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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Today’s book is Poetry is Alive and Other Poems by Steve Anc.

How would you respond to the complex sound of your own voice?

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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. 

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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. 

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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.”

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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.

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If you like what you read, do join me on Patreon.

Do find a my collection of short horror stories, Tales from the Dark, free for download here.

Do check out great books by other authors on Amazon! Today’s book is The Colonizers by Joseph Mullen.

Our baggage holds surprises. – Michelle Liew.
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Mr Goh moved into the old boarding house in Kong AIk road without much fanfare, quiet man that he was. The impeccably dressed accountant always had his trusty briefcase with him; though a little worn, its leather sheen never dulled, and it was always at his side, as if it contained something indispensable. He was just a stranger, a face in the crowd.

Then, strange disappearances. Mysterious coincidences—until they weren’t anymore.

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Coincidences they were, but they didn’t get past Detective MIra Chong. Her trained instincts spotted them the minute she got Mr. Goh for a quiet sit-down.

He was polite. Too polished. As if he had rehearsed every word.

“Detective,” he cautioned with a practiced look of smugness. “Some people aren’t meant to be found.”

“What do you mean?” She sat back in her chair, tilted her head, and caught his eye. He simply placed his briefcase on the table . When it snapped open, it was absolutely–

Different.

She expected documents. But instead saw–movement.

She staggered back, breath hitching.
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Inside the briefcase were….faces. Eyes blinking, mouths frozen mid-scream. Features distorted, as if pressed against glass.

“You see, Miss,” Mr. Goh murmured, smug and assured, “I don’t kill them. I collect them.”

Seasoned detective though she was, bile burned her throat. She swallowed hard, keeping the nausea down. These were the people who had vanished. Their souls—stored.

She reached for her gun. Old Man Goh sighed, eyeing her too calmly.

“Careful, Miss Chong.” His smile was too knowing. “You don’t want to be with them–too.”
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Mira pulled the trigger. The briefcase moved, though Mr. Goh remained stoic. He merely chuckled, seeing the bullet hole in it seal itself.

“It doesn’t work like that, ” he fixed her with a condescending gaze. “Didn’t you know?” You can’t kill the dead.”

He opened the case with a flick of his fingers and tilted it towards her. The faces shrieked. Mira felt a tug. Pain razed her skull. Something was pulling her very essence, dragging her towards the case.

The briefcase wasn’t Mr. Goh’s storage box. It was a doorway. And it was STARVING.

Her fingers slackened, and her gun drifted to the floor. Her vision doubled. Her body gave way. She stepped back, but it no longer listened to her.
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No.

She gritted her teeth and banged the table with all the energy she could muster. The sharp sting in her head kept her grounded, keeping her soul anchored in her body, where it was meant to be.

“You’re stronger than most women,” Mr. Goh’s eyes glimmered with faint surprise. He quickly masked it with a sinister grin, his voice dripping with both admiration and something—-dark. “But you’re too late.”

Mira returned his grin—with a diabolical snicker. “You’re not the only one who collects, you know.”

She stood tall, eyes locked on his. She reached for the torn rucksack slung across her shoulder. Inside, pairs of eyes. They flicked about constantly, searching for an exit.

Mr. Goh’s grin faltered. And he knew.

This story is entirely original. Any AI tags are coincidental. It 500 words between the quote and disclaimer.

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The Pangean Chronicles by JP McDougall