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Some curiosities are carved in stone—and they never forget.
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The boys scrambled across the rocks of the cavern, wet from the rising tide. The smell of hewn stone pervaded the air—dust waiting to be returned to life.
The walls had taken on a luminous sheen—more vibrant than they should have been after thousands of years. Carvings of livestock—bison, horses, stags—had been etched mid-stride, as if the animals were unaware of being stalked. The sound of echoing hooves.
No one was moving.
A nervous chuckle seemed to come from Marvin, one of the inquisitive teens. “Look—it’s like they’re watching us.”
The others exchanged hesitant glances, then turned their heads to him. They were silent.
For too long.
“Marvin,” Nicholas had furrows on his brow.
And those furrows weren’t typical.
The laughter echoed around the cavern.
“Did you just laugh?”
“It wasn’t me,” He swore. But his face had contorted into a too-wide grin.
One he tried to control—vainly.
Then, the walls stirred.
Shadows rippled around the bison’s hooves. They pounded in echo—but nothing moved.
The carvings shimmered in the light of the boys’ lanterns—as if the creatures had noticed.
The hooves echoed—faster.
The boys tried to stand, gripping the stones around them a little too hard.
“Hello?” Nicholas’s question bore a panicked ring.
“Hello!” An echo—not Nicholas’ voice.
Then—fur. On the hooves of the etched bison.
The bison’s muscles.
Twitching.
The paintings on the wall turned.
Antlers poised.
At the boys.
Who wanted to know—too much.
The boys quickly backed out of the cavern. As they did, the bison returned to their etched poses.
Heard.
The tide receded—but the hooves still pounded, for those who dared to listen.
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Have you known curiosity to stir the bison, figuratively? Do share in the comments.
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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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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
This day. September 10th in 1960, is the day marathon runner Abebe Bikila completed and won the marathon in Rome–with no shoes.
Each step we take–each footfall tells a tale of struggle and hope. This journey is one of bare feet–one of resilience and hope. And each of us has a pair.
We can do it–with bare feet.
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Bare feet
Tread on vacant lanes
Rough.
Too wide
Asphalt.
Searing.
Bare
feet
Open
Cut
Hardened
Yet hesitant
Poised to run.
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Lines
On Skin
Deepen.
My heartbeat quickens
Then slows.
Spirit wills
Yet wails.
Finish line
Near yet
A blur sketch
Distant.
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Cuts
On skin
Fester.
My mind filled
But blackened
Dark.
Painful steps
Callused.
Trod by unseen souls.
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Line
Crossed.
Victory
Not sweet
But sought.
Fought.
Bare feet.
Cut
But formed.
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A road
Run
As one
Who will come.
The bare feet
Owned by
All.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
So it is that the town of Wilkinson gathered to celebrate the sacrifices of those who cared for those who ran towards flames or pain.
Sirens wailed–not for safety, but empty celebration. The confetti little ones in the audience at the town’s stadium fell to its floor in heaps of ash.
The parade was in full swing– cars drove by with garish clowns staring out the window. Jugglers on pogo sticks smiled twisted smiles as they tossed tennis balls in the air.
Confetti ash stuck to spectators’ hands as they waved their party favours. In the middle of the third row, a mask slipped–a child’s gaze felt–
Hollow.
Vacant.
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The marches began–armed service platoons, and paramedics, now on a different duty. They marched well.
Too well. Too timed. Their boots struck the pavement in a march too stoic–one beyond dignity.
A metallic tang rode the air, filling it with an almost bloodlike taste.
Where there was none.
The crowd started to shift in their seats. Little children eyed the passing clowns, not with laughter or smiles, but stares, locked in place.
Siren calls distorted–the crowd snapped its heads in their direction.
In perfect sync.
Unthinking.
And the marchers lagged behind the music–not under its guidance, but the metronome of another.
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The metallic tang thickened, more and more akin to blood. The confetti ash stuck to everyone’s hair, greying each member of the crowd.
A crowd of dedicated to service.
One which continued its mechanical cheers.
Then, one of the marchers faltered out of step. His mask slipped.
His face–sunken. Pale. Stoic.
Features affixed.
The crowd soon followed his falter, their masks dutifully slipping.
To the same, unseen rhythm.
Their faces–his.
Sunken. Pale. Stoic.
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Silence.
The group of marchers and the crowd stayed still.
As one.
Staring.
At —
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When a march like this begins, would you follow, or strip off the mask? Do answer in the comments!
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Which object in your life has been a witness to change or loss, yet remained?
Do reply in the comments!
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
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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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
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.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 