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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 Perfect Putt

Every perfect swing has its price.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

Lara stood on the championship golf course, waiting for the tee-off. Whispers drifted from the stands–everyone wanted to see if she would return.
A title that was hers–unless fate planned otherwise.
The murmurs of the crowd were far away–as if the world had converged on that grass patch.
She felt the familiar hunger of ambition, in answer to the crowd.
Too loud, too urgent.
Then a glint that drew her gaze.
Waiting
Patient.
Demanding.
From the 7th tee.
The others were too caught up in the game to notice.
The smell of cut grass strengthened and swallowed.
Around her, leaves blew, rustling–
Without wind.
But a warning.

Lara reached downward, her fingers wrapping around the glinting tee.
The shot was too perfect.
Straight and equidistant.
Of course, cameras did equally perfect zooms. The commentators hailed the miracle
Then the green grass around it wilted, and the sand split.
Fissures appeared on a nearby mound.
A lone red robin appeared on it–
Dead.
Her caddy hollered a warning; not that the officials heard.
But she was too close to the title to stop her swing.
A crack.
Under her feet.
Lara kept swinging and winning.
Each swing carved into the mound, making cracks.
Deeper and deeper.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

Lara took her final swing.
The ground responded, trembling more than the St. Andreas Fault.
The fissures were invisible–at least to the clamouring spectators.
Roaring the win.
They raced towards her, unknown to them.
But Lara knew–
Her perfect putt had carved too deep.
The trophy was within sight–
On cracking ground.

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The spectators cheered in a roaring wave, moving forward, oblivious to the danger.
The ground beneath Lara crumbled into a gaping hole.
Wider.
And wider.
Applause rose, blind to the widening chasm.
She grasped the trophy–
The Earth gave way faster than a sonic boom.
She had to decide–to hold with both hands and fall–
Pride’s prey.
Or release—
And breathe. At last.

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Lara’s fingers were in iron cuffs; the fissure threatened to swallow.

The roar of the crowd deafened, a drum that lured.

The gaps between Lara’s fingers turned chasms themselves.

into an open palm.

Sweaty, but breathing.

She released.

With a breath that finally soothed her overwrought limbs.

Salved her heart—and spirit.

The spectators gaped, mid-stare.

The silence washed over the greens, a gripping shroud.

Then, they scattered their disappointment felt—but forgone.

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The hole swallowed the crowd, its cheers curdling, then dying off.

The crowd’s roar had dulled into silence.

A leaf rustled, accompanying the lone golfer.

It was a magnificent scar on the course—one some reporters hailed a legend.

Others, a tragedy of Tsunami magnitude.

The iron cuffs—off her hands.

Lara’s trophy had lodged itself within the wide crack, gleaming to applause—

That would remain heard—

Only by Lara.

⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️‍♀️

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

Glass Veins

One can be too clean.

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An after-hours nurse, Rin had made cleanliness his life—Marie Kondo would have called his dedication to sterility an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Nothing could be out of order.

Or dirty.

Not a speck of dust.

He got into bed one morning, put out after his shift.

But woke with a start. His apartment was clean—too clean. He was a neat freak, but this level of cleanliness was enough to send someone as fastidious as he was over the edge.

Odd—an operating theatre too clean.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

There was NOTHING to look at.

Nothing except broken images that looked like outstretched hands—

Gangly.

Wieldy.

Like glitching glass veins.

Pulsing.

KNOCK.

Startled, Rin touched a window to see a hand—

Not his.

NEVER his.

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KNOCK.

The glass pulsed. To the knock’s rhythm.

The veins in the glass throbbed harder.

Brighter.

Red.

Then white.

KNOCK.

Thud. His chest answered.

The window fogged.

Scrawled letters on the frosted pane.

KNOCK.

Cracks appeared, a mangled spiderweb, across the mirror.

His own pulse skipped. It sounded just like the knock.

The fingers grew longer.

More gangly.

Pressing harder on the pane.

KNOCK.

It rocked—like a petrified heart.

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The crack in the windows widened—light bled through, as if bones had split.

In the middle of the fracture—an eye.

It blinked—and winked.

Too close.

Too knowing.

Another knock—within his chest.

Then a finger passed through the glass.

It pointed—at him.

Dripping static and leaving a dripping trail of red.

Rin’s ribs tightened, locking him in place.

The rhythm had bound him.

The apartment door rattled to its urgent beat.

Then, something within the mirror moved.

The lights followed the pulse—Vibrating.

Too exact.

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The mirror’s surface stretched—-bulging, bated breath from within its depths.

The eye within the fracture multiplied, blinking.

Syncing with the knock.

The veins in the window lashed—its binds tightening.

The door creaked—the knob turned.

A tad.

The lights flickered again—Rin’s pulse quickened to the same rhythm.

Static crept into the air—his ears buzzed.

Then, a shadow.

Seeping in from the gap below the door.

A crack within the mirror formed.

A mouth.

Gaping.

Teeth within—sharp.

The door handle twisted fully.

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The mouth moved.

Not speaking—whispering.

The shadow under the door thickened, spreading across the floor——

An irremovable stain.

The door shook uncontrollably.

Then—stopped.

Silence.

KNOCK.

From within the room.

White lights flared—turning a garish red.

The mouth opened wider—-the frame ripped apart.

It. Crawled. Out.

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It slithered out of the doorframe, bending—

To him.

It approached, raking its fingers across the wall.

Creating sparks from within each scrape.

Then, the mouth snapped shut.

But the light from the glass still bled.

The shadow under the door seeped around him, circling his feet.

Locking him in place.

His face-half his, half static.

His teeth flickered.

The knocking continued—from within his chest.

In time with his breath.

Pulse.

Fear.

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The sparks from the wall burned the veins in the glass—fire crawling through arteries.

The shadow wound tighter around his ankles, dragging him.

Rin saw himself at work, masked, a scalpel in hand.

Wiping the operating table the surgeon was working on—

Incessant.

Continuous.

The thing’s mouth opened—not to breathe out, but breathe in.

Sucking his breath.

His chest collapsed with its rhythm—each knock sucked a heartbeat.

The mirror quaked, a fractured web.

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The fire veins were a virtual tarantula, bursting through the mirror’s cracks.

The Thing drew a final breath in—

Deep.

The glass veins snapped—

A shower of red light.

The shadow around Rin shrilled, yanking the fissure, along with the Thing.

Rin fell back on his chair, collapsed.

Breathing.

His room, as it was.

Just cracks.

In the mirror.

And himself. Scalpel. Disinfectant.

And cloth.

In his mouth.

The knocks continued.

🔀🔀🪞🧍🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍

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

Parallel Lives

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Mara stepped out of her home onto her driveway—she knew each stone by heart.

But it seemed that what she knew by heart had to be relearned.

Fog clouded the street beyond, giving the otherwise familiar street an unnatural white hue. It had rained just an hour before; the puddles caught the lamplight like unlived fragments of her memory.

She caught sight of herself in a puddle. It seemed to blink—almost a stranger.

And the familiar street felt—

Different.

Unvisited.

A place unheard of.

Her life stretched before her—one that felt borrowed.

The university education that her parents couldn’t afford.

The job she passed up to care for her ailing parents.

She felt the tug of life just beyond her reach—so near, yet so far.

Each drop of rain seemed to whisper regret for what might have been; what could still be.

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She passed the park bench she and James used to sit—

For hours.

Talking.

The masculine scent of his aftershave.

The armrest he had vandalised with Cupid hearts.

She passed the music store they used to frequent—and the piano his fingertips used to grace.

A virtuoso.

Her mother.

In bed, hooked to a respirator.

The windows of her mind opened to James boarding a plane at the airport.

Fixing a lingering gaze on her as he entered the boarding gate.

Another image—odd.

Different.

Pulsing.

Of herself, following him.

Her mind veered back to the familiar street—yet not.

A gust of wind, howling, urgent, pushing her in.

Drops of rain pelted the gray cobblestone—

The black umbrella.

One they used to laugh under on days like this.

She paused mid-step, tears drenching her cheeks.

Her mother.

Him.

Not both.

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She found herself back on the street—

Known.

Yet unknown.

The gray hues of the cobblestone were now a strange white.

The white ceramic floors of the university.

She passed a cafe—open where the legal library should have been.

Music streamed from a window—from a piano.

With her mom’s cries of pain—in sync.

She’d wanted to learn that.

Her mother.

In bed, hooked to a respirator.

Herself, in a nurse’s uniform, helping her sit up.

Her mother’s tears streaming—

Down a relieved, smiling face.

The smells from the cafe teased her nostrils.

She was herself, walking.

Through the university’s halls.

Carrying legal ledgers, laughing with friends from law school.

Nurse. Her mom.

Lawyer.

Her heart—yanked.

Spinning, overwhelmed—in both directions.

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She stopped at a puddle and gazed at herself.

In her nurse’s uniform, pressed neatly.

Herself again, in the cafe’s window.

Donning a judge’s robes.

Both with raised right hands.

One mirrored the other.

Uncomfortable.

False.

Nurse.

Lawyer.

Not both.

Her heart yanked again—landing in place with a soft thump.

Of knowing.

That she had chosen a path.

One she could not forgo.

That she had to continue walking.

She heard her mother’s breathing, now quiet.

Relieved.

Stable.

Together with laughter from the university’s halls—from herself, in a judge’s robes.

Both sounds—pleasant.

Harmonious.

Mara the nurse..

The fiancée who was.

All had to walk along that street.

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Mara stood on the pavement, the gray cobblestone she knew facing her.

In her nurse’s uniform, on the way to the hospital where her mum recovered in a ward.

Her face clear, smiling, in a puddle.

The lamplight grounded her feet firmly, pushing them forward.

In the cafe window—herself, in judge’s robes, waving a poignant goodbye.

Smiling—through tears.

The sound of her mother’s breathing reverberated calmly, pelting in rhythm with the raindrops on her umbrella.

She paused at another puddle.

Herself, in a judges robes, smiling.

Then James, in the airport lounge.

Staring.

She reached.

Then pulled back.

The plane had no seat for her.

Reached again—and withdrew.

Her heart yanked.

🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

.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.

Voices of Her Heart

Single mum Sarah dragged the toothbrush over her teeth, not excited at the prospect of another endless day of endless rants from a micromanaging boss.

She paused in the middle of drawing circles over them and gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

Her gaze stayed on her wrinkles and furrows.

She seemed–

Older. Empty.

Joyless.

Visions of her heart.

Her boss screamed at her over the deadlines she’s not met yet– noisy muzak in her ears.

She tossed and turned in bed that night, trying to come up with a way to finish a pending project.

No answers.

Instead, whispers.

Her body stiffened.

She cracked her neck.

She chalked it up to tiredness and threw her head back onto the pillow.

Then, dreams.

Of how her boss at humiliated her in front of a customer–

Incompetent.

Irresponsible.

Of her being unable to finish preparing a simple dish of fried noodles.

Herself, missing a phone call from the job agency informing her of a new position–and a higher salary.

She sat up with a start.

The room seemed emptier– more silent than usual.

She had installed solid wood floors in the rooms.

But– creaks.

The whispers continued, now clearer.

“You’ll never be…you’ll never be….”

Too coordinated.

With her heartbeat.

Her 10-year-old daughter knocked at the door.

“Mom, you screamed louder than my friends in the playground. What’s wrong?”

She pushed the little girl back to her bedroom, blushing at seem to be her own little-girl nightmare.

“Get to sleep. School tomorrow.”

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

The whispers increased in volume.

Sarah begin to feel someone gripping her toes when she wore shoes.

She could no longer chalk the voices up to imagination.

Scenes of herself failing at making sales grew clearer.

More intense.

Along with her guilt.

When she thought of her little girl.

The whispers turned into half-phrases.

” You’ll never be…”

She chalked them up to fatigue. But she couldn’t afford failure.

Her daughter.

But they were just too loud.

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Then, the whispers stopped.

Sarah could finally sleep—

For a few days.

Then, she heard them again.

But louder each night.

Until—

A clear voice.

Cold.

Commanding.

“You’ll never make a sale. You’ll never be.”

It knew exactly when her presentations would fail.

“They’ll laugh at you.”

The gripping at her toes moved up to her ankles– feeling the tug– even when she was awake.

She stumbled about in her own home– once nearly falling down the stairs.

Then visions of herself telling her daughter that she couldn’t buy her toys because there were no sales.

Her daughter’s face.

Covered in tears.

Then, the work papers she brought home turned into–

Something different.

“You’ll never be” — scrawled in bright red across each page.

One night, really loudly.

” You’ll never be enough.”

She shot up in bed, stunned.

The ominous sound seemed to sync with her heart.

She heard it again.

” I’ve always been here. You’re a good listener.”

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

Sarah woke up the next morning, humming to herself as she prepared breakfast.

She knew what it meant.

She couldn’t listen anymore– she had to make a sale this month.

And she did.

The client was completely engaged– he only had to sign the papers.

They arranged to sign them at her office the next day.

He was about to put the pen to paper.

Loud.

In her head.

” You’ll never be.”

😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️😰👂🏠💭💔🖤👁️‍🗨️

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

White Rose Bouquet

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…

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Her heart raced as she pressed against the petals laced with her own blood.

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.

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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.

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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.

The September 18th Numbers

Listen…to the quiet warnings.

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Mei was preparing Chinese waffles in the family kitchen, getting the children ready for what was supposed to be a routine morning.

“Eh, get up! The school bus will be downstairs in an hour!”

10-year-old John and 8-year-old Sam sat up in bed.

With looks grouches would be proud of.

A horse racing calendar hung on the kitchen wall, omnipresent. Slightly dog-eared, Mei had flipped the pages countless times to mark important dates.

And yes, to make horse racing bets.

But the calendar didn’t turn on dog ears. Over time, they began to peel– and curl.

Almost like curved nails, reaching for attention.

Its metallic tang lingered in the kitchen, at he edges of her mind.

She fingered a number– the print felt too dense.

Alive.

The metallic smell grew as she neared certain numbers.

She glanced at it.

September 18th glared at her.

Familiar–yet wrong.

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She stared at the date for a few long minutes.

The metallic smell of the calendar turned her nose red.

Numbers started to peel off the pages–

Faster and faster.

The phenomenon was beyond Mei’s exhausted–yet frantic mind.

Her two-year-old toddler ambled into the kitchen and tugged at her sleeve.

She took the little boy in her arms– and his fingers brushed its pages lightly.

Another date flashed.

Her deceased grandmother’s birthday.

With a shocked gasp, she backed away, trembling fingers reaching for the kitchen knife on the table.

It tensed within her grip.

The dates were–too correct.

Her mind flicked to each one–as if it knew.

It stored–more than mere numbers.

It was telling.

Choosing.

It had–

Chosen.

Her.

She had to warn–or confront.

Fate lay in those numbers–hers, or another’s.

September 18th.
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The numbers on the calendar peeled off–

A whirlwind.

September 15th.

16th.

17th.

The metallic smell overwhelmed.

Mei’s pulse thudded.

“September 18th… I know this date…”

Then, she remembered.

Her older sister.

The one whom her mother had cried over countless family gatherings.

She had died after fingering a kitchen knife.

Curiosity.

She had turned it turned it–

To her heart.

The knuckles around the knife in her hand turned white.

She backed away from the calendar– near her toddler.

The knife.

Waited.

Then, she dropped it.

A sigh of relief.

She gazed at the young child, giggling, still tugging at her dress.

The calendar’s hinted page.

September 17th.

She clutched her young daughter’s arm.

The calendar curled. With the smell of metal.

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The Cave Remembers

Some curiosities are carved in stone—and they never forget.

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The boys scrambled across the rocks of the cavern, wet from the rising tide. The smell of hewn stone pervaded the air—dust waiting to be returned to life.

The walls had taken on a luminous sheen—more vibrant than they should have been after thousands of years. Carvings of livestock—bison, horses, stags—had been etched mid-stride, as if the animals were unaware of being stalked. The sound of echoing hooves.

No one was moving.

A nervous chuckle seemed to come from Marvin, one of the inquisitive teens. “Look—it’s like they’re watching us.”

The others exchanged hesitant glances, then turned their heads to him. They were silent.

For too long.

“Marvin,” Nicholas had furrows on his brow.

And those furrows weren’t typical.

The laughter echoed around the cavern.

“Did you just laugh?”

“It wasn’t me,” He swore. But his face had contorted into a too-wide grin.

One he tried to control—vainly.

Then, the walls stirred.

Shadows rippled around the bison’s hooves. They pounded in echo—but nothing moved.

The carvings shimmered in the light of the boys’ lanterns—as if the creatures had noticed.

The hooves echoed—faster.

The boys tried to stand, gripping the stones around them a little too hard.

“Hello?” Nicholas’s question bore a panicked ring.

“Hello!” An echo—not Nicholas’ voice.

Then—fur. On the hooves of the etched bison.

The bison’s muscles.

Twitching.

The paintings on the wall turned.

Antlers poised.

At the boys.

Who wanted to know—too much.

The boys quickly backed out of the cavern. As they did, the bison returned to their etched poses.

Heard.

The tide receded—but the hooves still pounded, for those who dared to listen.

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Have you known curiosity to stir the bison, figuratively? Do share in the comments.

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The Step Before Mine

City folks exhausted by routine. Figures moving through streets and parks, half-forgotten. Shadows hover strangely when no one watches.

When no one pays attention.

Attention that, when neglected, should be reclaimed–before things change.

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Lina was the quintessential workhorse—she cared for nothing but the daily grind. She’d taken enough from a boss who wanted more than she could deliver—all she wanted was home, and to soak in a bubble bath of kindness.

The park was empty of visitors, leaving only lamplight that bent oddly around puddles of rain for company. The air was cool—so cool that shadows hesitated or lingered, almost as if they found the ground repugnant.

Lina trod the usual path, her bagpack slung carelessly, her eyes glued to the cracked pavement. Something at the periphery of her vision twitched—perhaps a passerby in a sonic hurry. Or likely a flickering shadow, drifting out of place. She blinked it and flitted out of sight.

A puddle rippled—no wind blew. A leaf hovered in midair, remaining a second too long. Lina snapped her head. The figure appeared at the corner of her eye again, teased by the light.

Precise.

Too exact.

She turned right. It did too. She turned left. It did too. It mimicked every step she took. The light of a park lamp hovered over her, shining on distended shadows that stretched in ways that tightened her stomach.

She stopped. It did too.

She stepped forward—it moved first.

Her pulse raced. Each of her instincts screamed that she had a mimic—one that tested and teased, floundering at the edges of her perception. Reality shivered.

Her movements—no longer hers.

She managed to leave the park. The pavement leading from it was familiar — yet out of place. The corners had taken on a razor-like quality that seemed to brush against her skin with ominous fingers. Shadows hung over her—too long. The air bore an uncanny memory of what once was.

She couldn’t unsee—it. It echoed every twitch, every glance with uncanny synchrony.

Something had shaped her awareness during those moments. Not in the best way.

She breathed, at last, at a normal rate. But her shoulder twitched, and it did too. It glanced towards unseen corners—together with her.

The street before here echoed the impossible rhythm. The shadow had consumed the edge of her attention.

That she had been too busy to give.

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

Has the unnoticed waited for you before? Feel free to share!

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.

As One

Everyone needs a hero.

So it is that the town of Wilkinson gathered to celebrate the sacrifices of those who cared for those who ran towards flames or pain.

Sirens wailed–not for safety, but empty celebration. The confetti little ones in the audience at the town’s stadium fell to its floor in heaps of ash.

The parade was in full swing– cars drove by with garish clowns staring out the window. Jugglers on pogo sticks smiled twisted smiles as they tossed tennis balls in the air.

Confetti ash stuck to spectators’ hands as they waved their party favours. In the middle of the third row, a mask slipped–a child’s gaze felt–

Hollow.

Vacant.

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The marches began–armed service platoons, and paramedics, now on a different duty. They marched well.

Too well. Too timed. Their boots struck the pavement in a march too stoic–one beyond dignity.

A metallic tang rode the air, filling it with an almost bloodlike taste.

Where there was none.

The crowd started to shift in their seats. Little children eyed the passing clowns, not with laughter or smiles, but stares, locked in place.

Siren calls distorted–the crowd snapped its heads in their direction.

In perfect sync.

Unthinking.

And the marchers lagged behind the music–not under its guidance, but the metronome of another.

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The metallic tang thickened, more and more akin to blood. The confetti ash stuck to everyone’s hair, greying each member of the crowd.

A crowd of dedicated to service.

One which continued its mechanical cheers.

Then, one of the marchers faltered out of step. His mask slipped.

His face–sunken. Pale. Stoic.

Features affixed.

The crowd soon followed his falter, their masks dutifully slipping.

To the same, unseen rhythm.

Their faces–his.

Sunken. Pale. Stoic.

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Silence.

The group of marchers and the crowd stayed still.

As one.

Staring.

At —

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When a march like this begins, would you follow, or strip off the mask? Do answer in the comments!

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.