Latchcombe was a village lulled into comfort by a single man’s silence–Sir David Quill’s. The retired etiquette coach kept his mouth sealed as if it were gold–he hadn’t uttered a word in a decade.
The illustrious etiquette coach had made and crushed the reputations of speakers with single, cutting words. Some townsfolk thought it was penance for his harshness–for sinister actions untold. Others thought that he was just practising what he preached. Now, he wore a plastered smile–one that chilled the hardiest bones.
Reporter Ellie Marsh tore at tomes in Latchcombe’s only library, hoping to reap harvest writing gold for her tribute on Sir Quill. The man was a true chamber of curiosities.
But, Ellie being Ellie, Sir Quill was a mere excuse.
A reason to pry–and find out exactly what it was that had driven him to silence.
After days of sleuthing, she broke into his cottage while he was on one of his long walks–he took them when he needed to get away from prying eyes like hers.
Only it wasn’t a home.
It was an acoustic Fort Knox.
A Fort with tapes. And more tapes.
And walls, padded with not just foam, but intent.
Housed in an old journal entitled “When I Chose Silence.”
His quiet had apparent fervour–passion stored in pads and replayed.
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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.
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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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You are who you are–no matter what you wear. Michelle Liew
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Lennox Tan was–queer. To preserve the status quo, he wore his truth beneath layers of tailored silence–because he hadn’t fully come out of the closet.
But silence wasn’t enough to stem the tide of taunts. Lennox wasn’t one to back down from challenges–especially those delivered as veiled prejudice.
The department was overdue for a break–so it decided on a staycation at Singapore’s Swissotel Resort.
With a luxurious suite no one wanted to sleep in–alone.
He approached his manager.
“Paul,” he swallowed, hard, then let determination give him a push. “I’ll sleep in the Mirror Room…if no one else wants to.”
“You sure?” Paul glossed him over with a smirk. “Wouldn’t you have a ‘happier’ holiday if someone shared it?”
That made his decision.
He returned Paul’s smirk with one of his own. “Absolute joy on my own, Paul, absolute joy.”
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Lennox stepped into the Mirror Room- alone.
The hotel room was the epitome of luxury–a state-of-the-art television set, a full mini bar with every cocktail known to man and a plush, way-too-comfy king-sized bed. All set against a Victorian Gothic backdrop, complete with ornate pillars and a balcony that would have made Romeo elated.
Opulent, too opulent. Odd. Lennox could hear whispers of unease in the air.
Perhaps it was all that luxury. Or the way the mirrors seemed to follow him around.
Surrounding him, closing in.
Or the whispers. Ones that played like a distorted podcast on repeat. Phrases that he had heard before. His father’s voice, in dissonant Mandarin, telling him to leave the home. Classmates who congratulated him on his ‘happiness.’ Girls who passed him by and told him, “ni hen mei (you’re beautiful).”.
He caught sight of his reflection in one of the mirrors.
He turned–and jumped.
The mirror showed who he was, and who he had buried.
He was in a glamorous sequin jacket dancing with someone he’d met at a Pride Parade.
Then, splinters. A cobweb of fractures.
His reflection vanished.
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Lennox paced around the room, eyes open with panic. Why was his reflection in all those mirrors? Why was he wearing that jacket?
The reflections stepped out of the mirrors, encircling him. Furious. Their fingers, bleeding.
They pointed to the closet. “You’ve hidden in there for years, Always shaving what you couldn’t accept. Denying.”
He did the only thing that made sense.
He begged.
He caught sight of his mom and dad in one of the mirrors.
“I couldn’t tell them. I had to survive.”
The screaming? Ignored. They closed in, building a tight wall.
Pride wasn’t his sanctuary. It was his prison.
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He woke up in the hallway, cowering from the weight of his nightmare. He leaned against the wall, hauling himself up.
The room door was open.
He stepped in gingerly. The same mirrors lay around the room.
Still threatening. Accusing.
A chambermaid passed by. He ran out and grabbed her by the shoulder.
“You must have passed me several times. Did I go in?”
She shrugged, eyeing him up and down. “No. I left you alone. Figured that you’d had a night of it. None of my business.” She walked off, whistling.
Lennox swallowed, hard. He stepped in, again.
To see smiling versions of himself in the mirror.
His mom and dad’s reflections appeared. He gazed at them, worry filling his eyes.
They didn’t speak. But looked him over, their gazes filled with curiosity. His mother reached for him in a virtual embrace. His father seemed to reach for his shoulder, hesitant.
Some mirrors didn’t show the truth–Lennox knew that it was up to him to decide what his reflection was.
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Back home, he threw open his closet. he took out his neatly pressed suits, folded them, and put them aside.
In a few plastic bags, all unopened, were tight tees he had bought some time ago.
He threw away the wrapping they came with.
Then, a few dresses. Also bought some time earlier. He couldn’t wear them –yet.
But he did hang them in the closet. They were—beautiful. They complemented him.
Then–the wigs. All in packages. He tore one open, and put it on.
It felt–comfortable.
Then, he caught sight of a family photograph. One of himself, having graduated with a business degree.
His aunts and uncles, surrounding his parents, with warm smiles of congratulations.
He couldn’t wear it–yet.
But he would, in time. When they would learn to surround him with smiles.
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Lennox heard the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway. Then, the car door opening.
His parents, returning from a day of shopping.
He gulped, and sat on the bed.
His eyes fell on the tight tees in the closet.
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With a flourish, he grabbed one and put it on. Along with his favourite pair of skin- tight jeans.
Slowly, he raised his head. And looked at himself.
He saw himself–but only half-smiling.
But he was ready…for something else.
He ran downstairs and greeted his parents. His nonplussed father looked at him, eyes wide.
“Mum. Dad. There’s something I need to tell you.”
He guided them gently into the kitchen and closed the door.
The sounds of shouts, and sobs.
They stopped…after a long while.
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Lennox stayed in the Mirror Room at the company’s convention the following year, his suitcase filled with suits.
And a few cocktail dresses.
“Lennox, are you ready? It’s almost time for the presentation.”
He looked at the reflections in the mirrors.
All smiling.
He reached for the wig. Then, a pair of heels resting quietly in the corner of this suitcase.
He looked at himself with pride. His outfit was complete.
The smiles turned up even further.
Were the reflections in the mirrors approving? He didn’t know. He didn’t look at them again.
He was Lennox–no matter how he looked, whatever he wore.
He stood in front of the mirror but looked past it.
The smiles were unimportant–the reflections, negligible.
He was proud. Complete. And human.
He called out to his colleague.
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f 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.
In the sky kingdom of Aviar, feathers weren’t just fashion-they were the rule of law. Lord Vantrello was a peacock – a flamboyant figure. a shining star of Aviar’s aristocracy, he strutted about with bejewelled plumes turned Aviar and envious green. His feathers weren’t just ornate–they were his kingly decree.
Lord Vantrello had a reputation for strutting around the otherwise peaceful kingdom and declaring war on anything less than vibrant. All birds had to bow to beauty–or else. Pride was the currency in Aviar—and Vantrello was the richest. He was no ruler–just colourful plumes layered with scorn.
Nim was Aviar’s outcast–a plain Eurasian sparrow with feathers a shade of dull brown. But that plainness was anything but.
“One’s true worth lies beyond plumes,” was his gentle chirp.
That was the affront that sent hate waves through Vantrello’s feathers. He declared a public Challenge of Radiance, giving each bird just one short day to display their finest regalia/ He who collected the crowd’s loudest cheers won.
The air in Aviar soon shimmered with vibrant feathers, with all birds flaunting prideful plumes in struts.
All except Nim. In gentle defiance of Lord Vantrellos’ dazzling status quo. He brought with him–
Nothing.
So it was that Vantrello stood, a vibrant fan of shimmering plumes.
Pilfered. Yet beaming in their forbidden hues.
Nim just stood, sans feathers, save one quill from his supportive mother.
Given with the love she dared not voice.
So it was–a crown of prideful regality versus a crown of gentle defiance. One shimmered, the other spoke brilliantly–without words. Pride shone. But humility endured.
The phoenixes flew in, donned in pilfered feathers. With quick swishes, they reduced Vantrello’s throne to molten ash.
They turned to Nim.
Who had nothing to prove. Everything to teach.
Nim never ruled over Aviar. But he had followers, drawn to kingship without spectacle.
In his dull, yet gentle wings, quiet wisdom flew.
Bright plumes fell, and truth landed.
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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.🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶
Dance steps still echoed through the halls of Encore Dance Studio, flowing with the eerie rhythm of the chandeliers.
Only shadows moved beneath them, synced to the charming, yet poignant chorus of the Blue Danube. It flowed through the vacant halls, a tune drenched in memory, donned like a ghost’s lullaby.
From a forgotten music box in the corner, the tune whispered, a shattered musical promise, fragile as glass. It whispered, not a melody, but a beckoning.
Young Johann discovered it carefully buried beneath a loose floorboard. He wound it—he believed it offered comfort.
Curiosity won- it spawned Johann’s tune, its notes a web of silk threads winding around him in a cocoon.
A dark shadow danced with the blissfully unaware Johann, shifting and stretching, ever-changing.
And she appeared–pale, gaunt, hollow eyes filled with yearning. She extended a frail hand.
Thinking it would lead him to a land of wonder, he took it.
Her grip was ice, hard, fastidious.
It wouldn’t let go.
So he danced with her–and danced, passing between light and dark, slowly fading as he moved.
As they danced, she told him his name.
She bore his surname.
She had been a top dancer at Encore–bright, graceful, envied.
But she had vanished beneath the floorboards—they say he had pushed.
The three shared the same surname.
The two flowed with the melody, without stopping—until Johann no longer existed.
Just his movements. Only his memories.
He had taken her hand without question. He trusted it–they shared the same surname.
Now a mere shadow, he lurked beneath the floorboards. All because he followed, without asking where.
The music box still waits under the floorboard, waiting to be opened.
Not every hand leads the right way.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Chloe flung the door to room 721 open, eager to rest her blister-ridden legs on an available bed. It was usually not easy to get anything past her–sharp as a tack, she’d actually noticed that 721 wasn’t on the booking list. But she was simply too jet-lagged to care. The bellhop’s lacklustre posture said it all–it probably wasn’t a great room, but sufficient for a night’s needed shuteye.
“No record of your booking, ma’am, but there’s a key waiting.” He paused, and eyed her keenly. “That room isn’t usually booked–but always seems to have a guest.”
The lights of 721 were starved of electricity–the yellow light wasn’t possible to read by. A musty, old carpet reeked of cigarette smoke–Chole covered her nose with her hand. A photo of a woman caught her eye–she had grief etched in her gaze. She stared out the hotel room’s window, her thoughts flooding her dark cavern with misplaced echoes.
Exhaustion won. The intrepid journalist was far too tired to bother about the room’s habitation standards. Her head touched the pillow…and something changed.
When she woke, she wasn’t in bed. But in the photo.
Her hand, unmistakable, holding the camera. The flash must have gone off.
The camera sat on her chest when she woke, humming softly.
And a note. Fluttering loosely. “You’re next.” Was scribbled in backward ink.
She couldn’t remember penning the smudged detail…but it was hers.
Chloe grabbed the room key and stuffed her overnight clothes into her bag, hands groping everywhere. Her feet rushed her to the receptionist’s desk.
“Hi Miss, do you want a room?” The receptionist on duty was the same as the night before.
Eyes wide open, she placed the room key on the desk. The receptionist flipped it over to check the tag. “Miss, did you take the wrong key? There’s never been a Room 721.”
Chloe grabbed her bag and turned to leave—and her eyes caught sight of a Bulletin Board with photos: “Missing guests of Room 721–for archival. Do not reassign.”
Among them was one–of her. Taken years earlier, at the beach, just before the Tsunami hit.
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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.
Total stillness. No chaos. No strife. Perfection. That was Peiying, where citizens long embraced the art of calm. The city’s goal? Harmony. Everything was a well-crafted hourglass—life, actions, emotions. Feelings fled like gazelles in the eyes of prey. The pain of loss was nonexistent. Happiness was archaic.
17-year-old Lian, a citizen of neighbouring Harmonia, had secured the ultimate guide to discovering stillness–a state-sanctioned reflection journey to Peiying. The city met his youthful expectations–beautiful, serene, still. But its people seem strangely—distant. There was no joy. No sorrow. Just an odd, stoic vibe that seemed–too precise. Too practised.
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Lian’s youthful feet took her through the centre of Peiying, its skyline well-crafted, as if painted by automation. Buildings were all perfectly shaped, sized, and aligned. Caretakers had given the trees in the park a precise manicure–their leaves were same-sized and aligned, cut by the same mould.
But it wasn’t–right.
A mother in the park sat on a bench, smiling. Her eyes blank as her arms went limp. Her baby slipped. She did not blink. The soft thud of the baby on the floor drew no glances.
In another corner was a group of friends, greeting each other–but in the sing-song hellos between strangers. Intoned, not spoken. Memorized, not meant. People passed her, their expressions unchanged–they seemed to have forgotten how to address the world.
There was no conflict. No argument. But there was also no joy. No laughter.
They were calm. Calm. Still. Soulless.
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With the too-structured forms of Peiying’s people weighing heavily on his mind, Lian made his way to the library at the town’s centre. The librarian, without skipping a beat, greeted him with a smile carefully etched on her face. She pointed stoically to the archives as soon as she saw him.
“Welcome to the Republic of Peiying’s library. You’ll find everything about the city documented here.”
The tall, neatly installed bookshelves imposed overwhelmingly–they complemented a city attuned to the idyllic. Books, all the same size, were bound in the same fresh leather. Etched on the librarian’s face was a smile — peaceful, but manufactured.
Unreal.
Peiying was harmonious. Peace reigned with an absolute sceptre. But it was a sceptre that wielded so much control that the city was no longer alive.
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On one of the painstakingly aligned bookshelves sat a leatherbound ledger, its contents waiting to wrap a mind in a shocking grip.
And shock Lian they did. One ghastly entry after another.
Mai: “I gave my heart to see the sunset.”
Jun: “My child had my soul–but I cannot feel his heart.”
Mother: ” It was my mind for my child…but her smile never reached her eyes.”
Peiying’s citizens had betrayed their hearts–for peace. It was a Surrender for Desire–each of them had unquestioningly folded their emotions into tightly sealed envelopes, leaving their hearts empty for peace. There was calmness–with endless space. Perfection had led to a life without meaning. No joy. No sadness. Just…blankness.
The city hadn’t crumbled–but its soul had. They found absolute peace—but abandoned life. Stillness—at the cost of emotion, connection and experience.
Peiying had indeed created life–one that was empty.
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But the city’s lifelessness had triggered life within Lian. He needed to inject a new existence in Peiying—shatter its numbness.
In a way that teenagers knew how.
The youngster became a one-man rock band, shouting, dancing and singing in the town square, hoping that his monkeyish antics would spark life. He cried. Recalled fond memories.
“You used to hold concerts here in this square. Mothers would push their babies in their prams, cuddling them when they needed comfort. Remember the laughter? It used to fill the park. Soak it with its warmth. Where is it now?”
He spoke to each citizen he came across, trying to connect, but the poker faces of the citizens remained unchanged.
“I know that feelings are not allowed.” Lian’s frustration broke through his voice. “But you’ve lost the very thing that makes you—-human.”
All was quiet in the square—then sounds of sobbing. Soft mutterings of agreement swept through it, a sound unheard in years. Someone recalled a moment of joy.
“Grandma and I loved the ice cream here.”
The emotion was subtle but poignant.
Peiying wasn’t dead—the laughless city was starting to stir.
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Then, a pedantic buzzing sound as his voice echoed the town square. Drones whirred around Lian, stirring the otherwise dead air. Then guards flooded the area in a quiet march, each of their faces locked in a peaceful, warped smile. They pinned Lian’s limbs down with mechanical precision.
The weeping stopped. The citizens watched, faces reverting to their practised, plastered smiles.
The guards throw Lian into a cell fashion from pure glass and steel–Peiying perfection, sterile and cold. Cameras blinked at each of its corners and at the ends of the corridors outside each one. There was no sound. No human voice. Just the persistent hum of the ventilation.
The prison wasn’t meant to punish–it was built to erase.
Dissidents who protested against peace.
Like him.
Lian felt drowned in the sea of idealist stillness–yet fiercely alive. The rebellious beat of his heart was a fierce drumbeat. They wanted him still, blank.
He threw a single punch on the wall–not out of anger, but defiance. The sound of gentle laughter started in his chest–a rebellion against artificial silence.
Then it became louder.
And it formed a crack- tiny, almost invisible–against the glass.
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Lian stood in his cell of glass and steel, the sterile environment stifling his breath. Peiying’s perfect structure pressed down on him–hard.
The guards arrived, swinging their arms with mechanical precision, eyes blank, smiles perfectly plastered and aligned. Their presence made the stillness more pressing–and Lian more defiant.
Lian’s eye swept over the crack in the glass–barely perceptible, but spreading slowly. The sound of the crowd outside grew louder. The cries of babies returned, soft, yet sure. Lian turned in their direction, standing straighter.
The shelves in the library shifted -creeping silently, but certainly. Lian pressed the cracked glass, and pieces started to fall, minute, sharp, one by one– on the too-clean floor.
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How would you respond to the complex sound of your own voice?
📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴
The rain hit the windows harder than usual that spring evening. Dinner plans with my better half were on the shelf, so I decided to take on a Marie Kondo challenge and declutter. Outside, the rain was insistent, as if it had something burning to say.
I began with a drawer–one I hadn’t touched in years. It creaked–not surprising since it hadn’t been opened since Clinton was president. Between the dog-eared notebooks and torn receipts was an ancient Nokia mobile phone, one that didn’t come with an internet feature.
But Marie Kondo hadn’t reminded me to put away its charger, tucked away in the corner of that same drawer. Not expecting the mobile relic to light up, I stuck it in. I swore that it should have been dead, but it blinked at me as if I owed it a living–or electricity. The screen flickered like an eye, opening after a long coma. And it spoke.
In a familiar voice. I froze. My voice was cracked by time–and regret. I should have laughed to hear myself–but I put the phone on the table. And listened.
📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴
With an obsession. Some messages sounded like confessions. Gentle nudges. Advice. Regret. Each memo was a breadcrumb in a dark mental recess–a reminder of who I used to be.
“You should have given your mom a chance–you’ve cast her aside like unwanted clothes.”
“Your brother has the right to make decisions about his own life. Why did you interfere?”
“You should have visited your grandmother. She cared for you when you were in the hospital.”
The voice cackled with Macbethian contempt each time it spoke, as if I was a wayward child.
📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴
The phone tolled without warning–my fingers wound tightly round it, not answering. There was no timestamp–just a cryptic missive.
“Release.”
The voice continued its speech, its tone ominous, yet comforting. The older me bore her soul.
“My mom never had anything nice to say–was never a supportive pillar. My brother’s heart was set on himself. And my grandmother? Well, she was forceful. Too forceful. Her way, or the by-way.
“So I left all of them on the shelf. Went my own way.”
The phone paused for a while, then continued, without residual cackling.
“All I wanted was a healthier family dynamic. I only wanted to fix it. Make it right. Fair.”
📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴📲📞📟📠☎️📳📴
The voice stopped. My fingers unclenched, slowly. I left it on the table, its screen still blinking. No longer accusing. But pleading.
The screen on my new phone blinked, wondering. An invitation.
“Gathering at Aunt Gen’s place next Sunday. Just to let you know.”
That night, my voice memos disappeared. I didn’t try to retrieve them.
The phone said what it needed to. I navigated to the family chat on Whatsapp, and paused.
📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖 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. 📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖
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.” 📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖 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. 📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖 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. 📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖📚📚📖📚📚📖📚📖
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.
Rodents in a nutshell. Squirrel Power. –Michelle Liew
🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️
“Quick, the little squirt’s catching up!” Pip the bold mind behind the squirrels’ operations, darted ahead. Behind the group of four buffoning rodents was a hapless toddler, wailing and stumbling after his stolen PB and J sandwich.
Of course, the said sandwich was already ‘mysteriously’ disappearing as the toddler sobbed his way through the branches, his hassled mother behind him: “Let it go, Tom.”
🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️ It was four tails, one task. Nutty, Hazel, Chipper and Pip were to pull off the snack theft of their lives. Their mission—to steal an unsuspecting human’s lunch and vanish. They had trained for this—in alleys, parks, in the shadows of sandwich shops. They simply couldn’t fail.
And it seemed that operation PB and J was a go—they had struck before the poor child’s lunch even hit the grass.
🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️ I call it, “The Last lunchwich!” Chipper had whispered, just seconds before the drama unfolded.
Just as Chipper, the renaissance squirrel of the group, hung painting from a branch with his prize, the sandwich in his cheek like a bomb about to go off, a blinding ray of light surged from a nearby laboratory.
A sonic BOOM.
A throbbing pulse.
The earth started shaking.
The sky gave a loud hiccup, and the trees bowed inward, as if reminiscing on something old and forgotten.
Their world contorted. Time fractured. Something suspended the rodents midair—then drops them like ripe acorns. A ripple hit them like solidified thoughts. They fell inward—not down. 🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️
The squirrels rose, relieved to be alive.
But they were—-different.
In essence, their bodies were the same. But their thoughts were far from the usual.
They spoke. They reasoned. But they recalled things that were strange—-not their own. Even the trees in their park seemed—off. Too bent. Too tall.
Hazel calculated wind vectors—but had cut every class in Squirrel School she could. Chipper, of course, became the carver of tree trunks. Pip—well—he whispered coordinates that made sense to himself and noone else.
And the Teenage Mutant Ninja Squirrels were born.
🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️ Nutty, the sensible voice of the group, declared their next mission.
“We must defend the park.”
The other squirrels shot thoughtful looks at each other, nodding in agreement.
Defense, however, meant sabotage. Something—-or someone—sliced the power lines. Garbage trucks had to reroute, and the air became dense with their suffocating stench. Cell towers sizzled, their signals swallowed in static.
To the squirrels, human tech were trespassers. Parasites. They needed to purge it. Misson parameters shifted: control, contain, cleanse.
The battle cries? Lines of nutshells, ready for a seige.
Hazel disarmed a CCTV with a satisfied smirk.
The rodents’ actions seemed like harmless mammalian play to the passersby in the park. But to the squirrels? It was DEAD serious.
🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️
Then, even stranger things happened. The mission shifted—again.
Chipper glitched, sculpting trunks with binary, not pictures. Pip’s codes twisted into circuit diagrams. Nutty’s sentences fractured like corrupted data.
The squrrels hadn’t mutated—they were rogue AI implanted in organic hosts.
They took off, awakened.
🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️🐿️ This story is entirely original. AI tags are coincidental. The number of words between the quote and disclaimer is 500.
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