When obsession drowns out reason, only the voice remains.
🔊
Adrian Cho was accustomed to working on his own—the sound technician eliminated ambient noise whenever he could. The shuffling of feet or sudden bumps would disrupt his work.
He was in an abandoned shophouse that fateful night, working out audio kinks for a new film. Old shophouses came with echoes—not Adrian’s favourite place to work. Floorboards creaked—unsurprising, since these places were generally weatherbeaten.
So, when murmurs started sounding through the floorboards, he merely passed them over as “age.”
Until they started to mimic his voice.
In whispers too close to thought.
Echoes that should not have been.
And he hadn’t been speaking—not one word.
Ever the stoic sound engineer, Adrian dutifully recorded the sounds over the next few days—they HAD to do with the structure.
But the playbacks were—
ODD.
They revealed something new—each and every time.
Pealed laughter.
Muted whispering.
Then—confessions he made—only in his mind.
Chopped sentences covered in static.
About the dalliances his wife never knew about.
The dissatisfaction with his marriag
But each replay mangled reality—
each more distorted.
Sleep be came an elusive bedfellow—more estranged than his wife.
His logic began to crumble under the sound. Isolating the source of the recordings was the only thing he could think of.
On a sleepless night, the sound almost drove Adrian deranged. He ripped the floorboards apart to confront the incessant murmuring.
No untoward creature, no sentient being.
Just a recording.
Labelled with his name.
He pressed the recorder’s “play” button.
Shrieks from beyond filled the room.
The sound of himself, unmade.
In his voice—one he hardly knew existed.
The uncanny shrieks were loud enough to prompt neighbours to take action.
The police later scoured his apartment—
emptiness louder than fear.
Silence that consumed.
His equipment, running.
An officer heard the playback on the recorder.
A distended voice mixed with static.
“Adrian, stop.”
Adrian was wanted—and listened.
By his mind, or himself—for him to know.
🔊
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The Berlin Wall fell this day, November 9th, 1989.
It took just one night for its pieces to shatter.
The walls that surround hearts can take a lifetime to break.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
50-year-old Thomas Weiss stood before a crumbling wall, wielding a hammer he wasn’t sure he wanted to use. His wife, Hannah, and twin sons had resided in the free zone for years–because she wanted to.
The wall had come down in 1989–ten years to this day. The shattered pieces lay on the ground, waiting to come together.
Thomas wondered if they would–but some walls sealed hearts.
And stood taller.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
Youngsters still came to hack at the bricks that hadn’t yet given way, breaking out in raucous hollers as they did.
Thomas watched them, his memories more dislodged with each blow of the hammer. Each cheer he heard felt like an accusation—like Hannah’s last words to him.
He wasn’t sure he envied the wall for coming down.
Before he slammed the door of the family home–sharper than the barbed wire that accompanied the bricks.
A young man spotted him standing, still in a reverie. He stretched out his hand–a small piece of the wall lay in his palm.
Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t sure if it was just unwanted history coming apart, or a piece of his own heart.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
His wife appeared amidst the dust and fallen wall splinters.
Older.
Strange.
The shadow of the wall that was, stood between them–too real.
Freedom felt foreign–the hardest reunions were the ones one didn’t prepare for.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
He dropped his hammer, the crowd’s joy flooding over him. He and Hannah didn’t embrace–but stood together.
Breathing the air of freedom for the first time–
In decades.
Their unity had begun—in silence.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
As dawn broke, the wall had nearly crumbled completely. The crowd had vanished, save for a few stragglers.
The bricks had come apart in just one night in 1989. His peace with Hannah would take a lifetime of rebuilding.
The Berlin wall had finally fallen. The one in his heart–still solid brick.
And had to shatter–within.
🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Today marks the anniversary of a milestone in women’s political power in America—the election of the first woman to Congress. We mirror that femininity in Singapore by celebrating the Samsui Woman, a female labourer commonly seen at construction sites in the 1950s and 60s. Opportunities for women have increased over the years—and her scarf, and spirit, live on. She wields the scarlet scarf of strength.
🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬
The evening air was dense with the usual Singapore humidity–and tales once woven. Despite the tropical overwhelm, Singaporeans walked to the polls.
Outside on a railing was a scarf–red, fluttering in the November wind. It hung a poignant scarlet against the grey twilight. No one saw the woman who donned it, or her dust-streaked blue blouse.
A heavy blouse no wind could lift.
Mdm Ong was a Samsui Woman who lived in Singapore of the 1950s–a construction worker who laid bricks when women weren’t meant to construct. Along with others like her, she built a city that never knew–or wanted to know–her name.
She had toiled when families prayed, hauling beams twice her weight. She out-dreamt her pay.
She returned every Singapore election–not as a ghost, but as a witness.
An elections officer noticed her form in the glass, in a blue samfoo, head bound in a telltale red scarf. She watched as the women of the time filed past to the polling booths, pens ready to mark their chosen candidate.
She blinked, and the Samsui ghost left, leaving only the faint, but comforting scent of earth.
The elections staff sealed the ballot boxes. The scarf fluttered to the ground. The elections officer picked it up, and wore the proud memory around her neck.
🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬
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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
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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.
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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.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
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.
💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
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.
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.
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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.
“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
