This new year, let’s remember that life’s in the little things.
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
Morning had just broken, but Elsie found her thoughts tracing the kitchen floor.
The first hour of the year was calm, quiet – giving room for pause. Singapore was still, but her apartment was buzzing with the noise of leftover wrappers, party poppers and half-finished cans of beer from the New Year’s Eve party the night before.
A cuckoo bird and its mate did a series of hops on the railing, as if filling the small gaps between the noise. A park lamp flickered, looking bent, as if conforming to the weight of the prior year’s unseen moments.
She strolled to the corner coffeeshop, giving silent nods to people she knew only briefly. Each step she took was a checklist of micro-decisions – taking the scenic route past the river, choosing which text message to reply to, skipping her usual cafe stop because it was too crowded. The new year was a mirror of the year before. The choices she made then rippled quietly into today.
She found herself seated on a park bench at lunch, the flavour of new year leftovers absent on her tongue. Her mind wandered as clouds drifted idly; children laughed, their chuckles filling the void in her soul.
She knew that void. The emptiness of life’s unnoticed textures -children’s laughter, an elderly woman’s chuckle-trumped the resolutions she made a year earlier. The pause before laughter was a reminder that the thought put into laughter – the little details – mattered as much as the laughter itself. Awareness in life’s small acts is what made a difference.
She returned to her apartment, opened a few letters she’d ignored over the new year and sipped her now rancid tea.
But for the first time in a long while, she felt as if she mattered. The clock on the TV console ticked steadily, indifferent to her presence. But she felt -there. Unrushed, with no need to know what happened next. She had already arrived.
She dialled her mother’s number, ready to finally speak to her.
Ready to address the spat they’d had a few weeks earlier.
Ready to meet the year ahead.
Because she was in the moment.
☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
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A Yuletide snow blanket covered Windleaf Town, turning chimneys, roofs, and roads a dirty white. Holiday lights cast their glow on streets shrouded in frost.
Marlow was the town Grinch – a staunch disbeliever in the Christmas spirit, he kept to himself. No one dared touch the toys in his store – or so he thought. Snow muffled the world’s noise – to Marlow, it was the sound of jingle bells hatching an annoying plot.
Then, Marlow’s ornaments began to disappear.
One.
By.
One.
Right under his nose.
Each missing ornament felt like a tiny stab in his back. Near the cash register, a faint jingle – reminding him of each missing bauble.
❄️❄️
The disgruntled shopkeeper refused to let missing decorations daunt him – he decided to fight the good fight.
His solution was simple: traps and a little subterfuge.
Armed with a little strategy, he placed them where kleptomaniac fingers would pinch.
Near his Christmas tree.
Near the window.
Near the cash register.
Near the mouse hole (just in case).
Traps carefully set, he waited with trepidation – his heart thumped with hope, not fear.
Trap evidence brought in the usual suspects -brown mice with cheeky grins, a gust of wind, and human footsteps craving for warmth long absent.
Then, Mary, a long-time customer, brought in a bauble.
“Doesn’t this belong to your tree?” She shot him a quizzical look
He shot her a puzzled one of his own.
Mary was a retired widow whose husband had recently passed.
Then, a nutcracker, brought in by Tim.
A man who called park benches his home.
And a little angel – whose place was the top of his tree. Brought in by Katherine.
“Is…is…this…yours?” The sentence emerged, though with some effort.
Then, mid-craft, he dropped his tools with a jolt.
Not in anger, but in realisation.
His ornaments had gone to the hands of those who needed them.
And the gruff grinch understood the gift hidden in his loss.
❄️❄️❄️
Project Catch Bauble Thief went on for two heart-stopping days.
For a grinch who often felt his heart on the wrong side of his chest.
Then – payoff.
On the store’s CCTV camera was little Elvie, placing the ornaments in gift bags, bow-tied with meticulous precision.
Sending them to the lonely and needy with thoroughness that spoke ‘care.’
He made his move on Christmas Eve.
The little boy gasped mid-gifting and dropped a bauble.
Marlow the Grinch fixed the little pilferer witha penetrating gaze.
On his face was his signature scowl – one that he dropped after a while when he thought of the little boy’s heart.
One that knew that gifts should be held by the hands which needed them.
❄️❄️❄️❄️
The grinchy shopkeeper succumbed to Yuletide’s resonating charm – he drove Elvie to homes that needed seasonal cheer.
His shop opened to customers with an unfamiliar glow.
Warm and welcoming.
It had never felt fuller or readier for a new start.
For a grouchy shopkeeper, sharing had become the season’s greatest gift.
❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️
Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Today, 9 December is International Corruption Day – a day we celebrate the rules and keep in check any bending.
But there are times good intentions bend the rules.
🗝️🕯️📜
9th December. The day her grandma passed. Not a day May would forget – for reasons she’d rather erase from memory.
May was a lawyer – and a law degree was the last thing she wanted on her list of accomplishments. The Toh family – hers – had assigned her the unwanted task of settling her grandma’s estate.
🪞🏚️💨
One she accepted – and regretted.
Grandma Toh.
Bukit Boon’s most upstanding council member had taken bribes.
A newspaper article written with words that shamed.
Bribes. Accusations.
Her grandmother – the woman she held in the highest esteem
May sifted hurriedly through the cluttered basement, flicking the dust off each album with hurried precision.
The dust mites parted to reveal her grandmother’s life – one she never knew.
But each album she uncovered wanted her to know.
The ledger glared at her, the yellowed pages aggressively promoting their secrets.
The pages parted with a silent call.
May’s fingers hovered over them, waiting.
📝💰⚖️
They couldn’t wait for very long.
Inside it were documents filled with names and numbers.
Ones that kept increasing.
Her grandmother’s offshore account had accumulated more money than May had ever thought possible.
A hidden account. Belonging to the Saint of Straight-Lacedness.
May’s eyes hovered over that page of revelation, stunned for a few moments.
The Saint of Straight-Lacedness was also the Devil of Crookery.
📜💌🖐️
May fingered the note – and it stayed in place.
It wouldn’t move.
Frozen by surprise – and understanding.
“Aunty Chong,” it read, “Thanks for paying our rent these past months. We would have been evicted otherwise.”
So the money had gone into a dense, grey corridor.
One where mistakes were as striking as good deeds.
Her grandma’s heart had bent where ethics wouldn’t – and saved.
Whether rightly or wrongly was anyone’s guess.
🏡💛🌗
May left the ledger in the basement – she never showed it to anyone.
The bribes – an offbeat act of integrity.
Out-of-sync, but not hurtful.
Her grandmother was but human.
A mix of dark and light.
Able to compromise.
Doing wrong to protect.
🕯️🗝️💭
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Today, October 6th, is when the Nobel Peace Prize winners start being announced.
Peace is lived, not viewed—-through the eyes of a child.
🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️
Home was alien to Eunice; it was her first time back there after years of documenting conflicts in war-torn countries.
The house remained as it was when she left her parents and the neighborhood—a decrepit riverside garden, walls overwhelmed by creeping bougainvillea,
Yet, the vibrance of the flowers locked the eyes of the young photojournalist.
The creeping vines throbbed with an unrest that mirrored hers—
Permanent and unresolved.
She stepped into the garden as though it was a shattered fragment of the world she now knew—chasms of chaos.
Even in the silence, she recalled the roar of broken cities.
She breathed in the still air and shut her eyes.
Broken buildings.
The holler of exploding bombs.
🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️
Eunice tried to realign with life as it should be—
Normal and uneventful.
Bomb free.
But falling bombs and the cries of motherless children were stalkers she could not shake off
Her camera lingered, untouched, on a shelf.
She volunteered at a local community center, trying to forget the unsettling images she had captured for Life magazine.
Images with an unrelenting grip.
Then, she met Tomo.
The five-year-old was hard of speech—his drawings spoke for him.
Louder than the spoken word.
The children he played with drew to his silence.
The surreal calm of the mountains and lakes he painted.
Children who played together, the colours of the skin and mind linked—
Not a barrier.
🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️
On an afternoon at the centre, hollers that kissed the sound barrier.
Human tsunamis formed in the city streets, swallowing buildings.
A fire had consumed a building nearby.
Screams.
Anarchy.
Fragments of Eunice’s mind.
The nightmares she had borne, that her heart now unfollowed.
The photo journalist within reached for her camera, then stopped.
Realisation gripped her arms.
🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️
One that she followed. She helped to lead the children in two lines, an adult picture of calm, down the fire escape.
Firefighters doused the raging flames in a matter of minutes.
She helped to bring the charred garden back to life—to a place of reflection, community, and shared stillness.
And came to know that peace couldn’t just arrive; it had to came in parts, with gestures of gratitude, sincerity, and above all—
Tolerance.
🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️
Eunice left the camera behind, an unwanted memory puzzle piece, forever.
She had to live, not capture, stories of peace.
Her eyes fell on Tomo, sketching a dove in the garden.
The world she left behind raged, but the garden buzzed with gentle truth.
And the quietest persons— and moments—held the greatest power.
🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The day was ending for Moira; she’d had an unexpectedly large number of orders from the community’s hospital.
A name among them rang.
She knew it, but didn’t want to recall.
She was about to pull down
the shutters when—
A knock.
Too long. Too purposeful. Too much like something–
Familiar.
Mira paused in the middle of packing a bouquet of roses, their thorns pricking her fingers.
A few drops of blood on the white petals—but they unnerved.
The knock was, by all means, ordinary.
A short.
Sharp.
Rap.
But it sounded strange, pressing against her nerves.
Her hand paused between the roses, her fingers twitching.
Too… insistent, resounding in her mind’s recesses.
A customer’s knock had never felt so–
Expectant, like someone wanted to walk her out
The way he used to…
🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹
Her heart raced as she pressed against the petals laced with her own blood.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The knock resounded in her chest.
She gazed out of the peephole.
A pair of broad shoulders.
Like his were.
Her eyes fell on the bouquet.
His–for her.
She seemed to hear his laugh from beyond the door.
His chuckle–
Low.
Deep.
One that she wanted so much to hear.
The smell of white roses teased her nostrils.
The games they played.
How he gave her a white rose every time she won one of their little races.
Every time she cried.
She peeped again.
White roses, catching the sunlight.
Surreal.
Beautiful.
Their scent….and then his hand. Warm.
His.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹
Moira cracked the door open further.
The figure brushed past the doorframe, hands lingering on hers—
For a moment.
His fingers used to cover hers–
Like this.
Soft.
Gentle.
Warm.
Her pulse quickened—she remembered.
Needed.
Then….she stepped back.
A hand—one she knew–stayed on a rose.
She could see a half-smile on his face–not clearly.
But she recalled.
How he used to take her to her favourite restaurant—
Even when he preferred Japanese.
His soft voice as he spoke to her mum—
Sick in bed.
Her last hours.
Soft.
Comforting.
But…
The car.
Headlights, too bright.
The crash.
The gravestones—too grey.
Too bleak.
White roses, laid on the grave bed.
Like the ones he had given her.
Her vision blurred.
She needed.
Wanted.
The scent of white roses filled the room.
🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹
She held the white rose bouquet—an extra second.
Too long.
His hand still felt…warm.
The way…
She teared. Then straightened herself
She still had to meet that order.
But she still wanted to hold his roses.
Somehow.
A white rose bathed in the sunlight—
Warm.
Waiting.
🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹🤍🌹
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.
We celebrate women who make their own way today, with a little one or two in tow—it’s Single Working Women’s Day today.
Being a working man or woman is never easy…being a single parent can exacerbate the pressure.
So we honour the women (and men) who make it through life with grit–and cute, small packages.
👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻
Janine Low’s walk-up apartment was quiet—the quiet of the unknown. The park and street in front of it were lifeless sketches on a canvas: they waited for human additions.
But it at least prevented the procrastination monster from growling—the silent surroundings brought the overworked HR executive a few hours on the online clock while her six-year-old son, Nicholas, recharged his used-up rambunctiousness with sleep.
Single motherhood in metropolitan Singapore was no walk in the park. The loud groans of the HR inbox competed with Nicholas’ endless skateboarding streaks. She typed while the flat whispered.
And relationships were a gladiator cage for the single mother. Her ex’s constant texts “to talk” about their son were constant battles of the Lows.
Work was worse. Fellow HR executive Maddy couldn’t resist the limelight—the credit-stealing aficionado often told the management about work that had been done before she could.
Then, there was the apartment just above. Vacant. A supposed den of zen – yet something kept her up like Nicholas’ metronome on edge.
👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻
Ever the responsible adult single mother, Janine tried to “logic” everything to Nicholas. Chat GPT became her unofficial guru– everything from why flats made noises at night to what happens when children talk to invisible friends.
Busy as she was, she tried to sound out the neighbour upstairs– no one ever did.
At her wit’s end, she approached the building manager.
Another vague reply.
“Oh, her ah.. that apartment…empty since COVID struck. She left…..chiong ah (hurried).
Nicholas didn’t make things much better.
Janine arched over his young shoulder over breakfast one morning. He was occupied by what most 6-year-olds were–stick drawings.
Except that his was–
Of a lady.
Too real.
Janine recognised her at once– she’d never described her to Nicholas.
The lady from the vacant apartment.
The boy merely smiled and looked up.
“She doesn’t like it when you peep.”
Again, childhood fantasy was her comfort rationale.
Until she began to hear noises at night.
Humming.
Ethereal singing.
Footsteps shuffling.
Things started to move.
She left her bedroom slippers turned to the bed- they pointed to the bedroom door in the morning.
It had been locked to prevent Nicholas from skateboard spiralling.
He sketched again the next morning– this time with a caption below the drawing.
“She’s watching.”
Work was a stress bomb that tore her hair out further. Maddy continued her climb up the corporate ladder– kicking the rungs beneath. Her credibility slipped–sleep eluded.
A trusted colleague, Lisa, pulled her aside in the bathroom.
“Hey, is everything all right? You’re looking pale. It’s not just stress is it?”
👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻
Things that would go wrong did.
Printers jammed.
Another proposal vanished.
She thought of the humming she’d heard.
It sounded faintly like–
A lullaby.
From her childhood.
Nicholas brought her another drawing that night.
Her jaw dropped.
One of–
Herself.
With the lady upstairs holding her shoulder.
But the single mother didn’t let that faze her. Something was bleeding through.
And she needed to stem it.
👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻
Janine was exhausted–not by stress, but by the unknown pressing down on her and Nicholas.
She couldn’t just ignore what was happening.
She needed someone’s ears–Lisa’s, the building manager’s–even her ex-mother-in-law’s–but wasn’t sure which would hear–
Without setting off alarm bells that wouldn’t stop ringing.
She plucked up whatever courage she still had and crept upstairs.
Through the dank and darkened corridors of an untouched floor.
The door to the empty apartment was as expected–dust-covered, with paint chipped in too many places. An old shrine stood near it–the tenant hadn’t cleared the altar before she passed–
In the home.
With trembling fingers, she tapped it gently.
No one answered.
She was about to turn away when a whisper pierced the still air.
“Janine…”
A soft click.
Something moved.
A note. Slipped under the doormat.
“Beware….of IT?”
Before she couldn’t figure out what IT meant, the note dissolved–
Into nothing.
She kept typing the word “it” in the document she was working on at work the next day–she couldn’t help herself.
👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻
Then, strange happenings.
In her favour.
Every time Maddy tried to claim her credit, the CC chain would vanish.
Each time she vented about cancelled leave, the system would auto-approve hers.
It seemed like a trade-off with the unknown–one that made her cringe.
But something sparked.
IT was PRIDE. A compelling force.
That stopped the need–
to ask.
👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻
She returned to the apartment that night–
The door was ajar.]
The home felt warm. Strangely welcoming.
On an old table was a sketch of Nicholas–smiling.
Next to him was herself. Calm. A proud mother.
Back at work, she found that Maddy had done the unthinkable–tendered her resignation.
She deleted the word “it” from her working document.
And it retyped.
“I heard, ah.”
The sign off.
“Your neighbour, Ho Kwee (friendly ghost). “
👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
For those who read The Boy Who Stored Goodbyes in a Box, you’ll remember Boon, the Little Boy who tucked away goodbyes and memories in a box like treasures.
He’s now grown into Detective Boon –a sensitive, empathetic sleuth who doesn’t flinch from a little grit.
This story does deal with a few gritty issues –not too much, but enough to matter.
The lost-and-found corner in Khaji Primary School reeked of deliberately forgotten odours- discarded, unwashed lunchboxes; soiled, smelly tees; textbooks climbing to the ceiling with success
But the room wasn’t all foul odour and disappointment. Miss Lina, the school’s custodian, had placed a Kindness Box where children could leave encouragement and thank you notes.
But kindness kept going…missing.
Notes mysteriously vanished, day by day.
“Chum ah(Oh dear in Hokkien),” a flustered Miss Lina nearly turned upside down herself in her search.
The last straw was a note that read “You matter”.
It vanished.
Like the person never did.
She summoned the police–and something sharp and small arrived.
It clinked.
The musical sound.
Of glass.
“A boy named Boon…stored goodbyes in a box…”
Detective Boon strapped on a pair of forensic gloves, combing the trash like treasure.
The little glass box of goodbyes was married to him –he carried it everywhere in his knapsack.
Khaji Primary still smelled the same –like over ripe banana–as it did years earlier.
The missing notes of kindness were sticky notes that would not detach.
He noticed a peculiar piece of paper, its edges torn.
“You mat…” The rest was jagged scrap.
That nettled Boon…like the missing goodbyes that vanished with those who meant.
“Jia lat…(Terrible) who would stick a knife like that?”
That torn note was the last straw for the Singaporean gumshoe.
It vanished.
Like the person never did.
She summoned the police–and something sharp and small arrived.
Boon’s mind flooded with notes from his Goodbye Box–small. large. tattered. torn.
He felt each at the tips of his forensic-gloved fingers.
But this stood out.
“You matter.”
Compassion bordered in gold, in bubbled handwriting.
It was for her.
The flower by the classroom isle.
The punches.
The crying.
The catcalls.
“Chio Bu (pretty girl in Hokkien).
The video –1000 views within five minutes of its release.
That note was NOT written in erasable ink.
It mattered.
And he had to find it.
A trail of torn paper Boon noticed at the corner of his eye gave him a start.
He followed it to the school’s storeroom.
Where he found the missing pieces and letters of the note scattered on the floor.
The room’s occupant –Ah Tan.
The school’s janitor.
Boon didn’t confront him –directly.
He waited.
School had to be over.
He sat in Tan’s chair, swivelling it until the janitor appeared.
He didn’t speak to the man. There was a simple note on the table.
“You can’t tear what she needed others to hear.”
Ah Tan unfolded it. The old man unfolded it, hands trembling.
He looked frail. More than boon remembered.
“Boon…I only took the ones I wished you all had written for me. I cleaned for you.”
Boon placed an arm on his shoulder.
Boon returned to Khaji Primary School a few weeks later.
Miss Lina had put out the Kindness Box again. It overflowed with Post-Its.
A smaller glass box sat next to it.
No label.
Inside, parts of a small note, combined with sticky tape.
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.”
🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖🤖
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.
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 Getting Literal Writing Alcove 