Hot Flashes–Cool Cucumbers

We celebrate a day that women may find uncomfortable..World Menopause Day.

Both literally and figuratively.

But in that discomfort, we can find joy, humour and a little camaraderie.

So join Elena, Mavis, and Theodora as they combat those hot flashes–with a little ingenuity and pizazz.

When the going gets hot, the tough cool it down.

Redglow Secondary–where a teacher needed street smarts and strategy to stay cool–in more ways than one.

And Elena Chan, Mavis Fang and Theodora Fong found this out the sweaty way.

The ladies taught–and learned–and important lesson–When life brought on the heat, fix your own thermostat.The middle-aged female teachers knew everything there was to know about teenage mayhem and—

The M-word.

That hit ladies over 50.

The three often bantered the issue of recalcitrant students and growing older over coffee.

Theodora often gloated about how much her students taught her.

“If enlightenment is a hot flash, I must have transcended.”

The experience with M worsened when Redglow’s new principal, Mr. Ding, installed energy saving air conditioning in the classroom in an attempt to cut costs–and boost credit.

His, that is.

The three needed a strategy revamp to survive classroom and student heat–

And, as the ever-dramatic English teacher Mavis would insist–

Those darned hot flashes.

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As luck had it, the AC decided that it wanted the day off.

The women and their hot flashes had proven too overwhelming–so it ‘stormed off.’

During Mavis’s English double period.

She announced the fiasco with her usual dramatic flair –and others’ equally dramatic angst.

The solution? Mr. Ding’s energy-saving cooler.

Elena wondered aloud if it had been introduced-JUST AT THE RIGHT TIME.

It DID NOT COOL.

It BAKED.

The teachers–the three heroines in particular–‘glowed’ profusely, to the great amusement of their charges.

Theodora, in particular, kept her male students’ attention.

Seeing the older, yet attractive teacher glow was gossip fodder.

But if her complaints were anything to go by, she didn’t enjoy it.

“It’s like standing in a Tandoori oven–only less hot.” She groused, flailing her arms in complaint.

Elena, ever the scientific pragmatist, came up with one of her innovations.

“Why don’t we form a Cool Club? If no one’s going to help us keep the sweat off, we will.”

Oh, she was determined.

Theodora rolled skeptic eyes–but the pressure of the heat reinforced her membership.

The resilient ladies stashed anything ‘cool’ they could think of–fans, ice packs, and frozen water bottles.

“What are these for?” Mr. Ding raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Oh, just lesson props,” Mavis brushed him off without as much as batting an eyelid.

But the students were sharp.

Too sharp for whining and water splashes to escape their notice.

And the Letter M stunned the school.

The staff room earned a moniker of Alaskan proportions–The North Pole.

Mavis grinned. “We’re legends now. Let’s not spoil the moment by telling them it’s about survival.”

And survival it was.

A frozen water bottle decided to “take a leak” the next day.

Over Elena’s chemistry practicals.

“At least it was only a mock paper.” She sighed.

But the three couldn’t help giggling over their Cool Club Thermoregulation Genius.

They needed strategy.

Stealth.

And lots of coffee.

To keep M at bay.

Operation chill had just begun.

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The Cool Club’s success at maintaining it’s cool didn’t stay a secret for long.

Not with teenage busybodies and the heat—

That ate at angsty teaching staff.

So it wasn’t long before Mr. Ding learned of Operation Chill.

During assembly, when Mavis’ trusty fan whirred a little too loudly during his announcements.

“Energy waste!” He roared.

Theodora tried to defuse the situation with a flirtatious smile.

“It’s self-preservation, Sir.”

The bomb still went off.

“Unauthorised cooling devices are disallowed in the staffroom.”

That didn’t deter our friends in the Cool Club. No, no, no.

It went underground.

Literally.

In the basement prep room.

Mr. Ding hadn’t counted on Elena–and Chemistry.

The savvy science teacher rigged a cooling contraption using smuggled lab supplies.

“Technically–for O level Chemistry Classes.”

“Technically nuts!” Mavis’ throat emitted a hacking sound through the fog.

Even more whispers. Students spoke of the Misty Menopause Lab.

Even Ah Xiong the janitor had something to say. “Aiyo, the fog ladies are at it again.”

The rebellion couldn’t ‘cool’ off.

A wrong ice-pack placement one day sent out too much fog, triggering a silent alarm leading to–

Mr. Ding’s room.

Screaming, wet students.

Soaked teachers with hot flashes cooled, albeit unintended.

And Mr. Ding’s own hot flash–hotter than any other in history.

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The trio paid the mandatory visit to Mr. Ding’s office the next morning. His glare cooked faster than any heated stove.

“What’s this Operation Chill?” He demanded, waving a red, soaked towel like a declaration of war.

Elena adjusted her glasses and flashed her most comely smile. “An experiment, sir. On….er…thermostats and how they work. For O Level students sitting for this year’s Chemistry exams.”

“Er…yes.” Theodora quickly chimed in. “My class sits for the paper. It’s trying to show how we adapt to climate change.”

Mavis added. “Mine’s trying to show how internal weather patterns affect the human psyche.”

A long pause. Too long.

Then, a resounding chortle–almost as loud as a ding dong.

“You ladies,” He sighed. “Are living PR nightmares.How do we convince the kids to align with energy saving after–“

He gestured to the makeshift thermo cooler next to him.

But he couldn’t deny that it worked–discipline and restlessness were down, and morale was up.

The trio had earned a well-deserved moniker–The Chill Queens.

“Ok, ok. I admit it. Cutting down on energy only increased the heat. Keep your experiment. But remember…cool it.”

So the Cool Club later celebrated the success of Operation Chill–with ice kachang.

“Here’s to beating Redglow. One hot flash at a time.”

The ladies taught–and learned–an important lesson–

When life brings on the heat, fix your own thermostat.

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Moon Gives

Nature gives, yet some forget its cost.

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The moon’s glow absorbed the night sky in the village of Lunardom.

A constant presence.

Lunardom couldn’t recall what kept it there.

What kept it strong.

The villagers revelled in its beauty, then—

The sky opened in eerie silence.

No moon.

Or rising tides, with the pulse of its gravity.

But everything felt—wrong.

The night forgot itself—

Becoming restless—and so did the rest of the sleeping world.

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The forest near Lyra teemed with wildlife—not wild in the way we knew.

Birds didn’t chirp—they whispered. Howls replaced the croak of frogs. Wolves sang—humanlike tones that crept up spines and froze them.

A silver glow teased the surfaces of mirrors and puddles—but it wasn’t the light of the moon.

But its mimic.

Lyra was out collecting firewood one afternoon when on her wrist—

A mark.

It moved.

Syncing with the rhythmic movements of something—

Unseen.

And so the path to the unknown opened—in ways that would unsettle and shape Lyra’s—and the forest’s core.

The shifting mark unnerved the typically stoic Lyra-

Who, ever the heroine, embarked on a quest to settle it.

Then, an old journal in the attic.

One with pages that told of—the Lunarkin.

Ancient guardians of the moon.

Her mind—and all she knew-unravelled like spools of tangled thread.

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Lyra followed the mark’s irresistible pull to the lake.

It too, behaved erratically, rippling upward to the surface instead of outward, defying and reconstructing gravity.

Then, she caught sight of herself.

Not her.

But a creature of light and bone

The guardian—or captor—of the Moon.

The being spoke, its voice thundering and gravelly.

“The Lunarkin have damaged the ancient tether beyond repair.” It intoned to the trembling girl.

“The void must have one descendant before it will be satisfied.”

The mark on Lyra’s arm spread—and pulled her.

Toward the water.

The void had made clear which descendant it wanted.

But the brave girl wasn’t about to let history repeat itself.

With a quick, practiced flick of her wrist, she sliced off her palm.

And offered it to the omnipresent, sentient being.

Then, a petrifying burst of silver.

Shards flew.

The surrounding light did an upward pirouette, and—a new moon pieced itself against the dark skyline.

Lyra’s reflection—gone.

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The moon steadied itself in the night sky, its light now pale and flickering.

As if recalling its shattering.

Tides surged once more. Birds called with resounding chirps. Wolves howled, hailing the moon’s presence.

But their rhythm broke through the forest in distended fragments.

Nature’s poor mimicry of normalcy.

Lyra’s reflection was no more. But ripples formed in puddles at the sound of her name.

The village cheered the moon’s return, welcoming it with feasts and dances—forgetting the girl who gave.

Beneath the surface of the lake, a gentle, silver shimmer, shaped in a palm.

Throbbing intently with the moon’s rise.

Paying what was due the Moon.

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The world continued, but lighter.

Lonelier.

The moon always graced Lunardom’s sky, but with a familiar face that took on its dim, sad glow.

Forgotten

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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.

Parallel Lives

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Mara stepped out of her home onto her driveway—she knew each stone by heart.

But it seemed that what she knew by heart had to be relearned.

Fog clouded the street beyond, giving the otherwise familiar street an unnatural white hue. It had rained just an hour before; the puddles caught the lamplight like unlived fragments of her memory.

She caught sight of herself in a puddle. It seemed to blink—almost a stranger.

And the familiar street felt—

Different.

Unvisited.

A place unheard of.

Her life stretched before her—one that felt borrowed.

The university education that her parents couldn’t afford.

The job she passed up to care for her ailing parents.

She felt the tug of life just beyond her reach—so near, yet so far.

Each drop of rain seemed to whisper regret for what might have been; what could still be.

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She passed the park bench she and James used to sit—

For hours.

Talking.

The masculine scent of his aftershave.

The armrest he had vandalised with Cupid hearts.

She passed the music store they used to frequent—and the piano his fingertips used to grace.

A virtuoso.

Her mother.

In bed, hooked to a respirator.

The windows of her mind opened to James boarding a plane at the airport.

Fixing a lingering gaze on her as he entered the boarding gate.

Another image—odd.

Different.

Pulsing.

Of herself, following him.

Her mind veered back to the familiar street—yet not.

A gust of wind, howling, urgent, pushing her in.

Drops of rain pelted the gray cobblestone—

The black umbrella.

One they used to laugh under on days like this.

She paused mid-step, tears drenching her cheeks.

Her mother.

Him.

Not both.

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She found herself back on the street—

Known.

Yet unknown.

The gray hues of the cobblestone were now a strange white.

The white ceramic floors of the university.

She passed a cafe—open where the legal library should have been.

Music streamed from a window—from a piano.

With her mom’s cries of pain—in sync.

She’d wanted to learn that.

Her mother.

In bed, hooked to a respirator.

Herself, in a nurse’s uniform, helping her sit up.

Her mother’s tears streaming—

Down a relieved, smiling face.

The smells from the cafe teased her nostrils.

She was herself, walking.

Through the university’s halls.

Carrying legal ledgers, laughing with friends from law school.

Nurse. Her mom.

Lawyer.

Her heart—yanked.

Spinning, overwhelmed—in both directions.

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She stopped at a puddle and gazed at herself.

In her nurse’s uniform, pressed neatly.

Herself again, in the cafe’s window.

Donning a judge’s robes.

Both with raised right hands.

One mirrored the other.

Uncomfortable.

False.

Nurse.

Lawyer.

Not both.

Her heart yanked again—landing in place with a soft thump.

Of knowing.

That she had chosen a path.

One she could not forgo.

That she had to continue walking.

She heard her mother’s breathing, now quiet.

Relieved.

Stable.

Together with laughter from the university’s halls—from herself, in a judge’s robes.

Both sounds—pleasant.

Harmonious.

Mara the nurse..

The fiancée who was.

All had to walk along that street.

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Mara stood on the pavement, the gray cobblestone she knew facing her.

In her nurse’s uniform, on the way to the hospital where her mum recovered in a ward.

Her face clear, smiling, in a puddle.

The lamplight grounded her feet firmly, pushing them forward.

In the cafe window—herself, in judge’s robes, waving a poignant goodbye.

Smiling—through tears.

The sound of her mother’s breathing reverberated calmly, pelting in rhythm with the raindrops on her umbrella.

She paused at another puddle.

Herself, in a judges robes, smiling.

Then James, in the airport lounge.

Staring.

She reached.

Then pulled back.

The plane had no seat for her.

Reached again—and withdrew.

Her heart yanked.

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.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 Office Games

The climb ends where trust falls.

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“Morning all,” Dylan Koh’s bass voice turned the office into a boombox. “Thank you for your presence this lovely September morning.”

One that resounded in a room no larger than a child’s bedroom.

With the Famous Five–except friendship was off the cards.

The office never felt so much like a cage.

Its prisoners–five accountants eager to make–

The Climb.

The air had a metallic tang, distinct–

Blood on coins.

A low groan emitted from the ceiling.

Anton, Susan, Paul, and Fiona each had a drive to succeed that was legendary—and would make participants in The Apprentice blush.

Dylan, the CEO of Raintree Finances, continued.

“The five of you are Raintree’s nominees to succeed the outgoing Chief Financial Officer, Desmond Sim. ” He couldn’t resist a smirk. “But you need to prove that you have what it takes to fill his shoes.”

“Each of you must complete a series of tasks. The objective? To be the only one left on the corporate ladder. To eliminate–” he paused, “and be the ONLY one left standing. Literally.

The five shot glares at each other that could pierce the plasterboard walls.

“I’m game. ” Fiona’s gravelly v

ice seemed stronger than usual.

“Me too.”Anton was louder, not to be outdone.

The rest sat up straight.

Stoic.

Nodding.

Determined.

The walls of the room seemed too tight.

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The trained accountants found the first task—

Ordinary.

Auditing a few books was of no consequence.

But they soon increased in–

Complexity.

They found themselves having to locate vital, secret files and label them all to be declared challenge winners.

Each red-marked, as if bleeding.

Of course, Fiona mislabelled one–by ACCIDENT.

Susan misplaced another—again, by ACCIDENT.

Each “accident” added weight to their breathing.

Trust was a major casualty–a mere nod was a lie.

The calculators on the table seemed to click, tallying each mistake

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It was neck and neck–ALL four contestants overcame the initial challenges.

To face the Penultimate Task.

One which demanded–

Compromise.

Of self.

Paul and Susan succumbed—choosing right over ruthlessness undid them–integrity was too slow for mercy.

Anton and Fiona remained in separate rooms.

The task?

To sign a doctored statement or forfeit the game.

The walls of the office seemed to pause their approach; the beat of the staplers on the tables halted.

Waiting.

For betrayal.

Fiona caught sight of Paul mulling over the document; his form was still visible through a transparent window.

He raised his pen.

She raised hers.

Ambition struck quicker than mercy.

Dylan emerged from his room with the document.

Signed by himself.

Ceding trust.

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For the employees–there had been no promotion.

The climb ends where trust falls.

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.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

Voices of Her Heart

Single mum Sarah dragged the toothbrush over her teeth, not excited at the prospect of another endless day of endless rants from a micromanaging boss.

She paused in the middle of drawing circles over them and gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

Her gaze stayed on her wrinkles and furrows.

She seemed–

Older. Empty.

Joyless.

Visions of her heart.

Her boss screamed at her over the deadlines she’s not met yet– noisy muzak in her ears.

She tossed and turned in bed that night, trying to come up with a way to finish a pending project.

No answers.

Instead, whispers.

Her body stiffened.

She cracked her neck.

She chalked it up to tiredness and threw her head back onto the pillow.

Then, dreams.

Of how her boss at humiliated her in front of a customer–

Incompetent.

Irresponsible.

Of her being unable to finish preparing a simple dish of fried noodles.

Herself, missing a phone call from the job agency informing her of a new position–and a higher salary.

She sat up with a start.

The room seemed emptier– more silent than usual.

She had installed solid wood floors in the rooms.

But– creaks.

The whispers continued, now clearer.

“You’ll never be…you’ll never be….”

Too coordinated.

With her heartbeat.

Her 10-year-old daughter knocked at the door.

“Mom, you screamed louder than my friends in the playground. What’s wrong?”

She pushed the little girl back to her bedroom, blushing at seem to be her own little-girl nightmare.

“Get to sleep. School tomorrow.”

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The whispers increased in volume.

Sarah begin to feel someone gripping her toes when she wore shoes.

She could no longer chalk the voices up to imagination.

Scenes of herself failing at making sales grew clearer.

More intense.

Along with her guilt.

When she thought of her little girl.

The whispers turned into half-phrases.

” You’ll never be…”

She chalked them up to fatigue. But she couldn’t afford failure.

Her daughter.

But they were just too loud.

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Then, the whispers stopped.

Sarah could finally sleep—

For a few days.

Then, she heard them again.

But louder each night.

Until—

A clear voice.

Cold.

Commanding.

“You’ll never make a sale. You’ll never be.”

It knew exactly when her presentations would fail.

“They’ll laugh at you.”

The gripping at her toes moved up to her ankles– feeling the tug– even when she was awake.

She stumbled about in her own home– once nearly falling down the stairs.

Then visions of herself telling her daughter that she couldn’t buy her toys because there were no sales.

Her daughter’s face.

Covered in tears.

Then, the work papers she brought home turned into–

Something different.

“You’ll never be” — scrawled in bright red across each page.

One night, really loudly.

” You’ll never be enough.”

She shot up in bed, stunned.

The ominous sound seemed to sync with her heart.

She heard it again.

” I’ve always been here. You’re a good listener.”

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Sarah woke up the next morning, humming to herself as she prepared breakfast.

She knew what it meant.

She couldn’t listen anymore– she had to make a sale this month.

And she did.

The client was completely engaged– he only had to sign the papers.

They arranged to sign them at her office the next day.

He was about to put the pen to paper.

Loud.

In her head.

” You’ll never be.”

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here

The September 18th Numbers

Listen…to the quiet warnings.

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Mei was preparing Chinese waffles in the family kitchen, getting the children ready for what was supposed to be a routine morning.

“Eh, get up! The school bus will be downstairs in an hour!”

10-year-old John and 8-year-old Sam sat up in bed.

With looks grouches would be proud of.

A horse racing calendar hung on the kitchen wall, omnipresent. Slightly dog-eared, Mei had flipped the pages countless times to mark important dates.

And yes, to make horse racing bets.

But the calendar didn’t turn on dog ears. Over time, they began to peel– and curl.

Almost like curved nails, reaching for attention.

Its metallic tang lingered in the kitchen, at he edges of her mind.

She fingered a number– the print felt too dense.

Alive.

The metallic smell grew as she neared certain numbers.

She glanced at it.

September 18th glared at her.

Familiar–yet wrong.

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She stared at the date for a few long minutes.

The metallic smell of the calendar turned her nose red.

Numbers started to peel off the pages–

Faster and faster.

The phenomenon was beyond Mei’s exhausted–yet frantic mind.

Her two-year-old toddler ambled into the kitchen and tugged at her sleeve.

She took the little boy in her arms– and his fingers brushed its pages lightly.

Another date flashed.

Her deceased grandmother’s birthday.

With a shocked gasp, she backed away, trembling fingers reaching for the kitchen knife on the table.

It tensed within her grip.

The dates were–too correct.

Her mind flicked to each one–as if it knew.

It stored–more than mere numbers.

It was telling.

Choosing.

It had–

Chosen.

Her.

She had to warn–or confront.

Fate lay in those numbers–hers, or another’s.

September 18th.
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The numbers on the calendar peeled off–

A whirlwind.

September 15th.

16th.

17th.

The metallic smell overwhelmed.

Mei’s pulse thudded.

“September 18th… I know this date…”

Then, she remembered.

Her older sister.

The one whom her mother had cried over countless family gatherings.

She had died after fingering a kitchen knife.

Curiosity.

She had turned it turned it–

To her heart.

The knuckles around the knife in her hand turned white.

She backed away from the calendar– near her toddler.

The knife.

Waited.

Then, she dropped it.

A sigh of relief.

She gazed at the young child, giggling, still tugging at her dress.

The calendar’s hinted page.

September 17th.

She clutched her young daughter’s arm.

The calendar curled. With the smell of metal.

📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅 📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅

As One

Everyone needs a hero.

So it is that the town of Wilkinson gathered to celebrate the sacrifices of those who cared for those who ran towards flames or pain.

Sirens wailed–not for safety, but empty celebration. The confetti little ones in the audience at the town’s stadium fell to its floor in heaps of ash.

The parade was in full swing– cars drove by with garish clowns staring out the window. Jugglers on pogo sticks smiled twisted smiles as they tossed tennis balls in the air.

Confetti ash stuck to spectators’ hands as they waved their party favours. In the middle of the third row, a mask slipped–a child’s gaze felt–

Hollow.

Vacant.

🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊

The marches began–armed service platoons, and paramedics, now on a different duty. They marched well.

Too well. Too timed. Their boots struck the pavement in a march too stoic–one beyond dignity.

A metallic tang rode the air, filling it with an almost bloodlike taste.

Where there was none.

The crowd started to shift in their seats. Little children eyed the passing clowns, not with laughter or smiles, but stares, locked in place.

Siren calls distorted–the crowd snapped its heads in their direction.

In perfect sync.

Unthinking.

And the marchers lagged behind the music–not under its guidance, but the metronome of another.

🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊

The metallic tang thickened, more and more akin to blood. The confetti ash stuck to everyone’s hair, greying each member of the crowd.

A crowd of dedicated to service.

One which continued its mechanical cheers.

Then, one of the marchers faltered out of step. His mask slipped.

His face–sunken. Pale. Stoic.

Features affixed.

The crowd soon followed his falter, their masks dutifully slipping.

To the same, unseen rhythm.

Their faces–his.

Sunken. Pale. Stoic.

🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊

Silence.

The group of marchers and the crowd stayed still.

As one.

Staring.

At —

🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊

When a march like this begins, would you follow, or strip off the mask? Do answer in the comments!

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 Marble Steak

This story contains images that may disturb some, but is meant to teach, not glorify harm.

A little piece de resistance for Steak and Zuchcchini day.

Beware when the pursuit of greatness cuts too deep.

🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴

I remember Mama Tree. She was once my whole life.

I was hers.

Entwined.

En-branched.

We worshipped nature’s balance. The balance in life.

And I remember that logger. The one who took Mama’s life.

Butchered her trunk.

My trunk.

And we became…

Butcher blocks.

Festering in the corner of Marrow and Vine.

You’d find it in a cosy corner of a gentrified district…one for the epicurians.

But few knew that we were its prisoners.

Forever trapped as witnesses to the violence of blades.

The ears that heard the cries of cut meat.

And the wallowing of marrow.

The taunts of Chef Calder Lim as he prepared his piece de resistance–reversed-aged sirloin on zucchini slices–

Rare.

🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴

“Everyone!” Calder’s grating voice boomed through the kitchen.

His Sous Chef, Justine Chew, shot him a look dirtier than a diaper.

Ignoring the almost-malevolent stare, Calder held up a cut of meat.

Red.

Angry.

Eerie.

Almost diabolical.

A cut of lab-grown steak, which I just knew wasn’t animal.

Just…not.

The enormous walk-in fridge became a coffin.

A zucchini morgue.

And it didn’t ring with the vegan in Justine. She slammed the fridge door, squirming.

She drew her cutting board. Calder’s signature dish..at the expense of her soul.

She raised her cleaver over a slab of wagyu.

And stopped.

She was supposed to be alone in the kitchen.

But…

Whispers.

“Why chop?” The cry was faint.

Pleading.

She chalked it up to exhaustion…she had pulled an all-nighter to prepare for the next day’s culinary exam.

She hit the books after dinner. It was another long night.

One marked by an eerie green shade.

Her head rested on the table.

Green roots tugging.

And tugging.

They entrenched her in their centre.

🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴

And Justine wasn’t the only one—

Rooted.

Calder, Head Chef, had begun losing his head–and his hands.

Steak ala Palm (his) became part of the day’s menu after his knife sliced into his hand mid-service.

He had placed it on the griddle, together with the other sizzling steaks.

And I, the block, found my strength growing.

And growing.

With the blood from Calder’s steaks.

The zucchinis became my watchmen.

They twisted.

Absorbed Calder’s trauma.

Losing their softness.

Justine knew she had to act—before anyone lost themselves.

She found herself at Marrow Vine’s tiny library, tucked in musty attic.

There, a tome. Covered in layers of dust.

Her mouth fell open.

Marrow Vine.

Built on sacred land.

The last Head Chef.

Vanished.

The last entry—

“The Zucchini watches you.”

🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴

The day came. Calder’s big reveal. His human-sirloin steak zucchini combo.

A hit with the guests.

Until one bit into a zucchini.

That screamed.

The doors of the restaurant slammed shut.

Themselves.

I luminesced. A telepathic connection–

With Calder.

He began to stew.

Literally.

Besides the steaks.

Justine stood by, back against the wall, trembling.

I didn’t have to tell her.

She either joined us…or became a joint.

🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴

Justine didn’t take.

With one fell blow from a cleaver, she smashed me in two.

She grabbed LPG from under a stove.

Poured the fluid over the floor.

Struck a match.

And ran.

I wasn’t all chopped up.

I was repurposed again.

A chic kitchen island in Justine’s new cooking show.

That whispered—

“It’s not about the finest steak and zucchini–it’s in restraint.”

🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴🍴🔪🥄🍽️🥢🔪🍴

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 Upstairs Neighbour

We celebrate women who make their own way today, with a little one or two in tow—it’s Single Working Women’s Day today.

Being a working man or woman is never easy…being a single parent can exacerbate the pressure.

So we honour the women (and men) who make it through life with grit–and cute, small packages.

👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻

Janine Low’s walk-up apartment was quiet—the quiet of the unknown. The park and street in front of it were lifeless sketches on a canvas: they waited for human additions.

But it at least prevented the procrastination monster from growling—the silent surroundings brought the overworked HR executive a few hours on the online clock while her six-year-old son, Nicholas, recharged his used-up rambunctiousness with sleep.

Single motherhood in metropolitan Singapore was no walk in the park. The loud groans of the HR inbox competed with Nicholas’ endless skateboarding streaks. She typed while the flat whispered.

And relationships were a gladiator cage for the single mother. Her ex’s constant texts “to talk” about their son were constant battles of the Lows.

Work was worse. Fellow HR executive Maddy couldn’t resist the limelight—the credit-stealing aficionado often told the management about work that had been done before she could.

Then, there was the apartment just above. Vacant. A supposed den of zen – yet something kept her up like Nicholas’ metronome on edge.

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Ever the responsible adult single mother, Janine tried to “logic” everything to Nicholas. Chat GPT became her unofficial guru– everything from why flats made noises at night to what happens when children talk to invisible friends.

Busy as she was, she tried to sound out the neighbour upstairs– no one ever did.

At her wit’s end, she approached the building manager.

Another vague reply.

“Oh, her ah.. that apartment…empty since COVID struck. She left…..chiong ah (hurried).

Nicholas didn’t make things much better.

Janine arched over his young shoulder over breakfast one morning. He was occupied by what most 6-year-olds were–stick drawings.

Except that his was–

Of a lady.

Too real.

Janine recognised her at once– she’d never described her to Nicholas.

The lady from the vacant apartment.

The boy merely smiled and looked up.

“She doesn’t like it when you peep.”

Again, childhood fantasy was her comfort rationale.

Until she began to hear noises at night.

Humming.

Ethereal singing.

Footsteps shuffling.

Things started to move.

She left her bedroom slippers turned to the bed- they pointed to the bedroom door in the morning.

It had been locked to prevent Nicholas from skateboard spiralling.

He sketched again the next morning– this time with a caption below the drawing.

“She’s watching.”

Work was a stress bomb that tore her hair out further. Maddy continued her climb up the corporate ladder– kicking the rungs beneath. Her credibility slipped–sleep eluded.

A trusted colleague, Lisa, pulled her aside in the bathroom.

“Hey, is everything all right? You’re looking pale. It’s not just stress is it?”

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Things that would go wrong did.

Printers jammed.

Another proposal vanished.

She thought of the humming she’d heard.

It sounded faintly like–

A lullaby.

From her childhood.

Nicholas brought her another drawing that night.

Her jaw dropped.

One of–

Herself.

With the lady upstairs holding her shoulder.

But the single mother didn’t let that faze her. Something was bleeding through.

And she needed to stem it.

👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻

Janine was exhausted–not by stress, but by the unknown pressing down on her and Nicholas.

She couldn’t just ignore what was happening.

She needed someone’s ears–Lisa’s, the building manager’s–even her ex-mother-in-law’s–but wasn’t sure which would hear–

Without setting off alarm bells that wouldn’t stop ringing.

She plucked up whatever courage she still had and crept upstairs.

Through the dank and darkened corridors of an untouched floor.

The door to the empty apartment was as expected–dust-covered, with paint chipped in too many places. An old shrine stood near it–the tenant hadn’t cleared the altar before she passed–

In the home.

With trembling fingers, she tapped it gently.

No one answered.

She was about to turn away when a whisper pierced the still air.

“Janine…”

A soft click.

Something moved.

A note. Slipped under the doormat.

“Beware….of IT?”

Before she couldn’t figure out what IT meant, the note dissolved–

Into nothing.

She kept typing the word “it” in the document she was working on at work the next day–she couldn’t help herself.

👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻

Then, strange happenings.

In her favour.

Every time Maddy tried to claim her credit, the CC chain would vanish.

Each time she vented about cancelled leave, the system would auto-approve hers.

It seemed like a trade-off with the unknown–one that made her cringe.

But something sparked.

IT was PRIDE. A compelling force.

That stopped the need–

to ask.

👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻

She returned to the apartment that night–

The door was ajar.]

The home felt warm. Strangely welcoming.

On an old table was a sketch of Nicholas–smiling.

Next to him was herself. Calm. A proud mother.

Back at work, she found that Maddy had done the unthinkable–tendered her resignation.

She deleted the word “it” from her working document.

And it retyped.

“I heard, ah.”

The sign off.

“Your neighbour, Ho Kwee (friendly ghost). “

👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻

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.

She Smiles And Doesn’t Blink

This day–17 July–is World Emoji Day.

It’s about faces–frozen in planned expression.

It’s all about the masks we wear–

To placate.

To please.

To calm.

But do they placate, please or calm–ourselves?

🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤

Mr. Ding was that constant ghost in the neighbourhood–always smiling, in a suit so well-pressed that irons would heat up in shame. He loomed on one’s memory, like ivy weaving through windows; silent, sudden, impossible to miss. The children spoke of him, unsure whether he was waiting–about the house with lights that flashed dim, dying signals, struggling to keep time.

🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤

The air wrapped its heavy arms around Mr. Ding’s home on Halloween night, but it didn’t seem to have caught the joyfully screaming children on the street.

Still, the lights around his house flickered impatiently, almost aggressively–in slow, twisted time.

Little Liya knocked his front door, driven by candy canes and Hershey’s kisses.

Mr. Ding finally opened it—after a full half hour.

He smiled—in a thin line.

“Trick or treat,” the basket in Liya’s hands trembled.

No candy. He put something else in her hands.

A mask.

“It will keep you safe.” The chill in his eyes didn’t match his smile.

Liya grasped the mask in her hands–one that covered more than she knew

🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤

The air wrapped its heavy arms around Mr. Ding’s home on Halloween night, but it didn’t seem to have caught the joyfully screaming children on the street.

Still, the lights around his house flickered impatiently, almost aggressively–in slow, twisted time.

Little Liya knocked his front door, driven by candy canes and Hershey’s kisses.

Mr. Ding finally opened it—after a full half hour.

He smiled—in a thin line.

“Trick or treat,” the basket in Liya’s hands trembled.

No candy. He put something else in her hands.

A mask.

“It will keep you safe.” The chill in his eyes didn’t match his smile.

Liya grasped the mask in her hands–one that covered more than she knew.

🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤

Liya walked away from Mr Ding’s home, her steps anchored by an unseen weight. Halloween revellers scattered all over the path before her, walking with joy that was–

Off.

Children walked by her without a glance backwards. She was transparent glass to the adults.

And her voice? It wasn’t her own. Her mother acknowledged that with a pale face.

The mask wasn’t in her hands.

She glanced at herself in the hallway mirror.

A shriek that nearly broke it.

She made desperate clutches at her face.

No feeling.

Her smile wouldn’t disappear.

🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤

Halloween returned a year later, with Liya at home.

Her silhouette in the window.

Passersby who looked up walked past faster than their legss would carry them.

She couldn’t move. Wouldn’t– or couldn’t–talk.

But she could smile.

It was the only thing she could do.

Mr. Ding’s home no longer flickered– the pulse of the lights were even.

Satisfied.

There were knocks on Mr. Ding’s door.

Another child. Just a child.

Naively asking for treats.

At least, until Mr. Ding and Liya opened the door.

And Liya held out a tray, the permanent smile stretched across her face.

With a mask that he would wear to placate someone. Please someone. Calm someone.

But not himself.

🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤

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.