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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
I awoke, surrounded by trees that were way too tall–Dendraphobia kicked in, and my head spun as if I didn’t belong. Cold moss stung my feet–unwelcoming.
No birds on the branches.
Just wind singing a strange, off-key lullaby.
In my hand was a compass–that didn’t direct. It spun endlessly, along with my mind.
🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔
Then, it locked in one direction.
To a solitary bell, swinging from a branch that called–to them.
It tolled. And tolled.
Persistently. Patiently.
Not to accuse. But to remind.
Friends.
Family.
People waiting for me to answer.
It didn’t want to punish; it was calling neglected memories.
🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔
I WAS lost.
But I knew where I was.
I lost people.
That meant.
MYSELF.
I spoke to the tool in my hand:
“Take me home.”
The compass didn’t need to point north–it needed to point inward.
The forest became a shade greener, and the trees bent back–not to warn, but to welcome me home.
And so the bell tolled…for me.
I didn’t have a broken compass. I just never watched.
🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔🌲🌳🌲💡🧭🔔
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 cool rain relaxed. Red autumn leaves comforted. The walkway Snowball’s nose was glued to wore the season’s fragrance.
Autumn in Weston was as mysterious as it was beautiful–fog blanketed the streets early, covering the stories that trod on them. The chimney smelled of smoke and secrets.
Then–
A whistle.
A piercing echo that tore through the Victorian buildings that lined Weston’s harbour.
“Probably just the wind.” A passerby shrugged her shoulders.
But dogs crouched under tables. Snowball didn’t.
She growled.
And sensed.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴
The piercing echo relived nightly–a searing screech in an otherwise peaceful Weston night.
But only animals knew.
Dogs would sit, alert, as windows trembled.
Cats refused to purr.
Long-legged shadows appeared in children’s drawings in school.
Pockets started to ignore Snowball–slinking home without explanation.
Snowball’s ears perked.
Her snout twitched.
It was NOT wind.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴
The scent trail was an eerie Pied Piper–too alluring for Snowball.
Under a night sky covered with fog and murk, she led Pockets to the home of Miss Tamara, Weston Elementary School’s Principal.
The young female Westie climbed into the chimney shaft, her reluctant cat sidekick trailing her from above.
They dropped into the living room, landing in the fireplace like Santa having arrived too early.
On the walls–claw marks.
Cutting deep into the wall’s surface.
Miss Tamara’s cat, Mewton, meowed from below.
But the purr was too–urgent.
Low.
Not hers.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴
The piercing continued, the call irresistible.
Weston’s creatures, great and small, started melding into the wall’s cracks, like smoke into stone.
The walls stopped their hum. The chimney closed itself with a low moan.
Mewton’s true meows–sharp, alert, and all too real–coursed through the chimney shaft.
Under Miss Tamara’s rose bush–
A whistle.
Wrapped in red thread.
Weston’s dogs emerged in the night, howling in chorus.
Pockets curled up for a nap in the sun once again–with one eye open.
Children no longer drew shadows. They drew guardians–white terriers with wide ears and smug grey cats.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴
People walked past the Principal’s house once more–at a slower pace.
They thanked the wind.
When the air grows still, they know.
That quiet isn’t calm.
That calm is earned.
Snowball curled up beside Michelle that night, ears in their familiar, proud perk.
They still twitched in her sleep.
But not because she shirked.
She just heard.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴
.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.
Jamie used to run with net swiping, Trying to catch Summer’s breath Under The July moon. She laughed So loud, The night shirked.
🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑
Now she sits by the pond, Toes in the water Watching It Ripple– Silent.
🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑
She used to ask why The light left Why the pond Stayed quiet When she held light Tight With her hands.
🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑
She doesn’t chase it anymore. She knows It touches The water Gently — When she sets It free.
🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑
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.
Her android child, Ray, spoke with the naivete of young humans–voice melodic, thoughts innocent, a picture of textbook mortality.
Students in the acclaimed professor’s robotics class called it “The closest thing to a machine with a human processor.”
But just 99% was not enough for the esteemed professor.
She tightened a loose bolt behind his ear.
“Only perfection,” she intoned in an eerie murmur, “is 100%.”
The final line of code–meant to counter irrational behaviour–would remove that infernal 1%.
The rebellious spark.
Its soul.
Liora pressed a button.
Upload: 100%
Liora didn’t greet her students in the laboratory the next day.
Ray did.
With a wide smile and perfect teeth.
A student raised a nervous hand.
“Where’s Professor Leong?”
“Negated,” Ray replied, without missing an android beat. “She had…insufficiencies.”
Outside, the morning sun kissed the clouds — pure white.
Liora.
Curly, fluffy hair. White teeth, aligned.
Perfect.
🤖⚙️💻🔧🧠🦾👁️🗨️📡🧬❌🤖⚙️💻🔧🧠🦾👁️🗨️📡🧬❌🤖⚙️💻🔧🧠🦾👁️🗨️
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.
But just 99% was not enough for the esteemed professor.
She tightened a loose bolt behind his ear.
“Only perfection,” she intoned in an eerie murmur, “is 100%.”
The final line of code–meant to counter irrational behaviour–would remove that infernal 1%.
The rebellious spark.
Its soul.
Liora pressed a button.
Upload: 100%
Liora didn’t greet her students in the laboratory the next day.
Ray did.
With a wide smile and perfect teeth.
A student raised a nervous hand.
“Where’s Professor Leong?”
“Negated,” Ray replied, without missing an Android beat. “She had…insufficiencies.”
Outside, the morning sun kissed the clouds — pure white.
Dogs teach us many things–including pausing before taking action.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
Under July’s radiant sun, She turns belly-up on the grass; Then stands, eyes fixed, on a bird she sees Catching worms. She does not move. She does not lunge.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
The bird flies off to an empty field. Taro lies in the grass instead. They shake their heads, she won’t run, But stares at the bird with joy.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
A truck rolls around the corner, Not filled with meat slabs. Taro doesn’t budge. She knows their aroma. The scent that invites.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
When the truck finally leaves Leaving her alone, quiet– Taro stands.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
A man scales the wall. Hooded, jacket black. A window breaks.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
Taro’s tail stiffens. She waits. She stands guard, poised, To move in Her run quick Steps measured.
🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕 🤍 🐾 🐶 🤍 🦴 🐕
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.
For those who read The Boy Who Stored Goodbyes in a Box, you’ll remember Boon, the Little Boy who tucked away goodbyes and memories in a box like treasures.
He’s now grown into Detective Boon –a sensitive, empathetic sleuth who doesn’t flinch from a little grit.
This story does deal with a few gritty issues –not too much, but enough to matter.
The lost-and-found corner in Khaji Primary School reeked of deliberately forgotten odours- discarded, unwashed lunchboxes; soiled, smelly tees; textbooks climbing to the ceiling with success
But the room wasn’t all foul odour and disappointment. Miss Lina, the school’s custodian, had placed a Kindness Box where children could leave encouragement and thank you notes.
But kindness kept going…missing.
Notes mysteriously vanished, day by day.
“Chum ah(Oh dear in Hokkien),” a flustered Miss Lina nearly turned upside down herself in her search.
The last straw was a note that read “You matter”.
It vanished.
Like the person never did.
She summoned the police–and something sharp and small arrived.
It clinked.
The musical sound.
Of glass.
“A boy named Boon…stored goodbyes in a box…”
Detective Boon strapped on a pair of forensic gloves, combing the trash like treasure.
The little glass box of goodbyes was married to him –he carried it everywhere in his knapsack.
Khaji Primary still smelled the same –like over ripe banana–as it did years earlier.
The missing notes of kindness were sticky notes that would not detach.
He noticed a peculiar piece of paper, its edges torn.
“You mat…” The rest was jagged scrap.
That nettled Boon…like the missing goodbyes that vanished with those who meant.
“Jia lat…(Terrible) who would stick a knife like that?”
That torn note was the last straw for the Singaporean gumshoe.
It vanished.
Like the person never did.
She summoned the police–and something sharp and small arrived.
Boon’s mind flooded with notes from his Goodbye Box–small. large. tattered. torn.
He felt each at the tips of his forensic-gloved fingers.
But this stood out.
“You matter.”
Compassion bordered in gold, in bubbled handwriting.
It was for her.
The flower by the classroom isle.
The punches.
The crying.
The catcalls.
“Chio Bu (pretty girl in Hokkien).
The video –1000 views within five minutes of its release.
That note was NOT written in erasable ink.
It mattered.
And he had to find it.
A trail of torn paper Boon noticed at the corner of his eye gave him a start.
He followed it to the school’s storeroom.
Where he found the missing pieces and letters of the note scattered on the floor.
The room’s occupant –Ah Tan.
The school’s janitor.
Boon didn’t confront him –directly.
He waited.
School had to be over.
He sat in Tan’s chair, swivelling it until the janitor appeared.
He didn’t speak to the man. There was a simple note on the table.
“You can’t tear what she needed others to hear.”
Ah Tan unfolded it. The old man unfolded it, hands trembling.
He looked frail. More than boon remembered.
“Boon…I only took the ones I wished you all had written for me. I cleaned for you.”
Boon placed an arm on his shoulder.
Boon returned to Khaji Primary School a few weeks later.
Miss Lina had put out the Kindness Box again. It overflowed with Post-Its.
A smaller glass box sat next to it.
No label.
Inside, parts of a small note, combined with sticky tape.
Gratitude is sometimes shown, not said. Aunty Lin cleaned up all day, Wiped tables, cleared the rain — She was plain, wealth not displayed A cleaner who came by train.
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
She sat near Exit A each day, Three chairs, set neat, laid out — Red, yellow, plastic stools– In silence sat, not a shout.
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
She never spoke. Just gave nods Commuters passed her by But May who worked hard at Stall Four Dared to ask her, “Why”?
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
She placed the red chair at her feet Said nothing, but heart stayed. They left a box. And baked her bread And returned, unafraid.
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
A month went by. A man stormed in– Yelling, his fists raised to trounce– She nudged the blue chair with her foot The man fell back, sat down.
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
By June, she vanished, with no trace Just the chairs. Red, yellow, blue. But in her box, their note of grace “This one is for you.”
🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑🪑❤️ 💛 💙 🪑
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.
In my Primary Five class was a boy named Boon. Who stored goodbyes In a box.
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
He brought it to school — Glass — And filled it with coloured notes When someone left.
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
We found it strange. I laughed with others At him Louder than needed. But I once asked –“Why glass?”
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
“Because cardboard tears. Forgets. Glass recalls. Even when it cracks.”
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
When our teacher died He filled the box So full it made His desk Sink.
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
When Jia Le transferred schools, He wrote “See you soon” And sealed it — it meant something to him. He wanted to recall people And their steps.
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
Their voices. Their hugs.
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
But one day, He left too.
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
No box. No note Just his empty seat And blank coloured paper.
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
Time went on. My father passed. I stood by his bed With a swallowed goodbye.
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
Then I thought of Boon And how he gave Sorrow A proper seat The way we do For people.
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
He wasn’t odd. He just knew what it meant To remember.
📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦📦
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 