A lone lantern, held by a keeper, flickers on Paris’ cobblestoned streets. It is an insignificant spark, but one that cannot be ignored. It wasn’t–and that made France what it is today.
🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️
In Paris, on its streets gone cold,
Michel lit a lantern
Its flame flickered, its glow bold.
🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️
Roads cried “Revolt!”
Tearing at seams;
Shaking under weight of bolts
Carriages with dreams.
🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️
They peeked out from bolted doors
Some did scorn, while others looked–
As Michel walked, light danced with dark
Shone on rot, on stone.
🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️
He called for change, and not for arms–
For awareness, not revenge;
The city heard, with hands, not ears
They repaired with truth, not fear.
🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️
A new morn, and the streets shone
The roads of Paris, they still gleamed
Not with blood outpoured;
But lanterns, glowing, at each door
Bringing change and cure.
🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️
Michel was but a dream that spoke
But Paris heard, still shone;
New lanterns blazed, their fire stoked-
Rife over rough-hewn stone.
🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️
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May Long and David Sim were the IT couple—awash with glitz, drowned in glamour, and flooded by paparazzi camera lights.
Their holiday—turquoise waves lapping the shore—was more than well-deserved.
The coastal villa of Amalfi spread out in its magnificence as their superyacht kissed the shoreline, its shadows covering the edges.
The couple had a reputation for ignoring fans–they needed the help May had promised in her posts.
The couple’s relationship thrived beyond the camera’s lens—and not with the chatty vibes of the Enquirer.
The paparazzi caught on—long before they could fold their tripods. Their Tik Tok photos came to life–when they didn’t know.
May’s photos on TikTok recorded more than May and David—they captured long shadows, their subtle movement teasing the edges.
Shadows traipsed through the villa’s long hallways, dark forms that should have been filed away long ago.
The secluded beach and opulent resort were perfect private trappings for the millionaire couple—they could record kisses and take private selfies to mark their romance.
At least, for two weeks.
Until small oddities reared their dark heads.
Shadows lagged behind their reflections, movements slightly out of sync. Others extended what seemed to be arms, reaching toward them with unheard pleas.
The discomfort triggered May, who recorded the strange movements on camera—disembodied shadows dancing before the lens. They appeared again in reposts on social media by her enthusiastic fans.
The comments grew stranger.
“May, the mirror in your room was in a different place last night,” said one.
As the comments grew, so did the villa—rising and moving in tandem with the shadows, each pair engaged in a disembodied dance.
A storm disrupted their Amalfi adventure—the villa’s architecture twisted in contortions that would make a vine blush. It wasn’t alone in doing the twist.
A pale hand.
Blue veins—varicose.
Fingernails—too long.
A moving shadow that wasn’t hers—or David’s.
A single touch—felt, but unseen.
The walls of the bedroom became a canvas for a digital landscape—Amalfi Villa on the wall.
Overgrown with creepers.
The backlight of May’s mobile came on—and out it stepped.
The couple sat up in bed, jaws dropped.
It stood in full view, in May’s favourite red dress. Hair just as long.
But—too pale.
“You wanted privacy—those kisses on your phone? Not for TikTok or Instagram? They come at a cost.”
A snicker. May’s mouth rounded in a scream that wouldn’t sound. David’s fingers found the bed’s headboard.
“I’m the guardian of your secrets—every private smile, kiss, and gesture. Each time you have one, I see it. Even if no one else does.”
“And the price of those secrets?”
A sweep of her fingers, and May’s TikTok profile filled the bedroom wall from floor to ceiling.
Number of fans—zero.
Villa Amalfi was calm—waters a perfect pastel blue.
May’s TikTok profile lit her screen—with more pictures of herself and David.
At restaurants, simply savoring foie gras with the family.
Her comments?
Warm—but controlled.
To members of a growing fanbase.
📷📸📹📷📸📹📷📸📹📷📷📸📹📷📸📹📷📸📹📷
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The smell of coffee on the New Moon signals choices–though small, they make–or break–a day. Familiar spaces, old routines–new chaos.
Or cosmos.
Enjoy your coffee on this New Moon Day, everyone.
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
In the old coffeeshop, a familiar set,
My eyes on the menu–know what to get.
The espresso machine hummed, a tune that soothed,
A barista smiled–a stray cat knew.
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
The cat sneaked in as I stirred the grounds
Sat by my side, without a sound
The coffee’s steam wafted, I beheld–
Its secret waited, its tale to tell.
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
Sugar, cinnamon–pieces, loose
The barista smirked–‘wisely choose.”
Light streamed in from the new moon–
Said she, “Fate turns on choices soon.”
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
With my spoon, I let sugar slide
On the tray, put cinnamon aside
A small choice, a little play
That caused the coffee’s taste to stray
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
The coffee thickened, the sugar sand–
Brown grains fell faster than I drank
I sat slumped, my mind confused
It came apart in chunks, unglued
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
I left the cafe, stunned, with my drink
My hand froze as I tried to think
The cat followed, pointing its tail
Chided me at my cinnamon fail
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
The cup, on my table–stayed undrunk
I stirred, circling the bland sugar sunk
“Why didn’t I, with cinnamon stay–
“No morning drink for me today.”
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
The black cat then left with a leap,
Its black form took my mind that wouldn’t keep
The moon still gleamed–fresh, renewed
Though choices small, one must be true.
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Every story has a heartbeat of its own.. Mine often begins with paws on the floor, demanding their breakfast. Greedy as they are, they also teach us life lessons when we least expect it. We are often saved–by that bark.
📖🐾✨🐶📝📚🐕🌟📖🐾✨🐶📝📚📖🐾✨🐶📝📚🐕🌟📖🐾✨🐶📝
Tembling stood apart from other housing estates in Singapore– short buildings with arched windows faced each other, not tall matchboxes with translucent, symmetrical, see-through squares. Stone gravel combated the tarred road at the estate’s edge, a tussle between tradition and modernity.
The people of Tembling were– extraordinary.
Hermit crabs that stayed within their shells, they seldom appeared at night.
So it was late in the estate– and quiet. The silence came over it like a funeral cloth. Silence never meant safety. Rain hissed, sharpening the unease.
I was out with Snowball on our stroll, the street watching us, muted. Every shadow looked as if it held secrets– ones about to spill over. Fear stalked the streets, its eyes unseen.
Present.
Hiding secrets in its furtiveness.
Snowball’s paws made the only honest sound.
We walked around the park. Then, she halted abruptly, raising her hocks. She had pulled back her face in a snarl.
A click on the pavement.
A silhouette. Standing, its shadowy form looming under a street lamp.
His faux smile didn’t stretch; it sat uncomfortably, plastered where it didn’t belong. As I passed, he muttered something unintelligible and strained.
Probably a harmless vagrant languishing at a nearby void deck.
He lifted his hand, hovering. I ignored him; homeless workers who made their living at nearby construction sites were a feature of Tembling.
But the little dog emitted a low growl. Dogs never bothered with fake smiles. She held my trust, locked between her paws.
The man crept away from the lamp post, clutching something in his pockets. His hand twitched, too guilty to remain still. He drew it out–
And lost his grip.
A metal ping resounded sharply as it hit the grey gravel.
An echo– too loud.
A pocket knife.
Serrated.
Sharp.
My mind spun, a record that wouldn’t stop. My breath caught. I had been missed-
By a bark–because I sensed.
Snowball’s growl continued to fill the silent air, pulsing.
Ready.
The man ran, face contorted in fear.
I hugged Snowball, glad that my trust had found the right place.
Human deception– trumped by canine truth.
📖🐾✨🐶📝📚🐕🌟📖🐾✨🐶📝📚📖🐾✨🐶📝📚🐕🌟📖🐾✨🐶📝
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.
The studio was dark, its walls lined with lingering mildew. Faint static buzzed through its walls, a hungry sound.
Watching.
Eli Leong was within, speaking to and adoring female fan on an ending call line.
On the rotating console was an unmarked vinyl– it had appeared almost casually.
Humming.
Ready.
Rotating.
Amid the smoke of Eli’s cigarettes.
Waiting to spin.
🎵📻🎶🎧🎵💿🎶📀🎧📻🎵💿🎶🎵📻🎶🎧🎵💿🎶📀🎧📻🎵💿🎶
Eli Leong lived in the night–he was the silky voice millennals and Gen Zs turned to when they craved nocturnal addiction. His popularity gave him a cocky edge–his voice merged effortlessly with radiowaves. Few could resist their velvetine charm–even when it smothered like a too-warm blanket.
WRAE 103.3 FM squatted at the fringes of the town, an old relic with walls bathing in mildew. Its corridors bore the perturbing scent of formaldehyde under the musty cologne of cigarette smoke. The static emitted from its studios was silence waiting to scream.
August marked a time of rising unease in Singapore– a time when the spirits of the Dead graced the walls with unresolved angst.
It was also a time when Silky Smooth Eli started having company in the studio.
And it wasn’t wanted.
Whispers beneath music tracks. Self-looping playbacks. Barely audible, as if the static was breathing.
Then, an unmarked vinyl appeared on the turntable, playing deep breaths.
Not warm or comforting.
“Who’s with you? You’re my favourite DJ! In the studio?” A call from a jealous fan.
“Absolutely therapeutic. Please arrange for a return appearance.”
Eli was shagged; he hadn’t had a day off the night shift for months. He’s been vinyls without viewing their labels.
Days of plying empty studio corridors in the dead of the night were forming Crow’s Feet and laugh lines– public relations boo boos for a famous personality.
The breathing had escalated– in contrast to his show’s ratings.
But he was not one to keep adoring fans on edge.
He spun the unmarked vinyl one evening, hoping to trigger a rash of emotion– then, conversation.
The breathing transcended into urgent, overlapping breaths.
The phones rang off the hook– some lines dead when he answered, others with distorted pleas at the end.
He got off his chair and stepped away from the console.
And it would have been fine– except that he brought the grounded mike with him.
Seared firmly to his lips.
He had become part of their hunger– their constant need for attention.
His voice resonated in unending, silky echoes.
Melding with the static.
Like him.
Eli was now part of the studio’s insatiable appetite. His voice still flowed with radio waves, echoing with the static.
But there was uncanny–
Order. Amid the chaos.
Dead line calls began to drop off, and the relentless breathing quietened.
At least, for a short while.
His spirit trapped with the console, Eli came to a realisation– the studio’s spirits thrived on attention.
Not violence.
He was now its conduit– and captive.
He stepped back from the console, the mic refusing to leave his mouth.
Always humming.
Waiting for his silky voice.
🎵📻🎶🎧🎵💿🎶📀🎧📻🎵💿🎶🎵📻🎶🎧🎵💿🎶📀🎧📻🎵💿🎶
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Young Nara poised her fingers over the keys, ready to launch into a version of Beethoven’s Ode To Joy that was distinctly hers—modern, upbeat, unconventional–very impatient.
Nara was known for her divaesque displays–torn curtains and damaged floorboards remained, a testimony to her quick, sometimes violent temper.
The dark concert hall enveloped her. She was alone onstage, save for the dim yellow spotlight that danced on the black and white keys.
She began.
A crescendo of arpeggios in G enveloped the auditorium. She revelled in her magic—but her fingers hovered over the keys.
The notes were almost too ethereal — melding, harmonic—
Together. With a presence she hadn’t welcomed to rehearse with her.
One that was lingering too long, exacting pressure on the keys that complemented hers.
The arpeggios had ascended with chords finished by something else.
Her eyes flicked around the hall–she hadn’t arranged for an accompanist’s recording.
She hadn’t intended a harmonised sound for Ode to Joy. This resonated.
To her–off-key. She clenched her fists, ready to bang the ivories.
🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹
The eclectic, yet dissonant harmonies drew her to the hall for practice each night–an unseen hand tweaking and melding phrases with hers. Their contrast with her legato runs had a piercing edge–far sharper than she intended to deliver as a pianist.
Each legato returned to enwrap her, a blanket that was cold–not comforting.
The music intoxicated–she swayed with it in almost drunkenness.
The duets were at first routine—but her need for them grew.
And grew–becoming obsessive. Urgent.
She pressed the ivory keys–harder.
Haunted. Her silence was full.
Her ethereal notes were not lost on her audience–the harmonic layers even more prominent.
🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹
She was faithful to her practice sessions—her unseen partner just as dutiful. They came with musical highs and lows–unforced errors, too-loud legatos, and crescendoes that went off-key when they transcended scales. They were her guide–calming her trembling fingers, shaping notes when they needed sculpting.
Her inner diva shrunk—there was less need for a tuner to repair ravaged keys. The omnipresent being kept time with her—and reined in her temper.
🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹
The day of her grand performance dawned, along with rising anticipation and expectation. Nara had nurtured her soul and talent for this–nothing could fail.
She launched into an eclectic blend of legatos and staccatos–naughty notes that sneaked in when no one expected them in a performance of Ode to Joy. The echoes of her notes crescendo—they would rise with her , a duet with an omnipresent, invisible partner.
But they didn’t.
Just as Nara held the sustain pedal to bring the Ode to a thundering climax, there was nothing.
But–silence.
She paused, eyes flickering over the hundreds of pairs in the hall staring back at her.
Not. A. Single. Note.
Then, she broke the wait.
She had quiet power in her hands. Anticipation.
Nara’s fingers climbed the ascending steps of the scale with her ‘partner’—
Resonant.
Beautiful.
Confident.
She continued gracing the ivory keys with her fingers, notes rising to that climactic crescendo, vibrating and cajoling ivory keys—in a virtual duet.
And the missing echo became the loudest note. A silent accompanist.
🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹
Nara’s concert tour ended in calls of “encore” after every performance–calls generated by a humble accompanist who melded with the hall’s velvet curtains.
She never heard from him–or her–again.
But her fingers kept tracing the keys–each time as if their presence was in perfect sync.
Her crescendoes resonated to their peak, swelling like invitations — answered by an ever-growing audience.
She played for the echo that never abandoned her–it had stood, comfortable with her talent, in the shadows.
She graced every single performance–unlike the temperamental diva that once lay within.
The absent conductor continued to mould her sound.
🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹 🎵 🎶 🎼 🎹
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Today is I Love My Feet Day–and we could love them a little more.
After all, they are the unsung heroes of life’s journey.
We offer our gratitude for them, and the ground beneath.
👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣
They led me through
First steps, uncertain
Barefoot through the playground
Stumbling, balancing me.
👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣
They danced me through youth
Never rsting, always roaming
In ill-fitting shoes
Yet carried me–
To Being.
👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣
They donned leather shoes
That never tore
Through endless hours
Crossing thresholds
Of love–bearing loss.
👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣
Now they wear flats
Steady, sure,
Worn, not torn.
Hiding my journey’s calluses
And scars.
I ride in them
👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣
The carriage of Life’s journey
And place my heart
In thanks
When I-
Alight
In awe.
👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣👣
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
She grabbed the phone on the bedside table, her eyes bleary.
The number was too familiar. Her grandma.
But she’d been dead for months.
Her trembling fingers hovered over the answer button.
Fuzzy static.
A faint cough.
“Hope you’re doing well, grandma. But what you did–“
The phone went dead.
She checked her answering machine in the morning. Perhaps it wasn’t working. But there was no record of their call.
Just a blank screen, staring back at her.
Then, it hit. She needn’t have waited.
She hadn’t been waiting for her grandma’s voice. She’d been longing to hear her own.
🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯🦯
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 waves Touch My toes As I tread Notebook In hand Pen Hovers Like waves over sand. Waiting– to catch Time. ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️
The birds wings Flap Walkers Drift. As I do. Like them, I ask– Did I leave— Was I too– ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️
Fog Covers The waves I pause. Draw– A breath. The fog Rises Ever Slowly. ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️
It rises– Slowly– I wonder if He was— She touched— She? Him? What of— Me? What if? ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️
Did she? My best– Friend? ☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️☁️ ☁️ ☁️
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 