Reading. A habit that the bibliophile in me has never been able to vanquish.

So when I came across an antiquated title entitled The Captive Reader in the corner bookstore, my curiosity was naturally piqued. The bookseller termed it The Most Captivating Book One Would Ever Read. His face beamed with suspicious relief when I bought it.

I made it my bedtime reading that night. I forgot supper. The messages on my mobile went unanswered. 

I was captivated.

So captivated that I reached the ending — after perusing almost a thousand pages — at 2:13 a.m. in the morning.

The final phrase of the book — 

The most captivating of all — 

Now write.

I chuckled. But…

My laptop blinked unceremoniously.

A blank document opened.

I closed it.

It opened again.

I closed it again. 

It opened with a bigger browser window.

I closed that window.

It opened ten browsers.

I slammed the laptop shut. 

Then, an irritated click.

Then I heard…

Instructions. 

Write Chapter One.

I was never any good at obeying directives. They grated. 

So I refused it.

The lights flickered angrily.

I wasn’t too happy about being pushed around by a book. But I didn’t want one becoming my electrician. So…

I reluctantly typed a sentence. 

The lights came on. 

So I started to experiment. 

Whenever I stopped typing, the lights would flash like Zeus was in one of his tempers. Or the coffee pot would percolate by itself.

I got so fed up that I tore a page.

And then…

The printer began to spit ink.

Rude editorial comments.

Weak opening! 

Cliché! Cliché!

And that proverbial slap in a writer’s face?

Show. Don’t tell.

Type.

Tear.

Type.

Tear.

Type.

Tear twice.

I started a full-blown book-gument. 

By sunrise, I was…

Out of words.

So I typed — 

THE END.

And everything — 

Stopped.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

But the printer, enraged, started to whir. 

It spat a freshly bound book into the tray.

With the title — 

The Captive Writer.

Book One of Eight. 

I stared at the seven blank documents opening simultaneously. 

Oh yes. I had been biblio-napped. 

Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt

.

FulfilFent was a town where everything had to have — 

A purpose.

A reason for being.

The little township had an established Department of Purpose which examined possessions yearly.

A chair? For sitting.

A book? For reading.

Ornaments? For anything more than mere decoration.

Young goblin Milo arrived, bearing his grandfather’s old key. No one knew what it opened.

Then there was the key.

That didn’t seem to open anything.

Purposeless.

The Department confiscated it.

Its officials tried it on everything.

Doors.

Drawers.

Chests.

“Everything must have a purpose!” A flummoxed inspector declared.

Then — 

Click.

The key turned — 

To him.

And a tiny compartment in him abruptly opened.

The department decreed that it warranted investigation.

They tested it on:

Bakers.

Teachers.

Even — 

The Mayor.

Everything had a compartment—a neat label.

Then, they tested Milo. Who contained — 

Nothing.

Who panicked frantically. What was he for?

Then he remembered — 

No one had given him any.

He winced, then smiled. Perhaps being was purpose.

For now.

Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.

The gargoyles blew back, wings extended in triumph, to Father Primwell after the night’s sordid inspection.
One of them, Clutch of the Grotesque Claw, had a rather sombre report for the rest.
“The townsfolk are starting to lose their grip.”
“Oh, I see,” Fr. Primwell nodded sagely. How could he account to the Bishop if the people lost their moral fibre?
“What did they do?” He questioned Clutch with a raised eyebrow.
“Their grip is slipping. They drop - ” Clutch paused with dramatic seriousness. “Things.”
“Things?” Fr Primwell furrowed his brow, puzzled. Then, he shrugged. Perhaps people were getting - 
Clumsy.

Our zealous gargoyles started improving everyone’s grip while they were - 
Asleep.
Perchwick’s citizens rose each morning with extraordinary hand strength.
And the improvements made an indelible mark on everyday life.
Mugs stayed in hands - 
Permanently.
Pencils snapped in half.
Door handles broke.
People shook hands - 
And left without them.
Everyone admired one another’s newfound confidence.

The good Father Primwell began to receive reports of the gargoyles - 
Unquestioning discipline.
The humble parish priest realised that what they believed to
“get a grip” was - 
To get one.
The gripping conclusion.
And a humble catch phrase had become - 
A moral statute.

The gargoyles reported yet another successful campaign.
But good Father Primwell didn’t praise them - 
Yet.
Because the townsfolk still couldn’t release their mugs - 
Pencils - 
And bars of soap which they couldn’t abandon while showering.
They needed to learn not to hold tighter - 
But to let go.

Instead the gargoyles tightened their grip—

Everywhere.

Their approach?

Enquiry expansion.

More inspections.

Increased observations.

Increased evidence.

At hand was a town-wide crisis.

So the campaign reached all corners of Perchwick.

It involved not just people.

But homes.

Offices.

Shopping malls.

The expansion soon reached fever pitch.

They fortified their grip —

On family life.

Friendships.

Responsibility.

The definition of ‘grip’ broadened.

It became a universal principle.

And increasingly literal.

Life in Perchwick became —

Inconvenient.

Not dangerous. Just —

Gripping.

They held on to stop signs.

Gripped one another’s hair.

Gripped one another’s shoulders.

And formed conga lines.

Dear Fr Primwell soon discovered that expansion had to include—

Wisdom.

Understanding.

Its reach had to broaden.

Judgment had to be —

Balanced.

A good grip — and moral solidification —

Did not have to include everything.

Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.

A man dismisses an anonymous warning—until every knock proves someone knows exactly where he is.

Daniel found his way home after a long day of dodging well-meaning teachers. 

On the kitchen table lay a single, yellow sticky note that no one in his dysfunctionally disorganised family would have left 

In unhurried, careful handwriting.

Obvious.

Cryptic.

Thoughtful.

“Whatever happens, don’t answer the door. “

There was no signature. Not from anyone in his scatterbrained family.

Daniel chortled and crumpled the short directive. 

It didn’t matter who left the note.

The person was wasting a precious resource.

TIME.

Curiosity eventually overcame his scepticism.

Daniel had to know who left that annoying note.

He questioned neighbours.

Badgered family.

 Scoured the patio.

Nothing could explain the mysterious sticky note. 

Building security showed that nobody had entered the apartment. 

The explanation had to be logical.

Rational.

A burglar.

The landlord. 

The cat. 

All surely explained the note’s ambiguity. Reason invented excuses faster than fear could explain them

Then — 

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Slow. But sure. Every explanation collapsed with the next knock.

No one.

But the silence seemed louder than words.

The knocking continued. 

On the front door.

The back door.

The bedroom window. 

The lights went on and off in uncanny sync.

Daniel, convinced that someone was playing him for a fool, peered outside the window.

He didn’t care who left that note.

Before he opened the door, Daniel noticed something on the reverse side of the note. 

He flipped it over. 

A second, more cryptic sentence. 

“It learns who ignores warnings.”

No more knocks.

Total silence.

Daniel smirked.

 “Nice try.”

The bedroom door

 Slowly.

 Swung.

Shut.

Another note. 

On the bed. 

Daniel picked up the picture, fingers trembling. 

“I left the first note. You should have believed yourself.”

Then a recognisable scent.

A familiar voice.

“Unlike me.”

He spun around wildly.

And framed by the doorway — 

Himself.

 With a knowing smile.

Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.