Happy Good Friday, everyone. We rise anew.
🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯
A sweet, sugared cross
A fresh bun from the oven
Bread that makes cold hands.
Some bread breaks to rise anew
And moulds again to greatness.
🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯🥯
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Snow Cursed by Willa Finnegan.
30-year-old Callie Lum tried to sit up in bed on April 17, her limbs mushy and uncooperative. She marked Blah Blah Blah day the same way each year–by ignoring it. Feigned ignorance made it easier for the overwhelmed, caffeine-fueled woman to cope.
Years of nagging from well-intentioned friends and family birthed a crumpled list, which Callie kept locked in a drawer. It was a handwritten litany of things she’d never do—call her mother. Be positive. And her favorite: Get a real job
Advice was a recipe she never requested–or intended to cook. The list wasn’t just a to-do list–it was her survival script.
When she tugged the drawer open that day, it wasn’t there. Her eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, scanned the room, half-expecting it to leap out at her.
And found it pinned on the refrigerator door. Like it belonged there. By a magnet she didn’t own—or recognize. The ink on it was fresher. The handwriting on it seemed to be hers…but more polished, with a crossed-out line, like a task had been completed.
This was a to-do list that everyone loved–tasks disappeared from it daily, whether Callie did them or not. Then, the calls. She heard her mother’s voice, crisp and matriarchal: “Next.”
If you like what you read, do join me on Patreon!
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Please also find books from other outstanding authors available on Amazon! Today’s book is The Boyhood of Kaede by David Applegate
Humility turns the April cold. —Michelle Liew.
🍃🍂🍃🍃🍁🍃🌿🍃🍃🍂🌱🍃🍃🍁🍃🍃🍂🍃🍃🍁🍃🌿🍃🍃🍂🌱🍃🍃
They do not stun, but dispel the dark
Flashes of green against the black.
No bugle calls, or glorious spark
Just green lines against the black.
🍃🍂🍃🍃🍁🍃🌿🍃🍃🍂🌱🍃🍃🍁🍃🍃🍂🍃🍃🍁🍃🌿🍃🍃🍂🌱🍃🍃
They seal wall cracks, and stem decay
Not seeking gold, just cool, fresh air.
Their silence speaks, louder than storms say.
Their humility does not despair.
🍃🍂🍃🍃🍁🍃🌿🍃🍃🍂🌱🍃🍃🍁🍃🍃🍂🍃🍃🍁🍃🌿🍃🍃🍂🌱🍃🍃
If you liked what you read, do join me on Patreon!
Please find my free ebook, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Please check out other books on Amazon. Today’s book is
This is to bless Mikeydred’s April Challenge with a few cool showers.
Honesty involves a little drizzle—and some courage. —Michelle Liew
☂️🌧️☔🌂☁️☔🌧️☂️🌧️☁️☂️🌂☔☂️🌧️☔🌂☁️☔🌧️☂️🌧️☁️☂️🌂☔
In Everdrizzle, the rains knew no schedule–they fell, and simply stayed. Mira Weather, a whimsical ‘emotional meteorologist’, read emotions the way true weather girls read maps. The town looked forward to her forecasts every April Fools Day—not for their quality or accuracy, but for a few laughs.
This year, Mira’s forecast wasn’t that funny–it was more of a dare. Her board read: “Heavy truths expected. Have courage. And maybe some cake.” The confessions were a mere drizzle; a little wet, but harmless.
That is, until odd confessions came to the surface. They started with small truths that could be lapsed into silence. “I cheated Mrs. Grimm of five cents,” a shopkeeper admitted. “I stole a library book,” admitted a dishevelled teen. A neighbour admitted, “I pretended to like my neighbour’s podcast—for four years.”
The truths did break hearts–but in the best way. People cried in public, except for stoic Bob, who pretended to be his shoe for five minutes. Grudges dissolved. Marriage proposals made impulsively were called off with relief. People cried in public–but no one looked away.Except Bob, who pretended that his shoes were wet from the rain for about five minutes. The air was dense, not with doom, but with clarity.
Mira forecasted the truth–then vanished like mist. No one saw her leave, but everyone felt her echo. In her place was a wax-sealed letter pinned to the town’s bulletin board. “The noise of April showers makes it easy to lie about the little things,” it read. “But you will tell the truth–without the background noise. Have courage. Also, please water my plants.”
The rain never stopped falling. Neither did the truths. The villagers forecast their own fates–with small acts of honesty, year round.
Despite the rain, their heavy days grew lighter.
So Mira reshaped her forecast: “Forecast—showers of blessing. Trust your own skies.” She gave them the weather, but the climate was of their own choosing. “It was never about the weather,” she said. “It was about the courage to be honest.”
☂️🌧️☔🌂☁️☔🌧️☂️🌧️☁️☂️🌂☔☂️🌧️☔🌂☁️☔🌧️☂️🌧️☁️☂️🌂☔
This work is entirely original. Any AI tags are coincidental.
If you like what you’ve read, do join me on Patreon!
This is a collection of my horror stories, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Please check out books by other amazing authors on Amazon! Today’s book is Raven’s Wrath by Sam Stone
People often misunderstand good intentions.
☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂
Puddles
His black shoes splash
A smile under his brolly—-
They say that he steals all of them.
He smiles.
☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂
Raining.
Drops falling fast.
Brollies left on benches—-
Not taken, but shielded by
His hands.
☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂
Man finds
Brolly folded
The canopy now dry
Its ribs sturdy, its shaft up straight
Steady.
☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂☔☔🌂☔🌂☔🌂
If you like what you read, please join me on Patreon.
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Please check out books by other authors on Amazon. Today’s book is Poetry of Aloha by Stephen Carbon
I missed National Pillow Fight Day on the 10th of April, but here’s a little comedy in honor of our favorite camping, sleepover, or just bust-the-sibling hobby.
Happy feathers!
🐶🤍🐾🐾🤍🐶🤍🐾🐶👑🐾🤍🐶🐾🐶🤍🐾🐾🤍🐶🤍🐾🐶👑🐾🤍
Clementine Dong was the reigning queen in three areas—obscure trivia, ninja stealth and sibling pillow combat. The children’s bedroom of 42 Pitbull Street became a veritable battlefield of war cries, popcorn catapults and, mostly, pillow fluff.
But her brother, Percy Dong, was not to be outdone. Tired of living in his big sister’s shadow, he began training in secret. But unlike the feisty Clementine, he was a thinker. His ammunition would, hopefully, put Clementine out of commission on the feather front—the wacky Super pillow.
Percy’s pillow had secret chambers and a zippered compartment that could hold massive weapons’ arsenals. No one noticed Mum’s glitter jars disappearing, or the smell of popcorn drifting from Percy’s room. He wasn’t just preparing a surprise attack—it was Operation Pillowgeddon.
And so, the attic became a cinematic pillow arena, with Percy and Clementine as the main gladiator cast. The action was fast, furious, and reminiscent of a few forgotten snacks.
The first hit was a cloud of slapping feathers. Percy struck. Clementine countered. The alarm clock on the table shrilled in approval. The victims—unassuming feathers—-drifted to the floor this aggressive day.
Just as Clementine reached to grab another pillow filled with feathery fluff, Dame Cloudy the Dog of Cushionshire entered the gladiator arena.
At the sheer nobility of her bark—-a gentle, yet sharp monotone—-a dignified queen berating her court with a single sound—-the siblings ceased fire.
Their mother stepped in, shaking her head. “Thanks for the assist, Dame C,” she patted Cloudy, and the little dog sat quietly in the corner. “What did I tell you two about pillow fighting? Or ANY fighting.” She shot them a look that spelt “grounded.” Clementine and Percy gave her sheepish looks of acknowledgement.
Clementine, still not daring to look up, finally spoke. She extended the olive pillow. “Er…let’s call it a draw.I think we’re both sick of feathers going up our noses.” “Yeah, my allergies are acting up. Uh..ex…CHOO!”
Thus, there was no score. Just two defeated siblings and a throne of Truce.
All three laughed so hard, the attic beams rumbled in unison.Cloudy, still a member of esteemed canine aristocracy, gave a quiet bark of approval.
🐶🤍🐾🐾🤍🐶🤍🐾🐶👑🐾🤍🐶🐾🐶🤍🐾🐾🤍🐶🤍🐾🐶👑🐾🤍🐶🐾
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Here is a set of Horror Short Stories, Echoes in the Dark, which you can download here.
Please check out books by other amazing authors on Amazon. Today’s book is Dragons in the Clouds by David Blair.
Even the smallest and humblest grows.
🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨
Upon a stone where rain did soak,
Ezra clung—-his creed silent
No bloom, no praise, no boast—-
Just a stone and grit, compliant.
🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨
She watched crowned flowers get picked first
Their petals bright, their moments fine
They laughed at moss, its lime-green quirks
But their colours faded, over time.
🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨
Now children climb on weathered stone
One leans close to lime green moss
Ezra speaks, a truth grown old,
“Grow slow, my child, no loss.”
🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨
If you like what you read, please visit me on Patreon!
Here is a set of Horror Short Stories, Echoes in the Dark, which you can download here.
Please check out books by other great authors as well. Today’s book is The Teenage Defender by Emma Jayne Taylor
True change lies within. – Michelle Liew
And yes, it helps to visit a library.
📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖
Award-winning architect Avery Lin, one-time award-winning architect, now a shadow darting between streetlights. She watched the city lights blur around her, all the time guzzling cans of Anchor Beer.
Drunkenness was her only relief; it protected her from downturned eyes.
Stray cats were her only company; some even became fast friends. One, its silvery eyes communicating feline messages of invitation, beckoned her down an alley.
At its end was a weathered, oak door. Scratched. Etched with the crude marks of vandals. She pushed it open and was hit instantly by a musty smell.
Musty, yet thrilling. Intrigued by its possibilities, Avery stepped in further to find…
A plethora of books lining shelves from right to left. Volumes of ancient encyclopedias speaking wisdom she was yet to understand. Staircases coiled up through the levels like question marks–this was a library full of answers.
📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖
The bookshelves towered over Avery, emanating a comforting smell—a woodsy mixture of must and oak. It was a veritable sea, extending from floor to ceiling with waves of white and black print.
The brown wave overwhelmed Avery, drowning her in a Tsunami of questions. The pages and tomes seemed to wrap around her, like newspaper cuttings enveloping her in a desert of uncertainty.
Despite the library’s relative serenity, Avery drifted restlessly between aisles, the books a landslide threat. Some of them had unnerving titles—The Life You Could Have Lived, and Balm for the Lost Soul.
The first opened itself to a page—one with moving images of herself on it. A version of herself that never gave up. Skyscrapers around her rose. Laughter reverberated. People clapped. She shut the book, fingers trembling.
The second opened to another page of moving images, showing the moment her confidence crumbled. Into irretrievable fragments. She relieved this past–but through the eyes of a witness.
The pages breathed when she fingered them–too a lived to be mere paper. She watched herself live a version of life that she only dreamt of.
The librarian appeared, tall, mirrored, ageless. Her eyes were dark, twin mirrors. Bespectacled, donned in a white blouse with its collar wrapped around her neck. “‘You’re long overdue,” they taunted. “Not for a book. For becoming who you should be.”
A storm raged briefly in the poetry section. Words rained down her overcoat. She wiped her hands on her sides, then brought them in front of her face. They were ink-stained.
She sat in a quiet alcove in the library’s corner, watching her “perfect life” replay again and again between that pages of The Life You Could Have Lived. Her heart pounded with a series of dull, painful thuds.
A figure manifested in the corner of the room—tall, ageless, her eyes eerily mirrored. She drifted toward Avery, finally stopping to shoot her a condescending look. “You’re long overdue. Not for returning a book, though that needs looking into. We’re concerned about you—becoming.”
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Avery shot her a look—a stormy mix of frustration and confusion. The librarian hovered around the alcove, her shadow noiseless. Then, without looking at Avery, she dropped a tome on her table. It bore no title—only running ink.
“You’re to fill it in.” Her voice was broken, as brittle as the ancient volume’s paper. “You’re not to erase anything. What you write remains—set, alive.”
Avery stared at the notebook, her look as blank as the pages before her. They were blank, but warm to the touch.
The librarian added, with a touch of kindness. “When you’re ready, shelve it where everyone can see it. Becoming is for all to witness.”
The dust in the alcove no longer clung to her: it settled, like time taking gentle breaths. The surrounding shelves became a polished brown. The pages of the old tomes were pure white; they had lost their dog ears and yellow tone.
📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖
The sun shone, its gentle rays jostling her awake in her car. The sky’s faint blue colour was one that she hadn’t seen in months. The now familiar library tome lay on her lap, smelling faintly of salt. In her hand was a black charcoal pencil, fresh, eager to begin.
No librarian. No one else around her. Just the sound of the pencil scratching against paper.
And so she writes. Not for anyone else’s eyes. She began to pen the tome, now no longer ancient, just for herself.
And she smiles, for the first time in years.
📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖
Avery stepped into the library two years later, beaming as stepped into the alcove. The fresh smell of new books greeted her. New shelves scaled the walls, filled with new tomes and encyclopedias, each with fresh pages.
The tome she had written lay on the table she had sat at two years earlier, waiting for her to turn its pages. The same fresh smell entered her nose gently, rousing her other senses, widening her smile.
The librarian hovered over to her, now dressed in pressed jeans, a sweet tee and a denim vest. She had tied up her hair in a high ponytail.
“Ready to add a new chapter to your tome?” She grinned, her long fringe cascading over her eyes.
“You bet,” Avery punched the air.
📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖
If you like what you read, do join me on Patreon.
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Please check out ebooks by other amazing writers on Amazon. Today’s book is Nothing But The Truth by Rebecca Clark
We find peace and renewal where we least expect.–Michelle Liew
🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠🔥🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠🔥🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠
The fireplace glows, its hearth alight,
A dazzling display in quiet night.
The ashes fly as the heat subsides,
And something walks where truth does hide.
🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠🔥🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠🔥🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠
What was once bright light, meets its demise
And in the stillness, a surprise
Among charred remains, a spark
Hidden in shadows, black and dark
🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠🔥🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠🔥🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠
The spark glows, not seen by eyes,
Its growth concealed, meant for the wise.
Though its light is dim, heat does reside
In its heart, peace abides.
🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠🔥🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠🔥🔥🪵🔥🕯️🔥🏠
If you like what you read, visit me on Patreon!
Please find my Ebook of Horror Stories, Echoes in the Dark, free for download and reading!
Please check out books by other great authors on Amazon. Today’s book is El terror de Alicia by Miguel Moreno.
Change, though abhorred, sparks growth. -Michelle Liew
🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵
The river flows, so wide and calm
Its currents slow, its water balm
But over time, its banks do test
Prompts needed shift in its great quest
🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵
The stones once still do turn and shift.
Its waters move, and currents drift
The flow remains, but something’s askew
A familiar course, now starts anew.
🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵
In this new time, the river knows
Its own strength, as it flows
It moves not back, but straight ahead
Along fresh paths, those unsaid.
🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵🐟🌿💧🌊🌊⛵
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Also, check out books by other great authors on Amazon. Today’s book is It Rained the Day My Father Died by Steve Anc!
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 