Tracing with Chalklines

Tracing the lines between purpose and passion.

If I could chart my life as a map, it would be done with chalk–with some parts erased, rewritten, and finally, merged as one.

I have chartered the mental highway that connects its different parts-some with clarity, others in brain fog that’ refuses to clear.

Each line I draw is jagged. Unclear. It smudges, the ink making the words on the map difficult to read.

Through the smudged ink, chalkdust and jagged lines, I move forward, seeking a self-and drawing that is complete.

A teacher’s map is one that I’ve always wanted to charter–my mum, being a teacher, has drawn one of her own.

I drew mine with some difficulty because the chalk flaked at many points.

Flaky chalk defined the starting point of my map. I had wanted to chart a legal map–to travel along life’s road as a successful litigator.

Then—

My brain received two unwanted visitors-pituitary brain tumours

Introspection and altruism held the chalk–and drew for me.

Charting the Teacher’s map, with the noble goal of shaping lives–became, literally and metaphorically, a more attractive draw.

So it was that I reached the first destinations along my map as a teacher—the National Institute of Education and the Nanyang Technological University.

The road I drew–then travelled on–was not without its bumps and resulting bruises

My next stop on the road was at an all-girl’s convent teaching seven-year-old mademoiselles(the school has a French history).

The bump along the road? They didn’t behave like mademoiselles.

They did as little girls would do–they constantly chattered.

Like raucous boys would, they messed up the classroom–every day.

But they also called me “mummy”.

Then–I knew that the Teacher’s Map would lead to a Treasure Chest.

I travelled along the map to secondary schools.

The next stop was one in the North of Singapore, where I realised that teaching wasn’t just about classroom lesson delivery–it was life lesson delivery.

Part of the map was drawing FOR the students–shaping their confidence as musicians, serving as their lead singer at school rock concert performances, and boosting their linguistic capabilities via English and Literature.

More shaping–and chartering.

This time I drew my map–and maps for other teachers–as an English and Literature subject coordinator.

Some maps were tasks to draw–when conjugating a grammatical sentence was difficult.

When a student wrote a full, five-page essay with a single–just one–period, or full stop, at the end.

When I had to help an abusive student navigate his relationship with his mother.

When some students smoked in class, in full view.

But the teaching map wasn’t the only one I was to charter.

The writing map cried out to this teacher to draw as well.

I had chartered the map to a crossroads.

The teaching map would trace a route of stability, structure and control.

But not satisfaction–

Of creation. Of being in control of one’s voice.

The writing map held that satisfaction.

But not structure or stability.

But I realised that I didn’t have to make that choice–

I drew both.

One map chartered the other.

Their efforts produced the map of a creative writing teacher.

One who got students to produce storyboards.

Who also got students to draw their maps after sitting for the O level examinations.

The maps are still being drawn.

Each is hard to chart or follow on its own..

But both have to work together-

For financial security.

Personal satisfaction.

For the arrival of a whole soul at its destination.

Original Map of the Self memoir by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. Any AI tags are conincidental

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 Keyhole Mysteries Story 2: The Keyhole Journalist

Some stories are written only by the heart.

🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️

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. 

🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️

The key to the room, coated in rust, no longer turned. 

But curiosity piqued, he gazed through the keyhole in its door–

A girl run over by a truck.

He himself, taking photographs for an article, among a crowd of curious onlookers.

On another night, a man, grasping his heart, collapsed on the ground. 

Again himself. His camera, furiously clicking.

🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️

One evening, he glimpsed a figure he knew too well–his younger self, standing over a table of articles. 

He met his own eyes, across the line of time. 

Beckoning him.

He paused–then knew.

🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️

His articles had never left him–only waited for him to write–

Anew.

With more heart. 

He threw the door open. The room was empty except for one finished article, freshly written, in a typewriter on an old desk. 

“Begin again.”

Jun knew that his writing would come to life with a clear, throbbing heartbeat.

That some articles were finished with spirit. 

What faded from the eyes came to life–

With soul.

🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️

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 Filament Shines

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.

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. 

💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕

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.

💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕

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.  

💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕

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.

💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕

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 Moon Gives

Nature gives, yet some forget its cost.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

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.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

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.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

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.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

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.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

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

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

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

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

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.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

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.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

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.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

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.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

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.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

.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.

🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜

“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.

🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜

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

🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜

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.

🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜

For the employees–there had been no promotion.

The climb ends where trust falls.

🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜🪜

.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.”

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

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.

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

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.”

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

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.”

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

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 September 18th Numbers

Listen…to the quiet warnings.

📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅 📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅

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.

📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅 📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅

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.
📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅 📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅📅
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.