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City folks exhausted by routine. Figures moving through streets and parks, half-forgotten. Shadows hover strangely when no one watches.
When no one pays attention.
Attention that, when neglected, should be reclaimed–before things change.
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Lina was the quintessential workhorse—she cared for nothing but the daily grind. She’d taken enough from a boss who wanted more than she could deliver—all she wanted was home, and to soak in a bubble bath of kindness.
The park was empty of visitors, leaving only lamplight that bent oddly around puddles of rain for company. The air was cool—so cool that shadows hesitated or lingered, almost as if they found the ground repugnant.
Lina trod the usual path, her bagpack slung carelessly, her eyes glued to the cracked pavement. Something at the periphery of her vision twitched—perhaps a passerby in a sonic hurry. Or likely a flickering shadow, drifting out of place. She blinked it and flitted out of sight.
A puddle rippled—no wind blew. A leaf hovered in midair, remaining a second too long. Lina snapped her head. The figure appeared at the corner of her eye again, teased by the light.
Precise.
Too exact.
She turned right. It did too. She turned left. It did too. It mimicked every step she took. The light of a park lamp hovered over her, shining on distended shadows that stretched in ways that tightened her stomach.
She stopped. It did too.
She stepped forward—it moved first.
Her pulse raced. Each of her instincts screamed that she had a mimic—one that tested and teased, floundering at the edges of her perception. Reality shivered.
Her movements—no longer hers.
She managed to leave the park. The pavement leading from it was familiar — yet out of place. The corners had taken on a razor-like quality that seemed to brush against her skin with ominous fingers. Shadows hung over her—too long. The air bore an uncanny memory of what once was.
She couldn’t unsee—it. It echoed every twitch, every glance with uncanny synchrony.
Something had shaped her awareness during those moments. Not in the best way.
She breathed, at last, at a normal rate. But her shoulder twitched, and it did too. It glanced towards unseen corners—together with her.
The street before here echoed the impossible rhythm. The shadow had consumed the edge of her attention.
That she had been too busy to give.
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Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
Has the unnoticed waited for you before? Feel free to share!
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Hey, it’s the day of the Blood Moon…one of horror… for those with lingering feelings.
Or an old soldier with lingering feelings for battles that once were.
But let’s remind him–we’re never too damned old to think of something new.
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“I’m too young to feel this damned old.”
Alone, in a rundown backyard that hadn’t been tended in years. The sky was–a thing of beauty. Blood seemed to trickle from the weeping willow of a moon–echoes of the heart. A cold breeze graced the neck–wonder if it remembered. The sky was too alive–that Garth song wanted it tamed.
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Sounds of what seemed like gunfire–or a military drill at a nearby airbase. Then, bright, vibrant sparks consumed the skyscape.
Flashes in the sky, or just tricks of the mind, triggered by a moon in blood red?
The mind certainly whirred—a comrade-in-arms, cut down by tracer fire. The night burned, along with the flames in the sky.
The echo of boots on wet metal was all too audible. A single red streak across an endless black canvas. The piercing whistle of the cold wind, meeting its fire. Back on the ridge, twenty-three, hollow…and that Garth Brooks song.
Dragging a fractured mind forward to an unwanted time.
Echoing.
“I’m too young to feel this damned old.”
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But old it was. The body had started creaking a few months back. A haunted mind –pitch black, against the flaming orange sparks of gunfire that once were.
That once were.
The orange sparks danced. The heart still aches–too painful.
That could never be again. But these creaking legs still carry an old man wanting his guns.
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Yes. Too young to feel this damned old.
The moon above was bleeding–too much–and the same blood trickled from my ribs. Bullets lodged during two tours of Korea and one of Vietnam.
Ones missed–too strangely.
The orange sparks blended with the stars, becoming a flickering Van Gogh canvas–a poignant reminder of the comrades left behind.
The sky didn’t care. The song still played—faint. Too true.
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Two tours of Korea. One of Vietnam.
Still here.
Still counting the countless stars years younger than the frame.
A frame still younger than the dead.
The moon in the sky still bleeds..and Garth Brooks still haunts.
Too young to feel this damned old.
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.
Its silent gaze pressed on Janine’s ears, shrinking their calls.
Todd stared at it through the window, a picture of calm.
Too calm, like he already expected him.
Janine, meanwhile, noticed little things in the house—
Not in sync.
Lights flickered, fickle sparks in the night air.
Her phone froze, responding dutifully to the sirens’ calls.
Everything in the home jittered in disharmony, refusing her rhythm.
Heeding a will not her own.
Todd drew the being close.
Too close.
The figure drew his spirit, almost locking him in.
The young preteen whispered about what he shouldn’t know at his age-almost to an intimate, imaginary friend.
The figure whispered into his bones, carrying the weight of memory.
A weight–unlearned. The branches of the trees in the garden swayed, bending to the windows, as if responding to a conductor–
The figure in the backyard.
Todd’s knowledge, untamed, began to corrode.
He lifted his head.
And turned.
The air hummed where the figure still stood.
Angry. Edgy.
Janine’s phone froze, responding dutifully to the sirens’ calls.
The backyard tenant was closer each time Janine looked away.
Not moving.
Always nearer, though she never saw it move.
It collapsed distance–still.
Neighbour’s eyes peeked, on edge, from behind the curtains,
Waiting.
Then, Janine knew.
The civil readiness drills weren’t meant to protect–they were coined to foster obedience.
Conformity.
To a being that defined–for others.
And, like clockwork, the neighbours stepped into their backyards.
Walking in perfect sync to the movement of its arms.
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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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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
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.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 