That’s what Tim and James Wright wanted to do for theirs.
And their hands, worn from breaking locks.
Wielding knives and spilling blood.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
In the wee hours before dawn broke, the brothers wheeled their hot air balloon into an industrial lot.
It was a tattered balloon held together only by repairs and regret.
A place they thought was forgotten.
A place where only silence collected.
But shapes of old mistakes rose from the tar, floating between the cracks.
The balloon remained upright, but the ground rooted their past.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
The balloon rose, hesitant, quivering.
But their feet stayed on the gravel, along with their heavy hearts.
The ground and the world wanted what the brothers owed.
Shadows whirled around them, refusing to yield.
They exchanged looks again — acknowledging the cost of freedom.
The balloon, patched and worn, sagged.
Tired of waiting.
The brothers’ past always behind them.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
The silhouette in the shadows grew longer.
Steps echoed across the gravel, purposeful and steady.
Precise. Patient.
Yanking the ropes firmly.
The balloon couldn’t rise.
The Past couldn’t leave—
It had come.
And would not relent.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
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Disappointment comes unexpectedly, a crack in a mirror you thought wouldn’t shatter. We race to pick up the shattered shards, grasping in the dark.
The search is painful.
But sometimes, when we dare to face their blinding light, we realise they can be merged into a stronger mirror.
Reinforced glass has great strength.
✨🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨
The looking glass Throws light that blinds Searching eyes–
Only soften
Glass on hand- Touchable-
When we seek to mend.
🪞🪞🪞🪞🪞
They cannot close– Deep disjointed rifts
Forever parted
Scattered in pieces An endless quest In unlit corners.
🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤
The looking glass Throws light that blinds Searching eyes–
Only soften
Glass on hand- Touchable-
When we seek to mend.
🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧
A wondrous mosaic Against a pressing wall–
But the glass shines— Its jagged forms gleam-
Combined.
✨🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Marina Chua was the classic wallflower—at 34, she was perpetually passed over, whether at work or at home.
Home was just as overlooked. After all, no one noticed abandoned terrace houses.
It had a memory like a sieve. One that sorted the maize from the chaff. The essential from the inconsequential.
Even the hallway seemed to erase her, as if the house chose who it wanted to retain–or dispose.
Everyone knew the drab, cookie-cutter house on the street—they didn’t bother with them.
But there was one room that no one remembered existed.
A room. Where shadows swallowed sound. It forgot people, including Marina—but never the walls.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
It was just another weekend. One Marina spent, as usual, unnoticed- in life, or in love.
Blending in with the walls of the home – and the room.
Being the must-be-in-order administrative assistant that she was, she decided that it was time for a little decluttering.
She started with the room few remembered – that she seldom did herself.
As she started sorting items –
They shifted.
Appearing.
Disappearing.
The house seemed to be misplacing her – like an old receipt.
Her mobile began to forget her passwords and encrypted fingerprints.
The walls and floorboards whispered names that weren’t hers –
Her family members.
Her friends.
But never hers.
They stretched – and pulled back, as if needling her mind.
Testing her mettle.
Corridors rearranged themselves, bending with uncertainty.
Hers.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
Wallflower though she was, she wasn’t defeated.
Marina decided to find out more about the property she had inherited from her father when he passed all those years ago.
On one of her forays into the home’s many back rooms, she discovered a small, nearly inconspicuous space.
The dust danced in the beam of her mobile.
A hidden alcove.
Lined with decades of family Polaroids, each of a person who had disappeared.
Then-
A blank Polaroid.
Labelled with her name.
An empty slot waiting for her face.
The room wasn’t teasing or frightening just because it could; it was a room waiting.
A predator, hungry for the forgotten.
A hunger she seemed to know.
Fear wrapped around her, a shroud creeping, waiting to strike.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
She managed to shake the gripping fear off to make sense of the alcove.
And the blank Polaroid.
With her name.
She touched each of the Polaroids and the dusty shelves.
There had to be a way to lock them in place, to keep them from swallowing her.
Then she thought of the little, cherished memories.
Her dog. Her Mum’s signature fried noodles.
Her dad’s cologne, mixed with perspiration, when he returned from work.
Each memory made the room less hungry.
Weighed its menace down.
Finally, the corridors stopped bending. The stretching stopped.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
As she recalled her dog Benj, her mother’s noodles, and her father carrying her in his arms when he returned from work, the room stilled.
Every recalled detail punched a hole in her darkness.
With each recollection, the walls settled into place.
The holes became larger.
She grasped the life buoys of her memories-her lifelines.
And she knew–the room victimised.
Not those who remembered themselves or their places in the world.
Rather, they wanted the souls who felt-
Invisible.
Forgotten.
But she had won the battle between her mind-
And the room’s predatory instincts.
The holes widened-
Then vanished.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
Marina left the room, still weary.
Still on edge.
But she chose to report it to the Town Council for its-
For want of a better word-
Defects.
Several weeks passed. She chose to live fully, tapping into her passion-
Cooking.
Sharing meals with friends.
Discussing recipes.
Watching the Food Network Channel or teaching cooking classes.
Then a stall selling “Char Kway Teow” (flat noodles in soy and oyster sauce).
Receiving rave reviews in the Straits Times.
She chose to be seen again, leaving the house to wallow in its own hunger.
Insatiable need to swallow-
Those who felt forgotten.
Not Marina.
Her life was no longer dimmed at the edges.
She remembered it.
Herself.
🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️🗨️
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, 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, 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, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
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.
🖤👑🕯️
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, 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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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
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.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 