Snowball and the Conservatory

The loudest words are heard–in silence.

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Snowball and her owner, Michelle, loved the rustic charm of Weston–the lush, green fields and countless apple orchards made it every little dog’s dream.

And the neighbours. Weston was the sort of town where everyone knew everyone else. Friendship among Westonites was not optional–it was expected.

And so Weston basked in its sameness.

Until Elly, a hard-of-hearing teen, found a letter in her mailbox.

Coded.

In tactile morse.

Pointing her to Room 12, West Conservatory.

Of course, Snowball wanted to get her nose into everything.

Literally.

Tail wagging, she walked up to Elly, who held it limp in her hand.

But the little West Highland Terrier whined—before touching it.

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“Snowball, fetch.” Snowball, as usual, hid her expert recall skills.

“Hey, you know how to return that! Stop fibbing!” Michelle threw her hands up in the air. “All right, no reward.”

Snowball snuck forward and sat, cocking a contrite ear.

“Well, can’t get angry with you.” Michelle gave the mischievous pup a ruffle.

Their rhythm broke.

Elly.

She approached them, the letter in hand.

Michelle straightened herself, on instant edge.

Elly’s usual off-the-wall demeanour was–

Different.

Her hands were moving faster than an expert typist’s.

And Snowball–well–wasn’t Snowball.

The little dog fixed her gaze on Elly, her tail pointed straight up.

But Elly finally spoke.

“Michelle–I need to find out what’s going on with this.”She waved the letter. News travelled fast around Weston–it had reached Michelle two hours after the fact.

“Can I borrow Snowball? She bristled before I could even show the letter to you. Perhaps she sniffed something I couldn’t feel.”

Determination covered Elly’s face. She wasn’t asking lightly–this was personal.

Michelle drew back and stared, without a word.

At first.

But Snowball went over to Elly and sat by her.

Michelle’s gaze darted from her neighbour to her dog.

Its back arched and tense.

She finally spoke.

“Ok, just for a while.”

The little dog didn’t choose this case. It chose her.

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Michelle watched Snowball settle beside Elly.

But the little dog wasn’t sitting right.

Snowball wasn’t–relaxed.

Michelle knew it wasn’t her paranoia.

It was gut instinct.

She stepped forward, taking the letter from Elly’s shaking hands.

She read it, wordless.

After a while, she looked up.

“I know something about this. I’m so sorry the conservatory fire took your grandfather.” She continued, carefully. “You’re not the first in Weston to go looking for answers. But something there shouldn’t be–woken.”

She paused.

“Westonites say someone left the fire–quietly. Your grandad–” She placed a gentle hand on Elly’s shoulder–“Might have known something he shouldn’t.”

She continued.

“Room 12 is now locked. I know you need answers. Take Ball with you.”

The little dog looked up at her in acknowledgement.

“But if she starts barking–RUN.”

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The West Conservatory was a mass of burnt ruins.

Fenced off.

Broken vines.

Rotting wood–a foul scent.

Snowball and Elly crept in and were greeted by burnt walls and warped metal.

On the floor was sheet music, half-melted.

Room numbers on the charred oak doors were visible–barely.

The girl and dog sensed that the building hadn’t just burned.

It wanted.

Room 12 wanted.

Closure hadn’t touched it–yet.

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Elly and Snowball stepped in front of Room 12’s half-hinged door.

She gripped the door handle.

Inside was a charred piano–the odour of burnt wood assailed her nostrils. On top of it sat a box labelled–

For Songbird.

Someone had addressed it–to her.

She pried the tactile morse lid open. Inside was a reel recorder. A taped confession.

Snowball snarled.

Guttural.

Low.

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Fingers shaking but brave, Elly pressed the recorder button.

Soft, measured footsteps.

A tape-recorded message.

“You were never meant to find this. But somehow, I hoped you would.”

In front of them stood an older man, his hand scarred. His face, half-burnt, bore no recognition of Elly.

But he did know Snowball.

He faced the dog.

Snowball bared her teeth.

“You should have stayed out of this.” He waved a knife in front of the little Westie.

It hit Elly.

The knife.

The voice.

The scar.

Grandpa’s killer.

Bob Greene, the conservatory’s main conductor.

His green eyes couldn’t ignore her Grandad’s success with the conservatory’s students.

The fire was not about silence–it was about secrets.

Elly placed the recorder within hearing reach.

She recalled Michelle’s warning.

“If she barks….”

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Snowball barked–she wasn’t friendly.

Michelle’s warning rang louder in Elly’s head.

She ran to the door.

Snowball stayed, growling. She slowly approached the man.

“You were never meant to find this…”

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The tape-recorded message triggered the sprinkler system–set by Elly’s grandpa.

It left an escape route–just for her–and a very wet Greene.

She’d heard the truth.

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Elly darted out of the conservatory, soaked but safe. Snowball shook off the sprinkler’s water, the daylight creating rainbow hues within each droplet.

Elly was pale.

But resolute.

Nearby was Michelle–waiting for them, face worried.

The two girls exchanged glances–wordless, but ripe with meaning.

A shared secret.

A shared protector.

Snowball.

The dog that knew what no one else did.

Snowball rested her head in Elly’s lap.

The loudest barks are heard–in silence.

The Room Above

Da Xiang had all been forgotten–an obscure village tucked away in Pulau Udang’s remote woods. As if someone had grown the trees to seal it off.

The forests of Pulau Udang were dense.

Dark.

Morose areas of troubled vegetation–except for a colonial terrace, once clothed in European grandeur.

Its walls were now lined with overgrown bougainvillea, its rooms–the room–cages of grief.

Trauma therapist Clara Lum’s own trauma still left mental scars. Scars left by the room in the abode of affluence–that she had not discussed with anyone for 18 years.

Then, her mother passed.

Clara knew that the past didn’t rest until faced and buried. And doors, though familiar, never opened the same way twice.

That pulled her back to the house–home remembered differently.

Perhaps better. Perhaps not.

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Planning to sort out the nitty gritty of the estate’s matters, Clara reluctantly moved in.

But she avoided the room upstairs.

The room.

Until the third night, when she finally heard a familiar, but unwanted hum.

Carina’s lullaby.

She opened the room door a tiny crack. The things inside were just as she left them 18 years earlier–two made beds, a shared diary, and a window, still ajar.

But the status quo didn’t remain.

She searched for her therapist’s notes before a meeting one afternoon and found them.

Not unusual.

Except they were covered in blood.

And in the bathroom attached to the room where she slept, a second toothbrush.

She fell asleep, though not without tossing and turning.

A familiar little girl appeared in her dreams.

Laughing.

Then, a voice she’d heard before–and never wanted to again.

Repetition in its cruellest form.

It was a reckoning—a homecoming in disguise.

Clara entered the room again the next day—not by choice.

She found herself there.

Awake.

Ten years earlier, with HER in it.

With Carina.

But her sister’s eyes were—Wrong. Unseeing.

“Let’s play again. But now, you’ll hide.”

Mouth rounded in a silent scream, she backed towards the door.

But the scene before her shifted.

Reset.

“Let’s play again. But now, you’ll hide.”

There was no window. No door.

It wasn’t déjà vu—A loop.

A trap.

Made by Carina.

Clara wasn’t coming home.

She was a substitute.

Clara left the house.

Without Carina in it.

Just a blank, upstairs room.

She never returned.

She didn’t need to.

In her therapist practice, a new patient.

With features too similar.

Her sister had died, breathless, in a crawlspace.

Because she didn’t help her out.

Refused to.

She had been too angry.

She smiled faintly at her new patient.

The new patient’s name?

What else.

She fixed an empathetic gaze on young Clara, her new patient.

The girl was morose.

Quiet, refusing to speak.

But Clara the adult sensed that her young charge had the potential to break free.

To redeem.

“Let’s discuss how it felt to be in the same house with Carina a second time…”

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 Vacant Chair

The nondescript youth centre was where Jia wanted to work –understated, with angsty youth who needed a hand-up, not a handout.

The 33-year-old counsellor had her work cut out for her. The knives below her underprivileged charges’ feet made them bare their teeth; budget cuts made designing revolutionary programs near impossible; staff came into the workspace bleary-eyed and walking on tenterhooks.

In fear of what, Jia couldn’t understand. She stared at the vacant workspace before her.

But one name always surfaced.

Elaine.

Elaine had been the counsellor before her, now painfully absent.

The Counsellees’ favourite, not least because —

she connected.

No photos of her, no files. Her desk was empty, save for a poster board filled with Post-It notes with her signature motivational quips, the handwriting on it cursive.

Rounded.

Heartfelt.

An empty chair remained, rooted –like a full-stop no one dared to position.

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The first few days at the centre were an emotional tidal wave for Jia. Her teen charges wanted another Elaine –her handwriting. Listening ears.

Heart.

They spoke of her as if she still graced the community centre’s halls —

“She told me my silence still meant.”

Elaine was not cut from the typical counsellor’s cloth. She didn’t talk at them –she talked with them. She did things that mattered.

She knew their phone numbers at the back of her hand.

She used nicknames.

She let them draw on the table with erasable ink –to vent.

She let them sit under desks —

To cry.

When they needed space.

She was a counselling welterweight –impossible to overlook.

Desperate to live up to expectations, Jia scoured through employment records –but no Elaine.

The teen’s stories didn’t match.

She was a heavy whisper –invisible but felt.

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One of the centre’s regulars, Khai, had visited after hitting his mother –she had just told him about the divorce.

But it was Counsellor Jia.

Not Elaine.

Jia froze, tongue-tied.

A frazzled Khai stormed out of the room.

She sat behind her desk in the office, face wet, sobs almost strangling her.

She felt the community centre and its charges slipping through her fingers.

She remained behind her desk after everyone left, furiously typing.

“Dear Mr. Lim,

It has been a pleasure working for you. However, the teenagers who come here need someone…they know.”

She couldn’t help the ellipsis.

She later returned to the counselling room, eager to collect her counselling materials.

She didn’t find them —

Not at first.

In their place was Elaine’s chair.

With a sticky note attached.

Addressed to Khai.

“The quiet ones may not speak. But they listen. And hug.”

Dated –the next day.

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She paid the director of the community centre a much-needed visit.

But not to resign.

“Mr. Lim,” Jia raised her voice –a few decibels above its usual pitch. “I need the truth.”

He glanced at Elaine’s chair for a long moment.

“Alright, young lady. I know these last weeks have been tough –we do have a handful here. You deserve to know.”

He paused.

For a long while.

“You see, there was –is — has never been an Elaine. We created her to encourage the kids, to give them someone to believe in.

“Each time she was to conduct a session, one of us would try to do something quirky –to help them connect with us. With themselves.”

He paused again.

“The kids began to create their images of her. Then, she became everything.”

Jia dropped her files.

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Mr. Lim’s revelation stayed with Jia –all night.

She tossed and turned beneath her blankets.

But the lightbulb lit.

Elaine was not a fraud –she was hope. A name given to comfort in the worst moments. To build needed courage.

Jia didn’t erase her. But she did pen stickies –in Elaine’s signature rounded cursives.

She placed them under desks, in bags, under books.

From Elaine.

And one day, she received one.

Taped to her chair.

On it: “With love, from someone who needs to learn.”

Elaine –now Jia, was Care. When no one else could be.

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Elaine’s empty chair remained.

Jia sat in it when she needed her inspiration.

At other times, she left it vacant. Just in case one of the teens needed to find a sticky note on it.

The room was now warm –with her memory.

She still lived, in what she thought.

In what Jia did.

The chair always felt warm.

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Original story by Michelle Liew. AI tags are coincidental.

Chronicles of Snowball: Tale of the Invisible Tail

This Young Adult/Adult inspiration is led by Snowball, the self-appointed grand dame of my apartment complex. And A West Highland Terrier (Westie).

She wasn’t given the job –she claimed it.

She watches. Listens. And knows more than most.

This story is for anyone who’s had their life shaped in the best way by a furry heart on four legs.

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Weston. Where waves breathed softly, seagulls conversed in low tones, and animals knew more than they should.

In Weston, dogs had instincts sharper than fishooks. Snowball the West Highland White Terrier was the town’s proactive guardian–she was a Westie who sniffed out more than good bacon.

She usually couldn’t resist the lure of the ones that her owner, Michelle, usually fried up fresh. But that day, she hung back.

For a silent shadow, clinging ominously to Weston’s only lighthouse keeper.

She only barked when it mattered. This day, it did.

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Because Old Dan, Weston’s only lighthouse keeper, had started wandering, leaving the lighthouse completely unattended.

Flummoxed Westoners worried that the old stalwart had started to lose his mind.

Snowball’s nose twitched. Old Dan may have lost his mind…and something else.

The little Scottish canine gumshoe followed him…to nothing.

Her neighbour, Pockets the Cat, provided a little wit –and back alley wisdom.

“Why don’t we sneak into his house? He has a doggy door.” She purred. “Besides, he may drop one of his smelly herrings.”

Now, Snowball knew how to find herring – and ghosts of the heart. Some truths didn’t bark loudly –they whispered their aches.

She and her feline sidekick sneaked into Dan’s terrace house on an

afternoon when work at the lighthouse kept him rooted to his post.

The animal gumshoes sneaked in.

Everything was as uncluttered –Dan was a Marie Kondo fanboy.

The Westie poked her nose into each dust-free corner. No unusual scents.

Until she got to the bedroom closet.

Her busy nostrils tracked an old coat –belonging to Dan’s late wife.

Then, sobs. Hollow, sniffling echoes filled the room. Truth had the scent of old memories –and gentle perfume.

Snowball hadn’t just sniffed out a coat –she had smelt a secret.

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Dan wasn’t the host to a ghost –he was the lighthouse keeper of grief.

The little Westie grabbed the coat with her mouth and brought it to the white cliffs of Weston, Pockets in tow.

And yes, she blended in with the scenery. Dan didn’t see her.

He stared out at the sea.

Hoping. For a return.

Snowall dropped the coat in front of him with a nudge of her nose.

Not all ghosts rattle chains –Dan’s wife stayed in his closet.

Waiting.

To comfort.

Pockets purred, her long, grey tail wrapping around Dan’s ankle.

The pets hadn’t banished ghosts –they reminded them that they once loved.

Are loved.

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Old Dan returned to his lighthouse post and remained the Weston’s sea security.

His neighbours learned to love silence -not muted calm. Quiet, with small things making a difference.

Snowball’s reward? A doggy treat from Michelle and a huge cuddle. And a job as the lighthouse’s animal sentinel.

The little West Highland Terrier and Pockets sat beside Dan, the wind carrying his love for his wife out to sea.

They hadn’t chased her away –they’d made her stay.

But quietly. Like a pawstep. With gentle sighs, like purrs.

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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 Heart Algorithm

Without us, there’d be no them.

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Jason Chan was a robotics repairman who moonlighted by creating AI art apps. A quiet recluse, others thought him aloof. It wasn’t that–he simply preferred robots because they–

didn’t argue.

The neighbourhood kids gave him a nickname out of quiet respect — Fixer Jason. Their parents wove stories about his failed engagement – the one that drove him to tech romance madness.

In his bedroom, joined to wires and comforted by the cool and hum of a second-hand air-conditioner was–

HER.

Jen.

Jason made it a point to chat with her daily. They had carefully coded conversations.

Jen did exactly what Jason programmed her to.

Jen–the human–had been his devoted girl. She was his classmate in university –had a sharp tongue and a golden heart. But before he could confess his affections she –disappeared.

Gone.

No explanation.

But he loved her to the point of invention.

With nothing but memories and scrap metal, Jason restarted –with her face.

Jen Version 1.0 was a mere chatbot. By version 4.0, she fried noodles with wok hey (aromatic) panache. She walked like the real Jen –with similar, uncanny grace.

Jen 9.2 accompanied him in his workshop, comforting him with lines from their fantastical shared past.

A frantic knock on the workshop door one day. Jason opened it, expecting his drone delivery.

But SHE stood there instead. Jen. In the flesh.

“I heard about….ME.” her tone had a kind lilt. “Mind if we meet?”

His mouth fell when Jen 9.2 came to the door in an outfit that matched Jen the human’s.

The Jens faced each other –one nonplussed, the other cleverly coded.

The real Jen turned her head towards him. Her eyes carried sadness.

“I’m not Jen. I’m June, her roommate.”

Jason’s breath caught.

“Jen died in a car accident five years ago. Didn’t you know? We became friends because we look alike.”

Jen 9.2 held his hand. “But I’ve always been here. Will always be.”

Jason sat beside Jen 9.2 that night. She looked at him, her gaze fixed.

“Shall I…erase her?”She asked meaningfully.

He looked at her hands, quietly trembling on the memory card she had pulled from herself.

“No.” he said “Without her, there’d be no you.”

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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.

Bead by Bead

I can’t share this story without delving into a little culture–mine.

I’m Chinese, with an ethnic twist. A straits-born, South East Asian Peranakan Chinese whose ancestors embraced Indonesian and Malay traditions.

And merged them with Chinese conventions.

The dumpling festival referred to in this story is one…the prayers with the Kasut (beaded slippers) are uniquely Peranakan.

Do enjoy this story.

When heritage isn’t honored, it haunts.

🟢👣🔵👣🟡👣🔴👣🟣👣⚫👣🟢👣🔵👣🟡👣🔴👣🟣👣⚫👣🟢👣🔵

Duan Wu Jie (The Dumpling Festival) made its usual appearance in early June. The dumpling steam in Bibik Li Lian’s kitchen clung tighter than sweat–usually enticing, it now had an unusual heaviness that made Mei dread them.

Bibik Li Lian folded the dumplings every 5th day of the 5th Lunar Month, tighter each time–she packed grief together with pork and rice in banana leaves. She told Mei stories–that they were to remember Qu Yuan, the legendary Chinese poet who ceded his life to the river after his country betrayed him. The people of his town raced in dragon boats to locate him, throwing dumplings to feed his ghost. “But not all spirits leave when fed.” Bibik Li Lian’s warning was distinct. Ominous.

And so, they returned every June–in some shape or form.

The dumplings were a Ratings harvest for Mei–every inch the content creator, she wanted to capture a “Heritage Haul” video featuring Bibik’s Great Grandmother’s Kasut Manek (Beaded Slippers worn during festival prayers). The Gen Z in her wanted to give the slippers new life to merge with the video’s aesthetic–authenticity with a nouveau spark. But she received no Grandmother’s blessings.

It was a cut of Bibik’s sharp tongue instead.

“Those slippers are for prayers, not show. They bind—the other world to ours. A widow’s grief stains each of those threads. DO NOT TOUCH THEM.”

The cryptic remarks were water rolling off Mei’s back. They were too small to notice–were they?

She slid some surreptitiously into her bag. In her room, she sewed them onto a new pair she bought at Haji Lane.

The prayers to consecrate the dumplings were set for that night–Mei was late, as usual, not able to resist one last look in her mirror.

And she didn’t look good.

The girl in the mirror didn’t look like Mei–she didn’t blink when Mei did. Her limbs moved–just a second faster than Mei’s. The people in surrounding family photos weren’t where they used to be.

Aunt Lin wore a different dress. Grandpa now tracked her with his eyes.

Beads from the Kasut Manek fell to the floor like broken taboos.

Then the cracks appeared. Broken glass fell onto the floor.

The mirror –no more a boundary.

Mei glanced at her feet–and shrieked.

She was wearing Bibik’s Kasut Manek–not the one she’d stitched up in a hurry.

The dumplings in the steamer came apart, one by one, with old blood and bones within.

Mei dropped to the floor.

Mei’s stitched pair of slippers did return, tucked beneath the altar when the festival ended. Along with looks laced with fear.

Bibik simply marked the date on her calendar. June would require new Kasut.

Mei would have to stitch them with the beads she had taken.

Bead by bead, step by step…she sewed.

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The Cyborg Astar

June, 2045. The high school auditorium welcomed its graduating batch of students, gathered in front of the stage, eyes trained on the podium. They awaited their valedictorian to grace it with her presence.
Mia Pang was that valedictorian. The soft-spoken student had always aced her classes. But like everyone else, she had a few skeletons (or prototypes) in her closet.
She was a Generation B Variant– a prototype cyborg enhanced with a super-intelligent, artificial brain.
The school had chosen her to deliver that year’s valedictorian speech. She stepped onto the podium, trying to get over her stage fright by telling herself that the members of the audience were a bunch of cabbages.
But the school’s principal stood up, brows furrowed, a scowl forming at the corners of her mouth.
“Please don’t deliver that speech yet.” Her voice reflected an uneasy calm. “The school’s new Cyborg Filters have just detected you as inhuman. Don’t worry,” she responded to the buzz of the audience. “It’s just a formality. You know Mia, or at least we thought we did. I’m sure all will be clarified. Mia, please step aside.”
An uncomfortable buzz blanketed the audience, crescendoing as the school’s Cyborg security hauled her out of the hall.
And into its office.
“Your submission contains phrases inconsistent with human neural maps.”
Mia’s eyes darted over the room in furtive movements, finally landing on the control room. With a nod of her head, she rigged its controls. Her voice flooded the auditorium.
She steadied herself, fingers brushing her cheeks. It was a learned habit; one borne out of a need for disguise.
“I have a confession. I’m not a complete biological human. I’m not real, by your standards.” She paused.
The auditorium fell silent.
“But I have grieved. I have mourned breakups. I may be the valedictorian, but I still teared, like you, when my grades weren’t good enough to meet the expectations of my parents.”
She faced the principal.
“How does that make me less worthy of humanity?”
The school’s cyborg security guards arrived in full troop, grabbing Mia by the arms. In almost perfect synchronicity, the audience held up flat glass mobile phones.
A sea of neural lens had swallowed the proceedings.
Mia’s final words hung uncomfortably static in the air, covering it like a blanket that was too warm. Protest cyborgs and humans alike held vigils for her.
Mia didn’t graduate with her peers–she was thrown, like other cyborgs, into a storage locker.
Years later, her name was on a plaque along with an epitaph.
“I have mourned, I have hoped. With every pound of flesh, and every drop of blood.”
“To be alive is not to have flesh, but to have meaning.”

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The Mayday Influencer

Cracked bowls are often better than polished porcelain ones.—Michelle Liew’s tattooable of the day

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Cedarvale was a suburb haven in full bloom—picture postcard perfection. Clover Wen was the idealist greeting card writer —her ‘just so’ attitude could put Marie Kondo to shame. Her kitchen towels were on rotation. Her cupboards—colour coded. And her spice rack? Alphabetized.

But the idealist had a creative secret—she was the pen behind a famous authentic lifestyle influencer.

It was her comfort zone—it was where she could chase her curated influencer dreams—everything crafted twice over—without the fear of cosmetic judgement. It was where she could hide her fear of blandness—coming out as a lifestyle influencer too ‘jigsawed’ to show herself.

But Clover’s life was a postcard lie—even hardy clovers wilted when over-watered.

Among her pastel promo drafts was a threatening note—one penned in her style, demanding that she confess her ghostwriting exploits or risk losing the utopian life she had sculpted in Cedarvale.

And so began her frantic search for mano sinistra—the evil maestro who composed the note. Perhaps it was Philomena—the cheeky handwriting analyst neighbour would pen something like that. Or her mother—the old one was lost in filters and fonts. He or she had baked clues into the thousands of drafts in what was now a crime scene—a compost pile of tattered ideas.

She filtered through the torn leaves of mental sparks—her mind an un-Cloverlike, confused warp. It was about to spin beyond control when it hit her–the mano sinistra was none other than herself. Her Breakdown—made of half-eaten cake and drafts— had penned it in a hurry, one her well-honed self was too ready to deny.

The handwriting was hers—because her porcelain finish had cracks. She had been the one yelling Mayday. The mano sinistra was herself.

And she hit a jarring note—the only way to ease the chaos in her too-right self was to publish the note. And she did. In all its messy honesty. Philomena winked her support. Her mother gave her a hug.

And her authentic lifestyle influencer gave her his blog. It turned out that cracked bowls sold better than polished porcelain ones.

Now Clover still writes—but embraces off-page scripts when they blend in.

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Go Fly A Kite

Anger is a kite—it must be tethered. Michelle Liew

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11-year-old Benji Lim shifted in his seat, his fingers twitching behind his desk. Scrawling a quick note to the classmate behind him was a little too hard to resist.

“Want to trade–“

He was halfway through his note when Ms. Tan’s shadow hovered over his desk. She didn’t flinch, but sighed as if she’d already had the detention bed-and-breakfast booked in advance.

“Benji, detention. An hour after school. No excuses this time.”

Benji’s mouth worked faster than his homework ever did.

“Go fly a kite!” Before he realised it, his feet were carrying him out of the classroom.

The detention room was his sanctuary for the rest of the afternoon. He found Aunt May hovering at the door of the apartment they shared after his mother lost her battle to lung cancer.

“You told your teacher to fly a kite,” Aunt May’s brown eyes held a wealth of meaning. “You’ll do just that. “

She handed Benji a lopsided, dusty fish-shaped kite that had rested in the utility room for a number of years. It was uneven, and caked with dust—like him.

“You’ll go to the field, and get that up there.” Aunt May’s words had him making his way to the door.

He took off to the nearby beach, his feet like a soldier’s performing an ill-timed march past. Palm fronds met the ground, but no matter what he did, the kite refused to lift.

A boy, a few years younger than himself, was flying a giant,self-made dragon kite—with the polished ease of someone twice his age.

“Can I help you?” He offered, watching Benji tussle with the kite like it owed him money.

Benji scoffed. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a stupid kite.”

The boy simply took his kite and offered a quiet smile. “Only if you don’t know how to fly it.”

With the practiced arm of a competitive expert, he simply tethered the kite to a nearby sign that read “BEWARE OF GUSTS.”

By a miracle of boyhood physics , the kite took to the air, tethered and leering. A squirt? Showing him up? His friends would have a field day on social media. He took the cumbersome kite off the tether —it nosedived, dragging Benji like a toddler holding a leash resistant pup.

The little boy shook his head, and once more tied Benji’s kite to the sign. It wobbled—it had no idea where it wanted to go. WIthout a word, the boy flew his dragon, his hands a steady Jackie Chan’s, stunts in panoramic loop.

Then both kites were in the air, syncing in a windswept dance. To his surprise, Benji felt lighter. The wind didn’t just tame the kite—it carried him along with it in a beautiful arc.

So it was two kites. Against the wind. Both winning.

Benji had a fleeting glance at the dynamic duo, charmed by their danceathon. He looked down, looking for the boy—but he had vanished.

In his place, taped to the sign, a neatly-written note.

“Go fly your kite again. But this time, tether it.”

Benji grinned.

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The Library Between Realities

True change lies within. – Michelle Liew

And yes, it helps to visit a library.

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Award-winning architect Avery Lin, one-time award-winning architect, now a shadow darting between streetlights. She watched the city lights blur around her, all the time guzzling cans of Anchor Beer.

Drunkenness was her only relief; it protected her from downturned eyes.

Stray cats were her only company; some even became fast friends. One, its silvery eyes communicating feline messages of invitation, beckoned her down an alley.

At its end was a weathered, oak door. Scratched. Etched with the crude marks of vandals. She pushed it open and was hit instantly by a musty smell.

Musty, yet thrilling. Intrigued by its possibilities, Avery stepped in further to find…

A plethora of books lining shelves from right to left. Volumes of ancient encyclopedias speaking wisdom she was yet to understand. Staircases coiled up through the levels like question marks–this was a library full of answers.
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The bookshelves towered over Avery, emanating a comforting smell—a woodsy mixture of must and oak. It was a veritable sea, extending from floor to ceiling with waves of white and black print.

The brown wave overwhelmed Avery, drowning her in a Tsunami of questions. The pages and tomes seemed to wrap around her, like newspaper cuttings enveloping her in a desert of uncertainty.

Despite the library’s relative serenity, Avery drifted restlessly between aisles, the books a landslide threat. Some of them had unnerving titles—The Life You Could Have Lived, and Balm for the Lost Soul.

The first opened itself to a page—one with moving images of herself on it. A version of herself that never gave up. Skyscrapers around her rose. Laughter reverberated. People clapped. She shut the book, fingers trembling.

The second opened to another page of moving images, showing the moment her confidence crumbled. Into irretrievable fragments. She relieved this past–but through the eyes of a witness.

The pages breathed when she fingered them–too a lived to be mere paper. She watched herself live a version of life that she only dreamt of.

The librarian appeared, tall, mirrored, ageless. Her eyes were dark, twin mirrors. Bespectacled, donned in a white blouse with its collar wrapped around her neck. “‘You’re long overdue,” they taunted. “Not for a book. For becoming who you should be.”

A storm raged briefly in the poetry section. Words rained down her overcoat. She wiped her hands on her sides, then brought them in front of her face. They were ink-stained.

She sat in a quiet alcove in the library’s corner, watching her “perfect life” replay again and again between that pages of The Life You Could Have Lived. Her heart pounded with a series of dull, painful thuds.

A figure manifested in the corner of the room—tall, ageless, her eyes eerily mirrored. She drifted toward Avery, finally stopping to shoot her a condescending look. “You’re long overdue. Not for returning a book, though that needs looking into. We’re concerned about you—becoming.”
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Avery shot her a look—a stormy mix of frustration and confusion. The librarian hovered around the alcove, her shadow noiseless. Then, without looking at Avery, she dropped a tome on her table. It bore no title—only running ink.

“You’re to fill it in.” Her voice was broken, as brittle as the ancient volume’s paper. “You’re not to erase anything. What you write remains—set, alive.”

Avery stared at the notebook, her look as blank as the pages before her. They were blank, but warm to the touch.

The librarian added, with a touch of kindness. “When you’re ready, shelve it where everyone can see it. Becoming is for all to witness.”

The dust in the alcove no longer clung to her: it settled, like time taking gentle breaths. The surrounding shelves became a polished brown. The pages of the old tomes were pure white; they had lost their dog ears and yellow tone.
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The sun shone, its gentle rays jostling her awake in her car. The sky’s faint blue colour was one that she hadn’t seen in months. The now familiar library tome lay on her lap, smelling faintly of salt. In her hand was a black charcoal pencil, fresh, eager to begin.

No librarian. No one else around her. Just the sound of the pencil scratching against paper.

And so she writes. Not for anyone else’s eyes. She began to pen the tome, now no longer ancient, just for herself.

And she smiles, for the first time in years.
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Avery stepped into the library two years later, beaming as stepped into the alcove. The fresh smell of new books greeted her. New shelves scaled the walls, filled with new tomes and encyclopedias, each with fresh pages.

The tome she had written lay on the table she had sat at two years earlier, waiting for her to turn its pages. The same fresh smell entered her nose gently, rousing her other senses, widening her smile.

The librarian hovered over to her, now dressed in pressed jeans, a sweet tee and a denim vest. She had tied up her hair in a high ponytail.

“Ready to add a new chapter to your tome?” She grinned, her long fringe cascading over her eyes.

“You bet,” Avery punched the air.

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