What one loves never really leaves. Happy Hallowtide, all!
🌕🍂🎃🌾🎃🍁🌕🎃🍂🌾🎃🍁🌕🍂🎃🌾🎃🍁🌕🎃🍂🌾🎃🍁
The garden bathed in silver moonlight, pumpkin vines coiling beneath fresh soil. Sandra’s fingers ran along the cool skin of a pumpkin–it throbbed, as if in a dream.
Old Sebastian had said that they grew best near Hallowtide–when the Earth recalled
the names of those within them.
She edged closer to the ground, her eyes on a flicker of light sparking deep within. For a second, she believed it was her reflection. Then, the pumpkin–
Smiled.
Her grandmother’s smile.
Tender.
Knowing.
Sandra teared, not with sadness, but knowing–
That nothing she loved ever truly left.
It grew again—sprouting different vines.
🌕🍂🎃🌾🎃🍁🌕🎃🍂🌾🎃🍁🌕🍂🎃🌾🎃🍁🌕🎃🍂🌾🎃🍁
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.
Jun Park’s world was made of words—his apartment was plastered from floor to ceiling with old newspaper clippings. No one could ignore the musty scent of ink and yellowed paper when they stepped in—it clung to the air, heavy with stories long out of mind.
There were so many articles that he could no longer read them all.
But they were his muse.
The need sparked a little spontaneity.
He remembered a ladder he stored in a seldom-used room–one that he had subletted for ready cash, until work took the tenant to another city.
As he approached, a faint, bluish hue caught his eye–it leaked under the door, like a crooked finger, drawing him to his next write.
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.
On World Internet Day today, we stop to hear–not the notifications and hums of inboxes, but the quiet buzz of the World Wide Web. This poem ponders the paradox of a connected world that seeks warmth from the glow of screens.
Every digital signal is a heartbeat– fragile, human, and still powerful.
💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍
I woke up to the hum
Of routers pulsing before I woke
An invisible net throbbing through the walls
Of a digital heartbeat–
I am in awe, in need
💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍
We wove a web
That joins our hearts, our minds, our needs
Stories and photos shared real time
A net of wires that binds–
Too tight
💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍
Alone behind the screens
Misinformed, misaligned
Connected with the world–
Yet by myself–
Unseen.
Unheard.
💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍
My soul yearns for the voice
Of care, of soul–
Of heart.
To make.
The web we wove holds–
Not swallows.
💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍
We wove a web
That joins our hearts, our minds, and needs
Stories and photos shared real time
A net of wires that binds–too tight?
💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍
💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍💻💫🕸️💬💞🌍
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.
All things have changed, but my love still deems strong
My mind repeats the promises we made.
💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔
I call your name when my courage does not stay,
Pretend that your embrace was still as strong;
I do go back to where your soul remains.
💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔
Your spirit forms in dreams I can’t dissuade,
The morn shakes me up, proving I was wrong;
My mind repeats the promises we made.
💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔
Now my hope feels numb, hopeless and afraid;
And I hum the heartfelt tune you sang;
I do go back to where your soul remains.
My mind repeats the promises we made.
💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔🕊️💔
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.
Marilyn had just moved into the remote, backwater town of Scaresdale– not willingly.
The teen’s life was a jigsaw puzzle she was trying to put together within a new frame– and new town.
She and her family had just finished freeing a row of cartons of their contents–
Finally.
Some time to explore.
Hide and Go Seek occupied the children–
It was time for Marilyn to do some exploring of her own.
Somehow, the attic had become her center of attention.
An irresistible magnet.
She stepped in, and saw–
A door.
After fiddling about with it for 10 minutes, it was time to put up the white flag.
Then, a shadow beneath it caught her eye.
Sounds of movement within the space– it had to be a room– next door.
A wooden door– locked.
A curious beam of light from the shaft below.
Marylin’s hands tugged at the stubborn handle.
It didn’t budge.
She peered through the keyhole.
A flash of red.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
Rapid motion. Too quick. Too final.
An odd shape.
Familiar– yet not.
It recoiled from her vision–
As if knowing it had been seen.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
Marilyn froze, unsure whether to open the door–
Or run for her life.
The shadow broke apart in her mind, filling the empty spaces-
With dread.
That she couldn’t name.
The air pressed harder, swallowing her.
Her breath seemed to strangle– not relieve.
The room shrank, sandwiching her between its walls.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
The shadow enlarged, morphing into different shapes.
Then, distorted, creeping sounds below the door.
It crept up in different spaces–
Dark corners of the room.
On the glass.
On the television screen.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
The walls pulsed with voiceless whispers–
Terrifyingly quiet.
Beyond the keyhole–
Arms overlapping.
A smell of lavender perfume–too familiar.
Two shadows–
Close to her in age.
Too familial.
Clear– in her mind.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑
Marilyn bounced a step back from the keyhole, a wrench around her mind.
The familiar, familial shadows.
The lavender perfume she knew too well.
The arms wrapping. Too close.
The scenes replayed in a mental tape recorder–
Gone awry.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑
Marylin’s hand hovered above the doorknob–
But didn’t turn it.
Her finger stayed in place.
Numb.
Should she?
The family.
Her eye caught a photograph of them on the wall.
All smiles at her 6th-year birthday party.
The glass was cracked.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑
The room felt–
Smaller.
Cramped.
Beyond the keyhole–
The familiar shadows still moved, too close.
The whispering of the walls grew louder.
Her mind swiveled–
To open the door,
Not.
A dark heaviness descended on her shoulders.
Her heart throbbed, an erratic rhythm.
Figures in the photograph she knew–
And loved.
This.
Her fingers wrapped around the door knob–
But couldn’t pull.
Cold sweat dripped down her fingers.
She had seen too much.
Ready–
To snap.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑
The teenager couldn’t move.
She stood still, unable to speak.
Beyond the keyhole, the shadows diminished.
Finally.
But not in her mind.
The smell of the familiar perfume lingered in the air–
The scent too cloying.
The imprint remained.
Covered in mental dust.
A stain that wouldn’t vanish no matter how much remover she used.
Never entirely swept away.
The print wrapped itself around her mind–
When it stopped to see.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
Marilyn visited the house years later-
In her litigator’s capacity.
Her father had bequeathed it to her.
He felt he owed it.
A debt he could never repay in full.
The other familiar figure–
Too present.
At get-togethers. Family events.
Always kind.
Offering hugs and love.
Even support when she needed it.
But never comfort.
She had seen too much–
Through that keyhole–
But thankfully–
Didn’t snap.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
Original keyhole mystery by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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.
Magic and connection need steady hands. ☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐 October–and The Cafina Coffeehouse was hit by a tidal wave. Of sprites, ghouls and other misfits that chilled the spinal bone. It was the hangout of all teen hangouts–trendy, sleek, and full of life. Digital tools danced under the hands of technological conductors.QR codes summoned from beyond, flooding the air with magic. Irene, a popular barista whose lattes matched Picasso’s, was guiding new recruit Leo with the cafe’s ropes. And there were a lot of them. No, magic in the cafe wasn’t about wand-waving, she reminded–it was the way sensitive apps ran. And ran lives. “Magic’s a tool, not a toy. It’s like your WIFI at home–one wrong tweak, and everything fails. This isn’t coffee. It’s power. “ ☕📶☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐✨💻📡🔮🌐☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐 Not that Leo bothered. He used WIFI liberally–to surf, to chat– And installed it in his mobile– To prompt the coffee machine to pour cuppas automatically. While the customers didn’t complain, the power dynamic was to tweak further. With the arrival of rival tech mage, Cassian. The guru hacked the cafe’s WIFI systems–just to show he could. Laptops brewed on schedule–their own. Coffee gave DIY a new meaning. QR codes summoned waitress holograms that set tables–without direction. A string of minor curses gripped Cafina’s WIFI– Familiars. They scampered between laptops at random, in a series of ‘spriteful’ giggles that covered the skin with goosebumps. Login and social media prompts that sent customers into a tizzy. ☕☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐📶✨💻📡🔮🌐☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐 A latte brewed itself to near perfection–then burst into milk fireworks. Irene and Leo came to the fore–for their jobs. They scrambled, jamming wires into magical devices, each triggering another disaster. ☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐 The absurdity in Cafina finally came to a head. Almost everything in the establishment was in shreds—and there seemed no way to put the chaos–or the “spriteful” familiars-to bed. Then, a lightbulb lit Irene’s barista brain. Reset. Everything back to the beginning. A blank. Go Wifiless. Disconnect Cafina from the reaches of the outside world–and the spiteful sprites. As if ants were biting her feet, she darted around the cafe yanking out the cords of laptops, mobiles and everything else that could serve as a digital device. Not to be outdone, Leo did his own yanking. Becoming Cafina’s magical mother hen– At least figuratively. He ran around the cafe, hot on the heels of familiars who darted, daunted and taunted. Yet managed to cram a cage to the brim with their mischievous forms–and grins. The cafe breathed normally again, calm, grounded–well–coded. After all was done, Irene threw herself against the bar’s backdrop cabinet and laughed. Leo had learned what she set out to teach–magic was strongest when guided, not forced. ☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐 The devices hummed to life again as the perky familiars settled, their furry ears pricking, each with a disarming grin. Though taken aback, Irene’s patient regulars chuckled at the experience–and their presence. The duo reviewed the cafe’s Wifi and enchantments, adding safety protocols. Iris jotted everything in a notebook. Cassian, his message sent, slowly began dissolving. “Remember–power, not show.” Leo uninstalled the WIFI. The message had finally been received. The cafe hummed quietly, without anything– Familiar. Curious, yet careful. With concealed power—and great responsibility. ☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐☕📶✨💻📡🔮🌐
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.
For momentous gusts that cause your leaves to fall;
For the joy of kindling your red flare.
🍂🌾🍁🌕🍃🌱🍁🌾🍂🍂🌾🍁🌕🍃🌱🍁🌾🍂
I confess, I cannot stay, I must take what once bloomed;
Write soulful notes on fallen leaves, to a sad, lost tune;
I never meant to curb your laugh, just put it to sleep
Never in my hands to take, or in my arms to keep.
🍂🌾🍁🌕🍃🌱🍁🌾🍂🍂🌾🍁🌕🍃🌱🍁🌾🍂
My Earth, dear, in my hands I take what does endure
To return to you in time, for that, you must be sure;
Now lanterns glow and baskets fill below the light of dusk
For such signs of life renewed, your faith in life, a must.
🍂🌾🍁🌕🍃🌱🍁🌾🍂🍂🌾🍁🌕🍃🌱🍁🌾🍂
But now you know, that life goes round, back where it all begins;
That I don’t take, I do return, in pure kind, and not at whim
Your rich soil, it does recall, every sadness sown
But i return, in joyous form, all your trees now grown.
🍂🌾🍁🌕🍃🌱🍁🌾🍂🍂🌾🍁🌕🍃🌱🍁🌾🍂
I leave for you, my contrite appeal, and a promise to return
A final leaf, small but green, proof that things will turn
I say goodbye, with humbled heart, and quiet, calm repose;
Then white you’ll don, and then take off, and wear the green that flows.
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.
William Long was put out. The disgruntled electrician lacked a social life–the thirty-something-year-old spent most of his days in a garage, fiddling with light bulbs that flickered at will and lamps that emitted buzzing noises that grated on the ears.
Still, he kept the lights on–literally. Not for profit–
But for love.
Of his eleven-year-old daughter, whose giggles had once turned the atmosphere in the garage from mere electric static into sparkling fireworks.
He was a craftsman consumed by glow.
And memory.
Each flicker spoke of her.
The divorce.
No interaction in years.
So he couldn’t keep the garage silent–the quietness hummed, flooding his mind with tears he couldn’t shed.
At least not openly.
💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧
One evening, the cats and dogs came down in humongous litters.The buzz of half-reparied bulbs flooded the garage. William scrambled from his desk to answer a frantic knock on the door.
He opened it to a teen girl, soaked to the skin. Her parka and umbrella offered no protection.
Something in her eyes stirred something in William.
In her slender young hands was a battered desk lamp.
Dark. Obviously not functioning.
The girl held it up with a sheepish grin.
“Sir, could you get this working again? I’m sorry that I can’t pay you. All I ask is that it works again.”
William noticed how gently she held the lamp.
He took it from her, albeit unwillingly.
As he tinkered with it, he observed her eyes on him.
Watchful and meticulous, as though offering guidance.
With a knowing gentleness.
The lamp flickered as William continued his work, but the girl was a picture of calm.
Finally, a faint hum.
“I know this lamp isn’t the best, ” It was as though she was reading his mind. ” I onlywant it to shine.”
At that moment, William knew what the lamp was for–not its steadiness or quality, but its presence.
💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧
Some tweaking from the electrician, and steady light.
Though it wasn’t the brightest.
William hissed under his breath, ready to admit defeat. But the teen stepped closer.
She patted him on the shoulder. A familiar touch.
“It’s glowing. That’s all you needed to do for me. All it needed to do. All I needed.”
She left the garage with the lamp, turning back with a nod and a smile that he knew–
But couldn’t place.
Then, on a shelf behind his workbench, a photograph.
Of the girl.
He still didn’t know her. But felt her.
Tugging at his heart in ways too knowing.
Weeks, later, the teen girl returned.
The same knowing presence.
She showed him how she placed the lamp on her desk so she could study.
She left again, not telling him who she was.
Or about the photograph she had left on the shelf.
He smiled, somehow content—
With acceptance–and a little unconfirmed mystery.
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.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 