedience, and harmony.”
A glass shattered, its tiny fragments showing Mr. Blackstones smiling reflection.
In different places, all over the floor.
🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️
But not for long, courtesy of Mrs. Blackstone’s helper, dressed in neatly pressed servant’s attire. Everyone finished the meal in unsettled silence.
Mrs. Blackstone and her helper strode into the dining room in unison, carrying a cake, already sliced in perfect pieces.
My eyes fell on a photo on the wall. Everyone was there—including myself.
I stared at the dessert plate in front of me. I smiled, like everyone else. Lifted my fork, like everyone else. Chewed on the cake, like Mrs. Blackstone. And smiled, like dad.
🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️ 🏡 🏠 🏘️ 🏚️
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 