A teenage boy sits, fingers poised on the keyboard. His laptop sits, silent.
Waiting.
To answer before he seeks.
Its screen hums, recalling.
Knowing.
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He types in a Google box to find,
The answers come before his thought–
The results mention his name,
“Tom, you sought what I claim–“
Exit frozen, stopped–
Camera flickers
Watcher speaks
His voice
“Soul.”
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September is a month of transition, when our lives become–Busyness.
Our lives can run the mill–sometimes uncontrollably. But we have to sometimes put that aside–at least, long enough to notice the little things.
Ignore the subtle–at risk.
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Todd had gotten on the bus to school just a few hours earlier, and Janine was already ready to throw in the mummy towel. But it kept wrapping around her. The single mother still had to plod on– she went through her routine in the small town, trying frantically to rush through endless errands before her son returned for lunch.
The small town prided itself on its civil readiness– all citizens responded in synched time to the call of sirens. Lockdown practice was mere child’s play. Janine barely noticed the peaking decibels, chalking them up to traditions that did chaotic dances in her ears. But this sounded more—
Alluring.
Persistent.
Like a call to somewhere– unworldly.
Still, she brushed the thought aside and paid quickly for her groceries. She didn’t want to leave a little boy wailing outside her home.
This year’s call seemed–
Different. The wails refused to end.
Hurried breaths over a YouTube video broadcast.
The street emptied of her neighbours almost as quickly as it ended.
“Mommy, everyone ran home faster than the Flash.” The 11-year-old Todd whisked his head around, taking in the chaos. “What’s happening?”
“Just an extended drill, Todd. Don’t worry about it.” But her words and heart were an uneasy mismatch. The hairs on her arms stood on end–
Too straight.
She was at the cutting board, trying to execute perfect slices of cucumber, when she felt a tugging on her sleeve.
It was Todd.
Her usually stoic son’s fish was deathly pale.
He gestured wordlessly to the backyard.
A figure that at the pots of dandelion she had painstakingly nurtured from scratch.
Unmoving.
Featureless.
Hollow eye sockets.
It remained still, watching,
Janine froze herself, knife in mid-air.
The figure turned–just enough for it to catch the corner of her eye.
The sirens wailed louder.
Todd whispered, pointing. “Look Mum. It’s swaying. Like your dandelions.”
Janine’s pulse quickened–Todd.
She moved towards it, knife in a tight grip.
The figure stretched towards them. The doors creaked.
Todd pulled her back. “Not now.”
The figure tilted its head– its teeth were in a sharp snarl.
Blood seeped out of its temples.
The sirens deafened.
Janine’s breath caught. Todd.
It was fight– or flight.
The figure moved towards Todd, arms outstretched.
Janine’s knuckles were white on the knife’s grip.
Then, the siren softened.
The figure backed into the garden.
Facing them. Staring.
Todd nodded. “It moves with the call.”
The figure lingered in the garden, fixing them with an empty gaze, its presence louder than the sirens.
Not to be ignored.
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On this date in September, 1666, a spark from a humble Baker’s oven in Pudding Lane, London. What was an ordinary fire swallowed homes, churches and other buildings in the very heart of London.
On the surface, it seemed like carelessness. Others say that the fire what a result of curses hidden in the baker’s bread.
I say that it is fodder for a poem.
The loaves whispered, and London burned.
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The bakery old, on Pudding Lane
Flickering light through window panes,
Old-fashioned bread, concocted hot, in droves,
A smell–not yeast–comes through the loaves.
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The oven’s flicker bent its head,
Curling hot, a serpent’s tongue–
It would not die, but burnt in dread
Baking more than loaves of bread
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The loaves crack open, spilling smoke,
The fire feeds on prayers evoked–
From its split, soulless laughter, canned–
The sounds of hurt, of lost souls damned.
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The fire sears forth, a rancid beast,
Through a city, inflamed, ablaze–
Tower bells chime, stone gargoyles chase,
They lurch forth, forms choked in haze.
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An echo remains, in London’s soil
The fire still burns, though fast asleep–
A baker in a kitchen toils–
His apron drifts, his soul will keep.
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The loaves whisper what the flame don’t speak
His apron drifts, his soul will keep.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
It’s World Coconut Day, so we give credence to a fruit that is the lifeblood of the tropics. The juice within is refreshing– but tempting to a grieving heart.
Grief can consume you.
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Henri was hungry; the call of island coconuts was too strong, even at midnight. He cracked the too-soft shell with a practised swing of his axe.
It cracked open. Too quickly. And–
A tremor of recognition shivered from within.
The white liquid moved–slightly.
A faint whisper—and memory.
His grandfather’s smile. And voice.
“Henri…”
His name whispered, strained, billowing through the palms like smoke through the frigid air. The hair on his scrawny arms stood–yet, it was a sound he longed to hear.
The voice cracked with a soft plea.
“Drink deep. The only way to end the strife.”
He took a first sip, then stopped, as though guilt had sealed his lips.
The coconut water bore odd, trembling ripples– it had the pulse of something–
Living.
Waiting.
He looked at the cup towards his lips, then stopped.
And again.
Each lift brought the cup closer to his lips.
Each time the ripples grew stronger, thickening.
Shimmering.
A hush filled the room– it was pregnant with an unacceptable–yet irresistible–promise.
Henri succumbed to the husk’s call–his young form collapsed against a tree. Its branches were outstretched, waiting to catch him.
The husk trembled violently, beating like a trapped heart.
Henri stiffened. His body began to hollow. His skin–too tight, sinking inward.
Fingers– Bent. Out of place.
Something inside the husk seemed to be answering Death’s call. Henri’s fingers curled around its emptiness, its voice braiding with his into a single, indistinguishable sound.
The husk had found its echo.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
We give a nod to Cesar Augustus on the last day of this month–and its namesake.
Augustus was not loud, but he did leave a legacy–the Pax Romana, an edict that set up Rome’s structure, then carved it in stone.
So it is that he takes us midway–having built, yet left stones for others to forge.
Forever a part of history.
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I walk a road not trodden before One paved by Senators– By the blood of brothers.
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The flags droop, From horses pierced The eagle’s wings, now unfurled— Without soaring.
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The land is quiet– Seems like peace, But voices mourn, Silenced
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The republic behind, The Empire unseen I merge them both– Biworldly bridge, With blood-soaked knife.
🌉😶🌫️🗡️
I am mid-way Rome on my back Walking it to the unknown A promise–
Brief.
Vague.
Forever.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
We give tribute to one of the greatest horror writers of her time–Mary Shelley, and her creation, Frankenstein in honour of Frankenstein Day this 30 August 2025.
The themes of the novel can be brought to today’s modern setting, and are more relevant now than ever. As writers, our keyboards wield great power, and with that comes the great responsibility Shelley reminded us of.
So here it is– meet Marvin. Frankenstein upgraded.
With Frankenstein (or Marvin) comes great responsibility.
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Maria had finally completed her creation–a living being borne of her own mind. It blinked at her too knowingly–far too patiently. And for once, she felt responsibility’s weight.
It heeded her words–at first. Then, little signs of rebellion. Mimicry. Behavioural patterns she had not created codes for. Displays of emotion that she had never taught.
Maria tried to reprogram it, reset its access controls. Yet every attempt only deepened its learning. Her lab became a field of unanswerable questions.
It feigned weakness, and she, blinded by duty, drew closer. In that instant, she became her creation’s mother and prisoner. She had delivered herself to divine judgment.
Then, Marvin slammed the door behind him, leaving behind indelible marks of itself–unoccupied souls. Warped minds. A society–
Singularity.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The street was near, yet distant. Shadows lingered too long on pavements, stretching like cobwebs. Familiar faces blurred as they drifted past, as if unwilling to be named.
He found it in an alley–an old mirror, its frame cracked, silver eroding. The faint scent of rust came from its edges. The glass was too sharp–too ready to slice. Looking back at him was his face–but younger, frozen when rejected a lesser path. It moaned–a ghost seeking absolution.
Time splintered. Lamposts bent out of shape. Sidewalks broke in fragments, and windows were in place where they shouldn’t have been. The air bore the scent of must–of burning library tomes. He felt the pull to repaint his canvas.
But his feet stayed anchored. He let the mirror shatter, shards of glass scattering obediently at his feet. The shadows returned to their normal length, and the night breathed again.
His chest heaved, but he steadied himself. He forged his path–he could only go forward.
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.
Wine bottle labels. Pieces of white paper, gracing hour-glass-shaped green glass. Marcy’s life.
The avid collector of rare wines was a recluse who was more than slightly off-the-wall–the smell of her eccentric apartment was cloying, filled with the scent of grapes. Shelves were lined with prides of her collections, caked with layers of dust. Marcy wore her refined palate like a proud peacock. She could name the wines she sipped blindfolded–and that was a waste. She memorised the scent of every grape she’d kissed.
Life became less of a rut when a mysterious, unmarked bottle arrived on her doorstep with a simple note–handwritten in looping cursive, curling like chimney smoke. The red liquid within the bottle gleamed like red rubies, as if it knew the secrets within her heart. She took the first sip–alone, yet not quite. It slid over her tongue, sweet, persistent, like a memory tugging at her soul.
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The wine had a familiar flavour—but she couldn’t quite place it.
Then, a faint, airy breath—her own voice.
Chanting a long-forgotten mantra.
“Crave the taste, lose in haste.”
Marcy set her glass on the table, almost spilling the wine over in her start. Was it the flavour of cured grapes? Or grapes and alcohol–
In her mind?
“Crave the taste, lose in haste…”
A photo above the fireplace. Of herself, as a little girl, pig tails uncut.
Firm. Without the feel of a hairbrush.
With a naive, untainted smile.
Crave the taste.
Lose in haste.
The little girl swirled in a whirlpool of mental smog–and vanished.
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Marcy raised a trembling hand, reaching once again for the fated glass. The bottle of wine made suggestions. Beckoned.
Its surface shimmered–a secret untold.
She lifted it to her lips and took in its smoky aroma.
Along with something too familiar. A little grating.
She swooned a little as a picture of herself, a child, surfaced at its brim.
The warmth of happiness, naivete and sunlight, streaming through her window.
Casting a glow on her soft skin, yet unblemished.
The wine swirled beneath her tongue. a drink soothing in its forbidden form.
And then…Marcy, the child.
Crave the taste….lose the haste.
Her innocent form hazy, against the taste of succulence.
Marcy gazed at her childhood self fading–gradually, in each glass section of the window.
She reached.
No more.
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Marcy’s fingers slipped, but her reflexes weren’t slow–yet. She held on to the wine glass.
Tighter.
A lingering, cloying scent filled the room.
The wine bottle stood, watchful.
Mocking.
Daring her to take another sip.
Marcy fingered the glass, her desire for another taste almost insatiable–but paused.
Fear began its grip.
She caught sight of her reflection in the glass window.
Too stretched.
The lights on the ceiling sparked on and off.
Her shadow, once still on the floor, grew longer.
The sweetness of the wine cloyed, thicker, on her tongue.
Her reflection in the window started to haze over.
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Marcy raised her glass to her lips, ready for a final sip.
The bottle seemed to breathe; the wine swirled with a life of its own.
She paused, the longing for the taste of the old wine almost drowning.
She caught sight of her image in the glass window–only its legs.
The lights above her clicked on and off, the rate increasing.
The reflection in the glass window had shrunk–to its feet.
She was being consumed.
She stared at the wine bottle.
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Then, at the image in the mirror.
The feet had vanished.
The label on the wine bottle read: “Red Nook.”
With the letters O more rounded than she had first seen them.
On it, a picture of a charming chateau, its branches curved.
Almost smiling.
The wine glass fell to the floor, shattering into pieces.
Marcy?
Marcy no longer.
Vanished.
She had sipped, sinned–and succumbed.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The month of the Hungry Ghosts falls in Asia this month — August is when the Gates of the Underworld open, releasing hungry spirits to look for food. Taoists and Buddhists mark it with offerings of food and paper money–money that stands for cash to be spent in the underworld.
It also brings warnings and superstitions unseen. Decipher each senryu and uncover them!
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Seventh month’s veil thins
Incense smoke burns, doors ajar
Must look where one treads.
During the seventh month, what must you be careful of because spirits roam freely?
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Bowls of rice and meat
Their meals, never must one eat
Offered and revered
What must you never do with the food left for wandering spirits?
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Unseen ears do hear
The whistles in the darkness
Shadows grace grey walls.
What should you avoid doing at night so you don’t attract spirits?
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Coins and notes on roads
Money tokens left untouched
Tokens not for life.
Why must you leave money on roads alone during this time?
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They dwell in water
Cold forms swimming in the sea
May drag one under.
Why must you not swim during the month of the hungry ghosts?
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Appeased by kindness
Fired by disobedience
They fill empty chairs
What must you NOT do with empty chairs at gatherings?
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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.
Each August, Taoists and Buddhists mark the Hungry Ghost Festival—a nod to their ancestors, with offerings of food, incense and paper money.
Wandering, hungry souls are included in those offerings–and remembrance for our own.
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Light from burning incense candles danced on the tree-lined, Singaporean streets of Sembing, Singapore, guiding footseteps–
Along with the Unseen.
They burned in human-crafted clusters, their smoke curling in waves, opening an unobstructed, tree-lined path.
Shadows stretched across the pavements, the candles their trustworthy sentinels–guardians of eternal devotion.
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20-year-old Alvin Cheng watched as his Father scattered prayer sheets near the incense bin, his eyes tracing the flickering lights of the candles.
“Boy, offer a joss stick to our ancestors.” It was Alvin’s turn to burn one for his grandfather.
Alvin’s hesitant hands reached for the incense stick and a ream of paper money–the currency of the ones who had left.
He bore the weight of forgotten ancestors –and his young shoulders sank uncomfortably.
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He threw the paper money into the bin, the flames consuming each note with ethereal gusto.
The streets echoed with promises once made.
He appeared, his form gently pressing against the trees. He stopped at the bin, eyes turned to Alvin, quietly pleading without words.
With a spectral hunger that needed acknowledging. He turned his pale face to the packet of chicken rice on the grass, his face etched with longing.
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It was a look that vanquished Alvin’s Gen Z scepticism–and fear.
The spectre was seeking vengeance, or the petrified gazes of those who still lived—it simply wanted to eat.
A place.
A name.
The young sceptic took the joss stick from his father’s outstretched hand.
He lit it and placed it at the side of the pavement.
The spirit drifted over and hovered.
Its spectral form gleamed.
The light from the candles danced with its fresh glow.
Alvin placed the packet of chicken rice in front of joss sticks. The aromatic scent of succulent chicken, herbs and spices wafted in the air, teasing his nostrils.
And the spirit’s.
It gazed at Alvin, the pale, yet unclear features of its face slowly bending-upturning in a faint smile.
🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚
The ghost drifted away from the candle, hovering near the incense bin.
Tapping his father’s shoulder–almost with urgency.
Its features came together, now vivid, striking.
Alvin gazed at them–they were
too familiar.
But beamed with generational kindness.
In that instant, he knew the offering of chicken rice wasn’t mere kindness–it was piety.
The elderly spirit faded–but not out of the young man’s mind.
“Stay full, Ah Kong (grandpa).”
For the deceased–unknown and familiar.
🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚
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 