Singapore celebrates Total Defence Day today – when we consider all aspects of defence.
The military. The people.
The economy.
The MIND.
That requires the greatest protection.
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
Breached…
A siren rehearses my ears and mind.
Preparedness, neat.
Checked.
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
“Be ready.”
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
Mind unbraced, with too many doors.
The sound fades, but a thin ring stays.
A soft hum. It never left.
🚨🧠🔒🕳️📢🫥📺🔁🧼🫧🕯️👁️🗨️🤫✅
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Original poem for Valentine’s Day by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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I couldn’t put a finger on those calls — or the mould. So I did what any responsible janitor would do. I paid it a visit.
The unit was still unoccupied. The previous tenant had given it an airing — that was for sure. But the mould still appeared on the walls, in the exact spots it had earlier.
I wasn’t concerned. Vacant units were easy-peasy. There were no tenants who’d grouch at our presence.
So, I got to work. The records showed that all issues had been resolved. The words were nothing new.
But there was something — different.
About the date.
Repeated.
Too repeated. As though someone had just checked and updated the logs —
logging “repaired” without checking.
So, I logged it again — myself. In the same language, same terms.
Professional. Recorded.
Repaired.
I didn’t comment — that wasn’t for me to do.
I just waited for instructions — that never came when they should have.
There were no further questions. No clarification.
No one asked that any action be taken.
It was just logged in the system — marked for monitoring.
Nothing for me to be concerned about.So I cleaned the unit once again. I adjusted the ventilation, just to keep the air flowing.
But viewings were postponed.
It was simpler and less costly to keep the apartment empty.
No problems — nothing needed coordinating.
So the issue remained contained – not a worry.
It didn’t disrupt life.
There was no smell from the apartment. No one claimed it.
So no conclusion was required. There was no need to put anything on record.
Original Microfiction Series by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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Blah. Ordinary. Old, and nothing spectacular. So was the work.
And I was used to that.
The building was in working order. Nothing seemed wrong with the lifts or doors.
No malfunctioning doorknobs.
It was functioning, which passed for reassurance.
There seemed nothing urgent. People moved through it with regulated indifference.
It looked as though it could manage without me.
I didn’t receive the block in a typical handover. Most things were unexplained.
There were issues. Settled. But no one quite explained how. All anyone told me was that there was absolutely nothing to worry about. The complex was on the up and up.
Tenants went missing. Recorded as absent. Just scheduling matters.
I did my first round of the complex. Everything was in order. But not the same as looked after.
Repairs had been completed by my predecessor before I took the complex over. Carefully enough – to settle any arguments. Some areas were clean, but never used, as if purposely kept that way.
Oh, it was maintained. Functional. But not comfortable.
At least, not for the soul.
The tenants showed great gratitude for my work – as if I was continuing it for the other guy. I hadn’t known him.
But when I asked who had done repairs before, they wouldn’t say a word.
I assumed it was that other guy. And left it there.
Then, the calls. Too many of them.
Mould. From the same unit.
The mould appeared too often for coincidence to explain it. It had been gotten rid of – too many times.
Why the same date?
Someone had kept the books in order – too much in order.
The paperwork shouted “done.” The building -silent.
My role had already been decided before I started work. Just janitor. Caretaker.
But my name wasn’t there. The computer’s records didn’t show who had filled my role before. It was as if I had been just – slotted in.
Every task had been recorded as completed.
There was nothing urgent – at all. That was the gap.
Nothing written about it – just assigned.
Not concluded.
🧾✔️✔️✔️ 🤫
Original Microfiction Series by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. 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 Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Society expected perfection from Sandra. But is perfection perfect?
📚✔️❌❓
Ms. Sandra Lee always arrived in class five minutes before her English lesson was to begin. There was no reason for this day to be any different.
The classroom had already risen before she stepped in. The lights were already on, and her students, quiet and standing, ready to greet.
But their morning salutation was not for her.
She’d always had a problem writing in a straight line on a ledger-less chalkboard.
But her name was on it this day.
She already knew the kids – there was no need for it.
It was in a line – written by someone else.
Too straight.
📚✔️❌❓
The students offered their polite greeting – almost too polite.
Their grace, too well-crafted.
Responses – too normal.
Sandra observed the teacher – an uncanny replica of herself, doling out marked homework and instructions.
The students, responding for once without any quiet rebellion.
They had finally accepted her for who she was.
But this was not her. Their politeness to this new her – her own erasure.
📚✔️❌❓
The formulae offered by Sandra’s replacement – herself – were doubtless.
Efficient. Perfect.
The students accepted the model solutions she offered without a single raised hand in protest.
No digression. No lingering questions.
The teaching was excellent, but without an ounce of warmth.
📚✔️❌❓
Then, the letter on her desk.
Thanking her for her service.
The parents were happy with Sandra’s replacement – she taught in the way the students recognized.
There was improvement. Formulae were clocked correctly, according to the letter. She had taught well, it said.
Just not good enough for – herself.
📚✔️❌❓
Sandra cleared her desk, putting her books and now needless worksheets in a box.
She carried it past the classroom and looked in at herself, finally explaining the formulae without a single missed equation.
But as she passed the classroom window, the replacement – her perfect upgrade – asked a question.
Then wrote the wrong sum on the board.
And vanished at the sound of the bell.
📚✔️❌❓
The students with half the needed formulae.
📚✔️❌❓
Original microfiction by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. 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 Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
The ritual started because our devotion wasn’t focused – we believed that we could love many at once.
We knew that love in this form was – questionable.
So we confessed – kept translating our romantic transgressions against each other week after week. Our souls attained a feathery lightness after each confession – or so we thought.
It mattered that we were to write down every act of betrayal. The absolution of that was non-negotiable. With ultimate precision, we wrote down each whispered betrayal, each act of dishonesty.
The ritual didn’t concur with logical reasoning. Trust should have denied his presence. Marriage should have become paper for burning.
The ritual didn’t concur with logical reasoning. Trust should have denied his presence. Marriage should have become paper for burning.
Each backhanded alliance.
Each note was absolved – forgiveness was a forgone conclusion, a must.
Our souls felt lighter than before the ritual, nearly weightless. And the notes kept piling – Everest was ashamed.
More than we ever were.
We adhered to the ritual, day after day, month after month.
Year after year.
It never hurt while it happened.
The marriage lingered, open.
We jotted down confessions on arbitrary pieces of paper and ripped them apart, without a second thought.
Maintaining alliances – some straightforward, most not. Absolution, with the ripping of each note, eased each one.
Eased our souls. They became feathery light.
But as the weight of Transgression left us, the toll of others stayed.
Dismissal. Disvalue.
Disfavor.
The ritual had been performed many times before, in different ways.
Confessions just as soul-lightening, and unhinging.
Apologies that came too quickly, soothed for too short a time, and released without meaning or payment.
Children who bore the weight of meaningless absolution – sightless and unheard. Familial relationships formed without familiarity.
Alliances borne out of necessity and distrust.
Recorded, almost too meticulously, in journals, photos and damning letters, decades earlier.
Love had absolved souls that lightened. But stayed.
They each recognised their handwriting, formed at earlier times. Devotion had predecessors, malformed.
It was not our ritual to perform. But confessions without meaning were made.
And souls floated. No anchor.
Drifting ceaselessly, eternally, without respite or affirmation.
Time healed wounds, with their sting continuing to smart and pierce.
The ritual continued. The confessions were stark reminders, laid in black and white, in journals.
Consuming the souls of those who truly loved, attentively and sincerely.
The confessions preserved the relationship – one that remained, in different parts, scattered, yet together.
There was no resistance towards it – it continued, preserving souls with festering wounds.
Knowing resolved – making incomplete, irresolute forms.
They were unclear- the ritual was the only responsibility.
Love did not release. It perpetuated.
A neglected child.
The ritual – and the abject, yet trite confessions – continued. Both partners stayed. Souls obedient, but fractured.
Damaged – yet stable.
The confessions did what they had to do – leaving stable destruction in their wake.
What we have doesn’t need us whole – it needs us there.
We survived the absence and the harsh truths, with the cost of nothing following.
The ritual of shallow confession is pending – our son has married.
The young lady – undamaged, naive, unprotected.
Our elder daughter, too, has married, knowing full well the ritual and its truths.
The young man – equally innocent, faithful, and steady.
Unguarded.
Unaware of the costs of love, the ritual, and its power.
May they never need one.
May they never require truths without notice, recognition, or power.
May they never need confessions without spirit.
May they never need confessions at all.
But the ritual waits -silent.
Sentient, ready to hold.
📄 ✂️ 🕳️
Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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We mark Martyr’s Day today – for Mahatma Ghandi, and all who walked selflessly with others who needed them.
For strength that refused applause.
🕊️🌿
He stands
In the midst of –
Lifting wreaths
And muted bows
🕊️🌿
He walked
With us
In the same breath
On the same route
🕊️🌿
For life
Softened
Under watch
For the Soul
🕊️🌿
That saw.
That lauded not.
That stopped.
And evaded
The light.
🕊️🌿
Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. 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 Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Louisa Lum’s birthday began like any other. Gifts given, but drew a blank. A cake with so many candles, it frightened her.
And of course, flowers. Roses that dulled the midlifer’s spirit with their blush.
Then, there was the pink carnation.
A flower meant to charm. Its coy pink petals enwrapped. To make her heart a little less hard.
Tradition doing its quiet work.
The flower was ordinary. Nothing about it was intimidating, at first glance.
Then, while cleaning its vase, her fingers brushed against a thorn along its stem.
It pricked. She backed away from the vase, and knocked into a chest of drawers behind her.
They sprung open to reveal a stack of letters.
Her father. Someone else – she would rather not have read about.
It was truth, mis-timed. Cruel honesty.
Nothing broke – it wore down. There was a palpable distance between them, even while he was on his deathbed.
And the silence created something new.
The smell of the pink carnation’s petals lifted her nostrils, just as he passed.
And the truth hammered her heart with rusted nails. There had been clarity – but it hadn’t mattered one bit.
Damage done by a carnation’s accuracy, shoving her into a drawer just then.
Irreparable.
The pink flower wilted, leaving nothing in its wake –
Just a stack of letters, that should not have been read.
🌸📜🕯️
Original story for National Carnation Day by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. 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 Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
It’s Lewis Caroll’s birthday today, so it’s the perfect day to relish in a little wonder.
With a little help from Alice and the gang.
Alice wore blue and white. Not just white. She learned to appreciate wonder…past childhood.
Adulthood, gained. Innocence, intact.
🪞🎩🐱
She stands
Imbibing wonder
Silent, pensive
In its presence
Plainly calm.
🪞🎩🐱
He dances in
A hat with quick words
Scuttles around the garden,
Greets her,
Falls, and rises.
🪞🎩🐱
The mirror shows
An image
For the self
To decide.
🪞🎩🐱
Then a half-smile
Borne of adulthood
Doesn’t vanish
But stretches with age.
🪞🎩🐱
She stands
Accepting wonder
Silent, with a
Stoic smile
Of age
That knows.
🪞🎩🐱
Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. 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 Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
