Under the Floorboards

When obsession drowns out reason, only the voice remains.

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Adrian Cho was accustomed to working on his own—the sound technician eliminated ambient noise whenever he could. The shuffling of feet or sudden bumps would disrupt his work.

He was in an abandoned shophouse that fateful night, working out audio kinks for a new film. Old shophouses came with echoes—not Adrian’s favourite place to work. Floorboards creaked—unsurprising, since these places were generally weatherbeaten.

So, when murmurs started sounding through the floorboards, he merely passed them over as “age.”

Until they started to mimic his voice.

In whispers too close to thought.

Echoes that should not have been.

And he hadn’t been speaking—not one word.

Ever the stoic sound engineer, Adrian dutifully recorded the sounds over the next few days—they HAD to do with the structure.

But the playbacks were—

ODD.

They revealed something new—each and every time.

Pealed laughter.

Muted whispering.

Then—confessions he made—only in his mind.

Chopped sentences covered in static.

About the dalliances his wife never knew about.

The dissatisfaction with his marriag

But each replay mangled reality—

each more distorted.

Sleep be came an elusive bedfellow—more estranged than his wife.

His logic began to crumble under the sound. Isolating the source of the recordings was the only thing he could think of.

On a sleepless night, the sound almost drove Adrian deranged. He ripped the floorboards apart to confront the incessant murmuring.

No untoward creature, no sentient being.

Just a recording.

Labelled with his name.

He pressed the recorder’s “play” button.

Shrieks from beyond filled the room.

The sound of himself, unmade.

In his voice—one he hardly knew existed.

The uncanny shrieks were loud enough to prompt neighbours to take action.

The police later scoured his apartment—

emptiness louder than fear.

Silence that consumed.

His equipment, running.

An officer heard the playback on the recorder.

A distended voice mixed with static.

“Adrian, stop.”

Adrian was wanted—and listened.

By his mind, or himself—for him to know.

🔊

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The Heart’s Berlin

The Berlin Wall fell this day, November 9th, 1989.

It took just one night for its pieces to shatter.

The walls that surround hearts can take a lifetime to break.

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50-year-old Thomas Weiss stood before a crumbling wall, wielding a hammer he wasn’t sure he wanted to use. His wife, Hannah, and twin sons had resided in the free zone for years–because she wanted to.

The wall had come down in 1989–ten years to this day. The shattered pieces lay on the ground, waiting to come together.

Thomas wondered if they would–but some walls sealed hearts.

And stood taller.

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Youngsters still came to hack at the bricks that hadn’t yet given way, breaking out in raucous hollers as they did.

Thomas watched them, his memories more dislodged with each blow of the hammer. Each cheer he heard felt like an accusation—like Hannah’s last words to him.

He wasn’t sure he envied the wall for coming down.

Before he slammed the door of the family home–sharper than the barbed wire that accompanied the bricks.

A young man spotted him standing, still in a reverie. He stretched out his hand–a small piece of the wall lay in his palm.

Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t sure if it was just unwanted history coming apart, or a piece of his own heart.

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His wife appeared amidst the dust and fallen wall splinters.

Older.

Strange.

The shadow of the wall that was, stood between them–too real.

Freedom felt foreign–the hardest reunions were the ones one didn’t prepare for.

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He dropped his hammer, the crowd’s joy flooding over him. He and Hannah didn’t embrace–but stood together.

Breathing the air of freedom for the first time–

In decades.

Their unity had begun—in silence.

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As dawn broke, the wall had nearly crumbled completely. The crowd had vanished, save for a few stragglers.

The bricks had come apart in just one night in 1989. His peace with Hannah would take a lifetime of rebuilding.

The Berlin wall had finally fallen. The one in his heart–still solid brick.

And had to shatter–within.

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

She Wears The Red Scarf

Today marks the anniversary of a milestone in women’s political power in America—the election of the first woman to Congress. We mirror that femininity in Singapore by celebrating the Samsui Woman, a female labourer commonly seen at construction sites in the 1950s and 60s. Opportunities for women have increased over the years—and her scarf, and spirit, live on. She wields the scarlet scarf of strength.

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The evening air was dense with the usual Singapore humidity–and tales once woven. Despite the tropical overwhelm, Singaporeans walked to the polls.

Outside on a railing was a scarf–red, fluttering in the November wind. It hung a poignant scarlet against the grey twilight. No one saw the woman who donned it, or her dust-streaked blue blouse.

A heavy blouse no wind could lift.

Mdm Ong was a Samsui Woman who lived in Singapore of the 1950s–a construction worker who laid bricks when women weren’t meant to construct. Along with others like her, she built a city that never knew–or wanted to know–her name.

She had toiled when families prayed, hauling beams twice her weight. She out-dreamt her pay.

She returned every Singapore election–not as a ghost, but as a witness.

An elections officer noticed her form in the glass, in a blue samfoo, head bound in a telltale red scarf. She watched as the women of the time filed past to the polling booths, pens ready to mark their chosen candidate.

She blinked, and the Samsui ghost left, leaving only the faint, but comforting scent of earth.

The elections staff sealed the ballot boxes. The scarf fluttered to the ground. The elections officer picked it up, and wore the proud memory around her neck.

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The Whine

Every soul needs a guide–even if it isn’t human.

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All Souls’ Day blanketed the pavements and roads in velvet black and the dim light of street lamps; anything but a typical day for a little pet dog.

Snowball stationed herself at her home’s bay window, hoping to unsettle the

patrons at the coffee shop opposite with her insistent, barking overtures.

She didn’t have mischief in mind that day; instead, she stood at the window, each paw trembling, hackles raised.

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The air froze with biting cold; atypical for Singapore, a country with heat and

humidity as its middle name.

A chill numbed the air indoors; the smell of damp leaves pervaded the air. I

concentrated on my book review, for the first time donning an outdated cotton

sweater.

Then—the low, persistent growls.

Snowball had positioned herself in front of my bedroom wall, paws stiff, nails

clicking on the floor.

An almost-human whisper grazed my ear. My breath caught, and my jaw dropped. as it looked around.

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The little West Highland Terrier lunged at the wall. A long silence followed.

Too long.

Then, a faint shimmer—the ambiguous outline of a silhouette.

Lost.

Caught between Heaven and Earth.

Asking—

Just for a name.

My heartbeat synced with its pulse—

One that echoed for a presence.

The little dog had guided—

And found.

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“Snowball. It’s alright. No need.”

Her cue not to bark.

She obeyed and lay down, finally calm.

The room felt—

Lighter.

Warmer, with the whisper now unheard.

But the chill was a permanent guest.

Teasing a little dog wasn’t the name of the lost soul’s game—

It had asked the little terrier for guidance.

To where it belonged.

The whisper left. But at night, Snowball still faced the wall–and heard the clicks.

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Keyhole Mysteries Story 2: The Keyhole Journalist

Some stories are written only by the heart.

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Jun Park’s world was made of words—his apartment was plastered from floor to ceiling with old newspaper clippings. No one could ignore the musty scent of ink and yellowed paper when they stepped in—it clung to the air, heavy with stories long out of mind.

There were so many articles that he could no longer read them all.

But they were his muse.

The need sparked a little spontaneity.

He remembered a ladder he stored in a seldom-used room–one that he had subletted for ready cash, until work took the tenant to another city.  

As he approached, a faint, bluish hue caught his eye–it leaked under the door, like a crooked finger, drawing him to his next write. 

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

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

A girl run over by a truck.

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

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

Again himself. His camera, furiously clicking.

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

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

Beckoning him.

He paused–then knew.

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

Anew.

With more heart. 

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

“Begin again.”

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

That some articles were finished with spirit. 

What faded from the eyes came to life–

With soul.

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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 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 Glimpse: Tales Through the Keyhole

She saw too much.

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Marilyn had just moved into the remote, backwater town of Scaresdale– not willingly.

The teen’s life was a jigsaw puzzle she was trying to put together within a new frame– and new town.

She and her family had just finished freeing a row of cartons of their contents–

Finally.

Some time to explore.

Hide and Go Seek occupied the children–

It was time for Marilyn to do some exploring of her own.

Somehow, the attic had become her center of attention.

An irresistible magnet.

She stepped in, and saw–

A door.

After fiddling about with it for 10 minutes, it was time to put up the white flag.

Then, a shadow beneath it caught her eye.

Sounds of movement within the space– it had to be a room– next door.

A wooden door– locked.

A curious beam of light from the shaft below.

Marylin’s hands tugged at the stubborn handle.

It didn’t budge.

She peered through the keyhole.

A flash of red.

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Rapid motion. Too quick. Too final.

An odd shape.

Familiar– yet not.

It recoiled from her vision–

As if knowing it had been seen.

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Marilyn froze, unsure whether to open the door–

Or run for her life.

The shadow broke apart in her mind, filling the empty spaces-

With dread.

That she couldn’t name.

The air pressed harder, swallowing her.

Her breath seemed to strangle– not relieve.

The room shrank, sandwiching her between its walls.

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The shadow enlarged, morphing into different shapes.

Then, distorted, creeping sounds below the door.

It crept up in different spaces–

Dark corners of the room.

On the glass.

On the television screen.

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The walls pulsed with voiceless whispers–

Terrifyingly quiet.

Beyond the keyhole–

Arms overlapping.

A smell of lavender perfume–too familiar.

Two shadows–

Close to her in age.

Too familial.

Clear– in her mind.

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Marilyn bounced a step back from the keyhole, a wrench around her mind.

The familiar, familial shadows.

The lavender perfume she knew too well.

The arms wrapping. Too close.

The scenes replayed in a mental tape recorder–

Gone awry.

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Marylin’s hand hovered above the doorknob–

But didn’t turn it.

Her finger stayed in place.

Numb.

Should she?

The family.

Her eye caught a photograph of them on the wall.

All smiles at her 6th-year birthday party.

The glass was cracked.

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The room felt–

Smaller.

Cramped.

Beyond the keyhole–

The familiar shadows still moved, too close.

The whispering of the walls grew louder.

Her mind swiveled–

To open the door,

Not.

A dark heaviness descended on her shoulders.

Her heart throbbed, an erratic rhythm.

Figures in the photograph she knew–

And loved.

This.

Her fingers wrapped around the door knob–

But couldn’t pull.

Cold sweat dripped down her fingers.

She had seen too much.

Ready–

To snap.

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The teenager couldn’t move.

She stood still, unable to speak.

Beyond the keyhole, the shadows diminished.

Finally.

But not in her mind.

The smell of the familiar perfume lingered in the air–

The scent too cloying.

The imprint remained.

Covered in mental dust.

A stain that wouldn’t vanish no matter how much remover she used.

Never entirely swept away.

The print wrapped itself around her mind–

When it stopped to see.

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Marilyn visited the house years later-

In her litigator’s capacity.

Her father had bequeathed it to her.

He felt he owed it.

A debt he could never repay in full.

The other familiar figure–

Too present.

At get-togethers. Family events.

Always kind.

Offering hugs and love.

Even support when she needed it.

But never comfort.

She had seen too much–

Through that keyhole–

But thankfully–

Didn’t snap.

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Original keyhole mystery by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Filament Shines

William Long was put out. The disgruntled electrician lacked a social life–the thirty-something-year-old spent most of his days in a garage, fiddling with light bulbs that flickered at will and lamps that emitted buzzing noises that grated on the ears.

Still, he kept the lights on–literally. Not for profit–

But for love.

Of his eleven-year-old daughter, whose giggles had once turned the atmosphere in the garage from mere electric static into sparkling fireworks.  

He was a craftsman consumed by glow.

And memory.  

Each flicker spoke of her.

The divorce.

No interaction in years.

So he couldn’t keep the garage silent–the quietness hummed, flooding his mind with tears he couldn’t shed.

At least not openly.

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One evening, the cats and dogs came down in humongous litters.The buzz of half-reparied bulbs flooded the garage.  William scrambled from his desk to answer a frantic knock on the door.

He opened it to a teen girl, soaked to the skin. Her parka and umbrella offered no protection.

Something in her eyes stirred something in William.

In her slender young hands was a battered desk lamp.

Dark. Obviously not functioning.

The girl held it up with a sheepish grin.

“Sir, could you get this working again? I’m sorry that I can’t pay you. All I ask is that it works again.”

William noticed how gently she held the lamp.

He took it from her, albeit unwillingly.

As he tinkered with it, he observed her eyes on him.

Watchful and meticulous, as though offering guidance.

With a knowing gentleness.

The lamp flickered as William continued his work, but the girl was a picture of calm.

Finally, a faint hum.

“I know this lamp isn’t the best, ” It was as though she was reading his mind. ” I onlywant it to shine.”

At that moment, William knew what the lamp was for–not its steadiness or quality, but its presence.

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Some tweaking from the electrician, and steady light.

Though it wasn’t the brightest.

William hissed under his breath, ready to admit defeat. But the teen stepped closer.

She patted him on the shoulder. A familiar touch.

“It’s glowing. That’s all you needed to do for me. All it needed to do. All I needed.”

She left the garage with the lamp, turning back with a nod and a smile that he knew–

But couldn’t place.

Then, on a shelf behind his workbench, a photograph.

Of the girl.

He still didn’t know her. But felt her.

Tugging at his heart in ways too knowing.

Weeks, later, the teen girl returned.

The same knowing presence.

She showed him how she placed the lamp on her desk so she could study.

She left again, not telling him who she was.

Or about the photograph she had left on the shelf.

He smiled, somehow content—

With acceptance–and a little unconfirmed mystery.

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Cat Remembers

t waits…for payment.

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The estate of Hollowmere in Langsville was quiet–but whispers often broke the silence. So did —

Cats.

A black cat that watched walls. 

Hushed rumours surrounded Shadow, a black feline whose presence crept up on souls near the end of their time. 

It didn’t sear with its claws–it signalled. 

Calling for them to cross the inevitable bridge. 

To a shunned, inevitable fate. 

Dr. Elara Vines had retreated to the quirky county for a little reprieve–to escape scrutinizing eyes after a botched experiment.

On pets–she had wanted to see how long they would survive without owners.

But whispers stalked her–too furtively. 

Her professional explanation? Erratic human psyche.

But it could explain only so much-the cat had made its selection. 

And she, Elara, was the chosen. 

🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

The soft murmuring didn’t do much to scare the workaholic in Elara–her lab was a haven for research notes and digitized scientific data. 

Then they–

Disappeared. Becoming–

Cats. Or unexplained, random sketches of them, lining the walls. 

Those same walls throbbed, breathing with a sure, yet petrifying rhythm as she lay in bed, tossing–fear stabbed in an uneven, broken rhythm. 

And she was too aware of its presence. 

Black. 

Svelte. 

Cryptic. 

Too quiet. 

She saw its reflection in her mirror each evening, each time drawing closer–

And closer. 

Its reflection smiled–Cheshire. Mocking. 

The wallpaper moved–and changed–beneath her fingers. 

Hollowmere had to pay its dues–and the cat was waiting. 

🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

The cat was starting to grate at–and scare–the typically stoic Elara. 

That the cat could literally make its presence felt—gnawed at her scientific nerves. 

She began to search for the source of its reflection–with chiseled knocks on the wall.

Hoping to find something–anything hidden within the walls that would explain the feline presence. 

Seven days of chiseling–and a crack.

It widened.

Becoming a space for her small frame. 

She stepped in…

To sheer morbidity. 

Rotten remains clutching–

A cat’s smiling skeleton. 

Then, it stepped in. 

Stealthy. 

Silent. 

Its shadow—

Parted from its body. 

Becoming the silhouette.

A woman’s.

Along with sheer fear was stark realisation. 

Elara had fed the cat.

Not with food, but with remorse.

Guilt.

Of her failed experiment. 

🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

A few months later, a discovery by the home’s new tenants. 

A closing journal entry–

In Elara’s unsteady hand. 

“The cat’s aware. It waits for payment.”

The manor’s landlord made it available for rent again–

It stayed clean.

Quiet.

Empty. 

Except for something–

Svelte. 

Black. 

Eyes glaring with knowledge. 

Glowing with want. 

Some cats never forget. 

🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Moon Gives

Nature gives, yet some forget its cost.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

The moon’s glow absorbed the night sky in the village of Lunardom.

A constant presence.

Lunardom couldn’t recall what kept it there.

What kept it strong.

The villagers revelled in its beauty, then—

The sky opened in eerie silence.

No moon.

Or rising tides,  with the pulse of its gravity.

But everything felt—wrong.

The night forgot itself—

Becoming restless—and so did the rest of the sleeping world.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

The forest near Lyra teemed with wildlife—not wild in the way we knew.

Birds didn’t chirp—they whispered. Howls replaced the croak of frogs. Wolves sang—humanlike tones that crept up spines and froze them.

A silver glow teased the surfaces of mirrors and puddles—but it wasn’t the light of the moon.

But its mimic.

Lyra was out collecting firewood one afternoon when on her wrist—

A mark.

It moved.

Syncing with the rhythmic movements of something—

Unseen.

And so the path to the unknown opened—in ways that would unsettle and shape Lyra’s—and the forest’s core.  

The shifting mark unnerved the typically stoic Lyra-

Who, ever the heroine, embarked on a quest to settle it.

Then, an old journal in the attic.

One with pages that told of—the Lunarkin.

Ancient guardians of the moon.

Her mind—and all she knew-unravelled like spools of tangled thread.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

Lyra followed the mark’s irresistible pull to the lake.

It too, behaved erratically, rippling upward to the surface instead of outward, defying and reconstructing gravity.

Then, she caught sight of herself.

Not her.

But a creature of light and bone

The guardian—or captor—of the Moon.

The being spoke, its voice thundering and gravelly.

“The Lunarkin have damaged the ancient tether beyond repair.” It intoned to the trembling girl.

“The void must have one descendant before it will be satisfied.”

The mark on Lyra’s arm spread—and pulled her.

Toward the water.

The void had made clear which descendant it wanted.

But the brave girl wasn’t about to let history repeat itself.

With a quick, practiced flick of her wrist, she sliced off her palm.

And offered it to the omnipresent, sentient being.

Then, a petrifying burst of silver.

Shards flew.

The surrounding light did an upward pirouette, and—a new moon pieced itself against the dark skyline.

Lyra’s reflection—gone.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

The moon steadied itself in the night sky, its light now pale and flickering.

As if recalling its shattering.

Tides surged once more. Birds called with resounding chirps. Wolves howled, hailing the moon’s presence.

But their rhythm broke through the forest in distended fragments.

Nature’s poor mimicry of normalcy.

Lyra’s reflection was no more. But ripples formed in puddles at the sound of her name.

The village cheered the moon’s return, welcoming it with feasts and dances—forgetting the girl who gave.

Beneath the surface of the lake, a gentle, silver shimmer, shaped in a palm.

Throbbing intently with the moon’s rise.

Paying what was due the Moon.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

The world continued, but lighter.

Lonelier.

The moon always graced Lunardom’s sky, but with a familiar face that took on its dim, sad glow.

Forgotten

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

The Silence in Her Hands

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.

🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.