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When Mark entered the colonial three-storey he’d inherited from his grandmother on December 7th, the air carried the rustic scent of things not meant to be shared. Etched on the wooden hatch leading up to the attic was a hasty scrawl borne of fury — “Do not open.”
His curiosity knocked out his sense of caution. He lifted the hatch and stepped onto the ladder. The hatch groaned awake, a mouth dropping open, waiting to speak.
Words he wasn’t quite ready for.
It held what every attic did – dust motes dancing over albums and letters left unopened for years. Mark thumbed a diary open. His grandmother’s impatient cursive gave his eyes a sharp poke – a feeling that he’d never known.
The yellowed pages detailed decades of tension between his grandmother and mother – arguments over her “poor” choices, her parental role, and the crossing of social boundaries that made her who she was.
And something else. A letter addressed to his mother. Helen Song.
Its yellowed edge crooking its little finger.
And Mark succumbed.
“Helen –
“I want you to know,” it began, assuring yet breathless, “that I meant the best for you. Never to harm you.”
Mark’s eyes widened. Decades of resentment, intergenerational conflict, and tension made the hairs on his arm bristle – and he was too young to have been part of them. He had unlatched the trap door, expecting dust, mites – perhaps furniture too worn for the ultra-modern living room.
But he found a new road to walk.
At the bottom of a pile of diaries was a photo of his grandmother in the hospital ward where he was born, carrying him over a crib.
On its rails was a placeholder and a card – “Mark Lee.”
Lee was the surname of the Song family’s chauffeur.
He found a photo of his mother laughing with a young man, dressed in nothing but khakis and a singlet.
Mark’s eye fell on his Rolex, its dials suddenly spinning backwards.
The diary in Mark Song’s hand dropped to the floor.
📜
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A stall in a Singaporean coffeeshop, stirred by the morning bustle.
The tau kwa pau (beancurd bun) stall comes to life.
The bun itself —
A tradition that bides time.
🔶✨🔥🍞✨🔶
An orange spark lights
Beancurd stirs with a sizzle
Warm scent of childhood
Crooks its fingers
To the mouths that wait
🔶✨🔥🍞✨🔶
Beancurd bun aglow
A golden halo enwraps
The flame roars
Licks the fingers that reach
Then stills.
🔶✨🔥🍞✨🔶
It quiets.
Red embers amber.
Beancurd’s scent fades
Reaching fingers withdraw
With time.
🔶✨🔥🍞✨🔶
The fire dies.
Fried beancurd bun’s scent
Forever in the air
For the fingers that will not
Get to reach.
🔶✨🔥🍞✨🔶
Taw Kwa Pau, fried to perfection and filled with minced pork, sliced chili and a complimentary egg, was commonly served in coffee shops and hawker centres in Singapore a few decades ago.
A tradition of old, one my grandma held on to.
The flame that prepares it still burns-
If only in the heart.
🔶✨🔥🍞✨🔶
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We may not leave echoes in history the way he did, but we CAN resonate.
📚✏️📚✏️📚✏
Prologue
A normal school morning, sunlight warming an already too-warm classroom – but it had the quiet promise that even small moments are reasons.
For those who ask, “Why do this?”
📚✏️📚✏️📚✏️
“Bye, Miss Kwek…no, bye Mummy.” The little 7-year-old girl offered a little hand swap as she bade goodbye and traversed the corridor.
The classroom’s silence wrapped around me as she left. Nothing but scattered papers and desk chairs.
I sighed. I’d have to spend an hour pushing them in and sweeping–the kids had to rush home for lunch.
Miss Kwek the SuperMum.
Or SuperTeach.
And honestly…I didn’t know if the little girls realised that anymore.
📚✏️📚✏️📚✏️
My first teaching assignment. This music and English teacher offered little ditties.
I taught them occupations with Ernie’s “Who Are The People in the Neighbourhood.”
But…their attention waned, as it often did for seven-year-olds after the first half-hour of breathing.
Unmarked worksheets stared at me from a basket, berating me for neglect.
The empty classroom smelled of faded whiteboard markers. Ernie’s face stared at me from a chart on an easel.
Blank.
Wondering if the constant effort to plan lessons was worth the “Mummy”- or if they’d even remembered him after the song.
📚✏️📚✏️📚✏️
As I put marked exercise books on a bookshelf, my hand met a box with a bump.
I hadn’t noticed it before.
An envelope reared an edge from its corner.
Beckoning.
I drew a breath, my fingers lingering over the edge —
And dropped it again.
📚✏️📚✏️📚✏️
I picked the box, letting the exercise books cascade onto the floor with a thump.
A printed letter, the pristine white paper waiting patiently. Its edges were starting to curl, but a few minutes wouldn’t make a difference.
After those minutes were finally over, I pried the envelope open.
Addressed to me.
“Dear Teacher,
“I like Ernie, and Who Are the People In Your Neighbourhood. But I like the way you sing it. You sound like my Grandma. She had a great voice. She died last year. She used to bring me to school.”
A watermark.
I was about to create a few – but not the factory sort.
“Thanks for the song. I watch Sesame Street every afternoon now. My English has improved. Marilyn.”
So it had.
For all time.
I sat at the desk, a quiet smile starting to stretch across my face.
One that needed Face Yoga.
In case of premature sagging.
There was a reason for Mummy after all.
Despite how dog-tired she was.
📚✏️📚✏️📚✏️
“Mummy” dropped the letter back into the box cautiously –
Its pulse was quickening.
The classroom still had a distinct marker odour – but it teased my nostrils.
It didn’t punch.
📚✏️📚✏️📚✏️
I swept the floor, erased the whiteboard –
And lifted the easel.
Ernie.
And his neighbourhood.
📚✏️📚✏️📚✏️
Mummy had a place in it.
Though her legs were a little tired from walking around.
📚✏️📚✏️📚✏️
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A soft voice keeps calling, like moth to the fire.
🔥
My burden heavy, lies that make me tire
The weight of hidden words that I should name
I counted costs, but still I chose the mire
💨
I crossed a line, my soul now for the pyre
The flames do burn, for bold truths that shame
A soft voice keeps calling, like moth to the fire.
⚡
I let my fear play music on the lyre
Dodging hurts that should bring soul to flame
I counted costs, but still I chose the mire
🌙
I chose a need, a want that was sire
It served to light poor, ruined souls aflame
A soft voice keeps calling, like moth to the fire.
🕯️
I chose to bind my peace with lie’s hard wire
I chose to keep the truth in iron chains
I counted costs, but still I chose the mire
A soft voice keeps calling, like moth to the fire.
🕯️
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Today marks the International Day of Disabilities – and by extension, the Celebration of Differences.
One sees the differences. And it’s all that matters.
🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿
Oppora was a city of contrasts -neighbourhoods of opportunity coexisted with those of strife.
Opporan society was —
Competitive.
To be extraordinary wasn’t an edge – it marked one as different.
Like seventeen-year-old Michael Long.
The pint-sized, scrawny teen often received discounts.
But these weren’t supermarket vouchers-
They were off-the-cuff remarks about height.
And they made him attuned to others who were discounted.
🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿
He saw the sidelines -and who sat painfully on them.
The smallest-sized child in class.
The transparent man who stuttered.
The restaurant that only let in patrons who fit its refined ‘establishment.”
Amusing – yet crushing.
Because the ones who should have noticed didn’t.
The boy’s sandwiches were snatched.
He shook his head.
He strode up to the cashier who had ignored the stuttering man.
“Is he invisible?”
The cashier attended to the next customer.
With a Rolex sitting proudly on his wrist.
🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿
It was a busy weekend at the town’s festival market- everything from wicker baskets to the glitziest wedding dress was on offer.
A well-dressed couple fingered the lilac linen.
With the salesperson chatting in exuberant tones.
Another pair clad in tee-shirts and jeans did the same- much to the salesgirl’s undisguised annoyance.
“Please look, don’t touch,” she directed, her voice two tones too sharp.
Michael let out a wry laugh – and shook his head.
He turned to approach – then hung back.
His father gripped his shoulder, nodding his head.
That tone would still sting the next jeans-clad couple.
🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿
Michael broke free of his father’s grip and strode up to the cashier.
Lipstick even.
Hair perfectly set.
“I think they’d like to try that. They can pay for it.”
The cashier gave him a swift nod- then turned to receive a cheque from the better-dressed pair.
The casually-dressed couple exchanged glances with the youth – and nodded.
Michael’s father beamed.
He couldn’t get the jeans-clad couple their dress.
But his trying got them notice.
🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿
Michael and his family continued their festival tour
The events played on – raucous, indifferent noise.
But he knew that someone had finally been seen – even if he was the only one who saw them.
🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿
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We mark the International Day for the Abolition of Slavery this day, December 2.
It is easy to become enslaved by obssessions.
Any attachment that pulls too tight becomes a chain.
🪡🧵🪡🧵🪡
Hung marionette on biting wire Taut, its tugged strings sting – Darkness pulls, it soon tires Of endless jolts and swings.
🪡🧵🪡🧵🪡
Contorted in shapes not sought Dancing in forms, bound tight; A frayed string, a sudden pause The grip strengthens with might
🪡🧵🪡🧵🪡
Marionette wakes, it tries to fight The wires that tug and bind; Pushes ‘gainst the strings that bite The mesh that cuts and blinds.
🪡🧵🪡🧵🪡
The barbed strings snap, one by one Marionette in free fall Drops to the floor, liberty won It stands proud, not small.
🪡🧵🪡🧵🪡
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An unfamiliar presence stirred the quiet street at dawn, wandering, hesitant.
Turned away by those it trusted – because it was tiny.
A lone primate in unfamiliar territory.
Residents in the surrounding apartment block stuck their curious heads out of windows.
Whispering and labelling the unwanted visitor.
🪨
The little macaque reached for small comforts – the inconsequential things.
Grabbing fruit that hung from tree branches.
Startling a dog.
Grabbing a child’s sandwich.
Under everyone’s watchful eyes –
And misdirected gestures.
Then, a little boy’s hand reached out.
With bread – a slice of hope.
A piece of trust–
Wanted for too long.
🪨
“Here,” the young boy’s voice –
Naive and innocent.
The macaque paused–
Then slowly fingered the bread.
The boy’s hand – all the time warm, outstretched.
The residents still peeked out of windows.
Watching – with no offering.
The macaque grabbed the bread, squeaking in thanks.
🪨
The macaque stayed near the boy, fingering the bread in his hand.
The boy eyed it with patient, unfettered calm.
Hand outstretched, waiting.
The observers at the window watched, hands withdrawn.
The macaque savoured the bread – a rare piece of welcome.
🪨
From that day, the macaque trailed the branches in the trees lining the street.
Always near the boy.
Who always had a piece of bread in an outstretched hand.
The observers watched —
Their gazes were soft, with curious warmth.
There was a piece of bread –
At least one.
🪨
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.
Long before rivers were charted and kingdoms recorded on maps, Sumatra’s waters carried more than trade — they carried whispers of ambition, power, and memory. In the mud and currents of a forgotten riverbank, history waits for those who dare to listen.
Some stones do more than survive centuries. Some remember.
History speaks. Listen well.
🪨
The river swelled, covering Aria’s knees. The avid scholar had risked life for art, braving the torrents of the Sumatran river in the midst of the July-August monsoon.
A relic of the Srivijayan empire — the first maritime kingdom of Sumatra — was the goal. With torch in hand, she ploughed through the mud, the river’s plaintive cries rising to a near crescendo.
🪨
Her hands mired in mud, Aria’s fingers felt their way along rocks and their crevices — until they touched a half-buried stone slab.
The Kedukan Bukit inscription covered its surface.
Then, strangeness.
A feeling of being surveilled washed over Aria — almost as if the Sumatran river itself was keeping close tabs on her.
Then —
“Aria. Seek no more.”
A lost voice.
Aria’s fingers wrapped tighter around the base of her torch.
🪨
Her foot hit the base of a sharp stone.
On it, an inscription —
In ancient Javanese.
She shone her torch on the faded outlines of the script, trying to wrestle with a language she only knew through sessions with the lecturers at her university.
But she knew enough to pause.
In shock.
The rock was transcribing on its own.
Scripting her mind.
Mapping her ambitions.
Echoing her doubts.
Mirroring her obsessions.
The rock seemed alive — and knew too well who sought it.
And then she knew — echoes of the past weren’t just echoes — they lived with those who sought them.
🪨
Aria slipped her torch into her knapsack and grabbed the stone.
It refused —
To —
Budge.
She tried again —
It refused —
To —
Budge.
She stepped back —
The stone was history, and it commanded.
Demanded humility.
Solace.
Not ownership.
She left the river, and the slab, standing.
Glancing at her — waiting.
🪨
A week later, Aria returned — no slab.
But a stone.
With a new carving.
Glowing —
Changing.
Speaking.
Her initials, etched faintly.
History still called — because she
respected.
Heard.
Was still hearing.
🪨
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 