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November 17. Bells tolled all over Hatfield, not in triumph, but in foreboding.
Shadows strayed where sunlight could not reach.
Elizabeth stood alone in a tight cloak, feeling the weight of the crown she held– and its power.
And the eyes that watched from everywhere–and saw it all.
🖤👑🕯️
Dawn broke with a November chill over Hatfield. The soft tolling of bells ascended with the morning sun — not in victory, but with an ominous note of caution.
Queen Elizabeth’s gaze fell over the castle ramparts. She wrapped herself tighter in her cloak, not from the chill, but from the eyes — of someone unseen.
The pants of an anxious messenger were only too audible as he ran into the room.
“Your Majesty… Queen Mary. She’s… dead.”
A heavy silence consumed Elizabeth’s room.
A raven — typically tied to a pole in a corner of the castle gardens — flew to her window and perched.
A death call to the House of Windsor.
In her chambers, Elizabeth slipped the crown off her head. She gazed at its perfectly set jewels —
Each gleamed.
With glittery foreboding.
And the whispers from the afternoon court —
“A lone queen will succumb.”
Later, in bed,
the voice of her mother haunted her ears — and mind.
“Power costs blood…”
She shot up in bed. Catherine’s voice was too loud for sleep.
She trailed through the corridors of Windsor’s halls. Each step she took was heavy with memory.
And weight.
Of her mother. Of England.
The tapestries darted from one wall to the other, as if touched by someone —
Not her.
Not a courtier.
Not there.
Windsor was testing her mettle.
She turned to face the shadows and spoke.
“If this —” she held the crown — “is mine, then I’m your master.”
The room stilled. The shadows lined up to face her.
The raven cawed once, in a sharp, approving screech.
The messenger burst into her chambers once more.
He ran before her and knelt.
“Your majesty, the council believed you would decline the throne. They’ve prepared another successor.”
A figure entered — in a dark cloak.
Her successor.
It lifted its cloak.
Elizabeth stared herself in the face.
A perfect double.
Herself to fight.
She stepped forward, unafraid.
Her double bowed — in complete homage.
It didn’t just accept her — it revered.
🖤👑🕯️
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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 Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, EchoesIf 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!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
November rain knocked on the window and glass door of the Wits Cybercafe. The interior of the cafe combined with the month’s transitional energy; it smelled of cinnamon, damp clothes, and thick espresso.
Nancy noticed another scent—quiet competition.
The delicate pastries that Wits was known for were aligned in a complex jigsaw no one cared to fix.
Yes, the game was afoot.
Nancy wondered if anyone else had noticed the friendly rivalry in the air.
The cafe’s usual coffee-soaked clientele seemed to be part of an absurd contest—whether it was who could gulp their hot coffee the fastest or fold their napkin the quickest.
Every sip of coffee felt like an unspoken contest.
Nancy tested her theory, folding her napkin the wrong way on purpose.
Of course, her rivals applauded with extra zest.
A love song played as piped-in audio, defying the cafe’s competitive vibe.
A stranger’s eyes met hers.
Ready to incarcerate.
Put her on one of the cafe’s chopping boards.
A gaze that held both judgement and irresistible curiosity.
Had she broken an unwritten rule by mistake?
The games paused—a heartbeat suspended.
She sipped her coffee—
In triumphant gulps.
And finished the last with a satisfying burp.
Horrified gasps from her friendly rivals.
Grinning, Nancy swiped her lips with the back of her hand.
Horrified gasps.
But the same stranger gave her a nod of acknowledgement—she had won this round.
She left the cafe, victorious—but slightly confused.
The rain tapped on the windows, giving her a round of quiet applause.
Her triumph, though invisible—
Perfect.
Nancy-style.
🏆☕
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The wind’s breath chills Bringing whispers too cold to remain. A sliver of light within frosty dark. Silence in the trees—no chirping. Black darkness moves—against stillness. A shiver courses through my chest.
❄️
It comes— Every November, Lingering in the mind and soul, A call to the self— Creeping in to stay— If not heeded.
🍂
Leaves that drifted, Silhouettes that moved. A dance to shape the soul Their steps foretold— For me. For others.
👻
A ghost that haunts Every November Shadows trail its form Leaves call frosty names— If left unheard—ours.
🌌
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Meiling was the consummate superwoman–she was her father’s sole caregiver. Her mother, bless her soul, had passed peacefully a decade earlier.
Her apartment was silent, save for the incessant buzzing of phone reminders. Mei Ling lived and breathed a schedule–she had every task planned and accounted for.
But there was one thing she couldn’t fix–
That wall clock.
It had ceased along with her mother. The very day she died.
Time had stopped, but she refused to notice. Schedules were a grief mechanism–they were safer than unwanted memories. Rolodexes, none of which were about her.
So the clock waited, patient as time itself. The hands moved–with ticks that should not have been.
🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩👧👦✨
11:13 p.m. A barely discernible hum replaced her usual calm demeanour. Outside, the intermittent glow of a streetlight.– it made its way into the corridor.
But with bated breath.
The darkness stretched, eight minutes too long.
Then, seconds.
Punctuated by the same hum—
But louder.
Thudding under her skin, on her bones, syncing with the beat of her heart.
Growing more intense, under her skin.
A lullaby she had long since mired with the clock’s odd ticks. She hadn’t heard it since the clock stopped moving.
Familiar. Sung before.
🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩👧👦✨
Then, the light returned. The hands of every clock in Meiling’s apartment froze–
1:13.
Then, slow ticks.
Time moved–the wrong way.
Backward. Soft. Steady.
Every tick accused.
Her mobile pinged with a new voice mail.
Sent by her.
“You can’t schedule me.”
The past had stolen her voice.
🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩👧👦✨
The good daughter was desperate–she grabbed a clock and brought it to Mr. Tan, her estate’s clockmaker. He didn’t just sell clock off the shelf–
He gave them life.
After looking hers over, he went to the back room of his workshop–
And returned with a pocket watch.
“Here,” He thrust it into her hands.
She stared at its gold case.
It gleamed, as if speaking–or had feelings.
She looked at him, nonplussed.
“Time remembers,” was his cryptic answer.
Then, her eyes fell on the mirror behind him.
She looked at–
Herself. Years younger.
Happier.
Schedule-less.
Untouched by grief.
She stared at the pocket watch.
An eight-minute countdown.
Her reflection wasn’t haunting. It was waiting for her.
Eight minutes–to face herself.
🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩👧👦✨
With a deft move of both hands, Meiling smashed the clock– . Blood trickled down her knuckles.
The air in her apartment was still–consumed by silence.
The clocks started moving as they should–to 1:14 a.m.
Her young reflection smiled through tears in the mirror.
“I remember,” she whispered wanly.
Then, she knew.
Some clocks had to come apart before they could tick.
She had been haunting herself–with her schedules.
Her over-efficient ways.
Almost soulless.
Time had started again–and forgiven her.
She helped her father into the wheelchair—the old man smiled, and grasped her hand.
She was glad to hold it–at least, for now.
🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩👧👦✨
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
When obsession drowns out reason, only the voice remains.
🔊
Adrian Cho was accustomed to working on his own—the sound technician eliminated ambient noise whenever he could. The shuffling of feet or sudden bumps would disrupt his work.
He was in an abandoned shophouse that fateful night, working out audio kinks for a new film. Old shophouses came with echoes—not Adrian’s favourite place to work. Floorboards creaked—unsurprising, since these places were generally weatherbeaten.
So, when murmurs started sounding through the floorboards, he merely passed them over as “age.”
Until they started to mimic his voice.
In whispers too close to thought.
Echoes that should not have been.
And he hadn’t been speaking—not one word.
Ever the stoic sound engineer, Adrian dutifully recorded the sounds over the next few days—they HAD to do with the structure.
But the playbacks were—
ODD.
They revealed something new—each and every time.
Pealed laughter.
Muted whispering.
Then—confessions he made—only in his mind.
Chopped sentences covered in static.
About the dalliances his wife never knew about.
The dissatisfaction with his marriag
But each replay mangled reality—
each more distorted.
Sleep be came an elusive bedfellow—more estranged than his wife.
His logic began to crumble under the sound. Isolating the source of the recordings was the only thing he could think of.
On a sleepless night, the sound almost drove Adrian deranged. He ripped the floorboards apart to confront the incessant murmuring.
No untoward creature, no sentient being.
Just a recording.
Labelled with his name.
He pressed the recorder’s “play” button.
Shrieks from beyond filled the room.
The sound of himself, unmade.
In his voice—one he hardly knew existed.
The uncanny shrieks were loud enough to prompt neighbours to take action.
The police later scoured his apartment—
emptiness louder than fear.
Silence that consumed.
His equipment, running.
An officer heard the playback on the recorder.
A distended voice mixed with static.
“Adrian, stop.”
Adrian was wanted—and listened.
By his mind, or himself—for him to know.
🔊
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
When life and space seem empty, hope and renewal happen.
🌌🚉🌌
Twilight dawns, the platform stands— Empty. Even the tiles breathe slow. The schedule board blinks, an eye refusing to close. A sweet wrapper’s slow dance in the draft, A vending machine’s guttural hum. Soft footsteps in the distance, an unwanted memory.
🌫️✨🌫️
Half-drunk coffee, newspapers read. A lilac scarf lingers on its arm, Drifting in the wind. Every object, a person in haste. November’s platform—in darkness. Unlit.
🌧️🚉🌧️
My steps slow with the train’s chug— Her missed graduation. Mama, in bed, unseen. His violin recital. Each memory station a reminder, A rest stop.
🍂🕰️🍂
The station alit, quiet. The empty platform serves— To rebuild. Renew. Old memories vague— Yet a part Of each turnstile.
🌙🚦🌙
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The Berlin Wall fell this day, November 9th, 1989.
It took just one night for its pieces to shatter.
The walls that surround hearts can take a lifetime to break.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
50-year-old Thomas Weiss stood before a crumbling wall, wielding a hammer he wasn’t sure he wanted to use. His wife, Hannah, and twin sons had resided in the free zone for years–because she wanted to.
The wall had come down in 1989–ten years to this day. The shattered pieces lay on the ground, waiting to come together.
Thomas wondered if they would–but some walls sealed hearts.
And stood taller.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
Youngsters still came to hack at the bricks that hadn’t yet given way, breaking out in raucous hollers as they did.
Thomas watched them, his memories more dislodged with each blow of the hammer. Each cheer he heard felt like an accusation—like Hannah’s last words to him.
He wasn’t sure he envied the wall for coming down.
Before he slammed the door of the family home–sharper than the barbed wire that accompanied the bricks.
A young man spotted him standing, still in a reverie. He stretched out his hand–a small piece of the wall lay in his palm.
Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t sure if it was just unwanted history coming apart, or a piece of his own heart.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
His wife appeared amidst the dust and fallen wall splinters.
Older.
Strange.
The shadow of the wall that was, stood between them–too real.
Freedom felt foreign–the hardest reunions were the ones one didn’t prepare for.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
He dropped his hammer, the crowd’s joy flooding over him. He and Hannah didn’t embrace–but stood together.
Breathing the air of freedom for the first time–
In decades.
Their unity had begun—in silence.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
As dawn broke, the wall had nearly crumbled completely. The crowd had vanished, save for a few stragglers.
The bricks had come apart in just one night in 1989. His peace with Hannah would take a lifetime of rebuilding.
The Berlin wall had finally fallen. The one in his heart–still solid brick.
And had to shatter–within.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
On this balmy November day, all of us stand beneath skies that have seen storms–but remember our voices amid the loud roar of thunder.
We are the palm trees–we bend, straighten, sometimes lose a few branches when there are storms in our lives–but we reach our own rhythm.
Our dance goes on despite the rain.
🌿🌊🌤️
My palm fronds dance in the wind
Watch kites kiss the sky
Tasting the metallic air–
Hearing, knowing, but not listening.
🌬️🪁🍃
They sense the tumult of the clouds–
The world in chaos, deer running.
The whoosh of wind and sands shift
My branches bend.
🌪️🦌🍂
The faint smell of sea salt
From waves that poured over.
But my tattered trunk remains.
My seeds sprout on new soil.
🌱🌊☀️
The calm blue sky returns–
My fronds sway in a new dance.
They feel the sea’s breeze as they traipse.
Hearing–and knowing their whisper.
🌤️🍃🌊
Yet I stand, listening, still dancing,
Knowing when to bend
And when to straighten
To my tune.
🌿🌬️🌞
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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 