The Tremolo

The Tremolo was a cozy diner by all means. Dim lights, soft lilac velvet furniture… everyone went there for dinner and much-needed comfort.

Cozy… in a vibrational way.

Everything was shaky. Everything.

Cups did the hippy shake. Table legs danced the Macarena.

The knives did the cha cha.

“Slash! Slash!” A knife would say.

The owner, Mark Vibrato, was a well-known eccentric who wanted to introduce…

Authentic Dynamic Dining to the world. He wanted his customers to experience movement with each bite.

So he absolutely refused to repair anything. Nothing was faulty.

Instead, he not only embraced unpredictability —

He embraced it.

Defects became quirky features.

Engineered Authenticity.

The Tremolo, of course, became THE place to be.

Customers came to expect shaky tables.

Their competitors imitated the concept by breaking some off their own furniture.

Each tried to stand out with niche advertising.

“Guaranteed Oscillation.”

“Premium Quiver.”

“Extreme Vibrato” —

For a newly fashioned pub.

Waiters were trained to carry soup across tables that —

Floundered.

Seats quivered on their own volition.

YouTube influencers filmed drinks dancing pirouettes in the air.

“Cheers.” Glasses would exclaim as they clinked.

“What’s so cheery about it?” Pineapple juice whined as it spilt out of the cup.

And reviewers praised the shows for being —

immersive.

Then, the health inspector arrived. Every staff member expected disaster — food was shaken off tables and onto the floor.

But Tremolo’s owner secretly asked repairmen to put his furniture right —

Overnight.

So when he stepped in, not a single cup rattled.

The silence —

Stilled.

The reaction of customers to the newly restructured Tremolo was —

Unexpected.

A shaky one.

They hated the cafe. It had —

Lost its charm.

Become far too —

Predictable.

Mark Vibrato slipped napkins beneath a table leg —

Crash.

And the table —

Did the wobble.

Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.

The Bell of Belonging

Some traditions demand more than loyalty.

Monday morning fell on the office, just like any other. Jamie and his colleagues gathered, chattering excitedly among themselves.
The Team of the Week would be honoured with the chime of a big brass bell.
The bell.
Huge.
Brass.
Gleaming.
It tolled.
Not chimed.
Tolled.

They sat, voices escalating. Jamie’s team looked forward to this week’s ceremony; a plaque and gift vouchers awaited. Promotions awaited. The Team Leader and Project Manager stood to address the different company departments.
Then, his colleagues’ voices started to blend.
Oddly.
Almost a chant.
“Together…
Together..” The Project Manager rang the bell. It responded.
Slowly.
Pedantically.
Longer chimes than it should have.
For what, or whom, Jamie didn’t know.
The voices started syncing in a more urgent, faster rhythm.
“Together….
Together…”
Jamie looked about the table, his confusion rising. Everyone sounded too–
Synchronised.
TOGETHER.
The Project Manager launched his pedantic, customary pep talk. Jamie’s eye fell on an old staff photograph.
He went over the people in it, squinting.
Counted the numbers in the different departments. His eyes lingered on the picture.
Then —
A familiar face, not present. He had spoken to it before. The brass bell gleamed.
For the permission to toll.

Jamie’s eyes went over the photographs again.

He counted the employees meticulously, trying to remember each name.

His missing colleague’s.

A familiar face whose name simply refused to appear.

He spoke to other colleagues, pointing to the photograph.

“Hey, who was this?”

They shot him blank stares.

“As far as I know,the department has always had the same number of people.”

Robert seemed genuinely surprised by Jamie’s question. He had been with the company for a good three decades.

Jamie’s eyes scanned the office for a previous staff member.

An extra access card, hanging on it an unclaimed lanyard, caught his attention.

He looked at Robert.

Who quickly looked away.

Other colleagues returned quickly to their seats.

Then, a familiar tolling.

His colleagues glanced at the brass bell.

Almost reflexively.

Project Manager David took centre stage.

“Whoever closes the next contract gets a permanent place in this company.”

The promise was too —guaranteed.

The winning team gathered around the bell.

Each member placed his hand on it, as tradition dictated.

A toll.

Low.

Heavy.

Then Rita’s silhouette lost its legs.

Arms.

Jamie stared, open- mouthed.

Rita was no more. She was in the company’s memory.

Not her own.

Jamie stared at the photograph.

No more Rita.

She had sacrificed—

For the team.

Sacrifice. A deceptively simple word.

He stared at his own feet.

Slowly disappearing.

He was becoming part of the team.

The bell tolled.

Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.

Before International Women’s Day

We celebrate International Women’s Day today.

A day to honour the way women should be honoured.

A woman’s truth remains, waiting for the right post.

🌸💐🌷🌹🌼🌺🌻🌷💐🌸

The night before International Women’s Day settled on Caleb Lim’s study, an evening for perfunctory posture. Posturing was in the wealthy Asian businessman’s DNA; years of company events and dinners and ingrained positioning. In the manner of a suave, well-heeled corporate figure, he typed a carefully worded tribute for his company’s Facebook page. A polished act of respect for the women his organisation couldn’t do without. A message his followers expected, and would admire. Of little consequence. The ceremonial gratitude was necessary. He swept his dismissiveness aside and arranged his goodness in cautiously worded sentences.

He was about to click on the ‘post’ button when the phone on his rosewood table buzzed.

A voice he couldn’t mistake.

His daughter’s.

Disbelief turned to shock. Then hope arrived before reason.

His daughter couldn’t be speaking to him.

She had long since been cremated. After a long bout of depression.

But, the heated words. His insistence that she should know her place as a daughter. Her rudeness. Her utter defiance.

Out of line. As a woman.

But the dead had his number. How, he had no way to know.

That voice – it was Jane’s. But what should have sounded comforting was instead wary.

Too wary.

‘Dad, I’m sorry to bother you…”

The apology always came before anything she ever said to him, especially if it mattered.

That came because isolation taught her displeasing him mattered.

The haunting, soft caution. The almost ghostly tiptoe around his anger with her mere presence.

“I’m so sorry, dad, for calling at the wrong time…”

Jane’s voice was not comforting, but had the soft ring of deference. Every sentence bent, low.

A woman’s bow. Too low.

She spoke as though that taking up his space was her failure.

And he heard it in her manners. His damage.

The receiver hung limp in his hand. She WAS dead. Too much so to be speaking to him.

And yet the voice echoed over the line. The girlish, subservient voice.

The voice he had nurtured.

No, her call didn’t shake his being.

Her voice did. The soft ring of her woman’s voice.

His Facebook tribute to women smiled on his monitor. A false smile.

The public praise he knew too well how to execute.

His words for his wife, then his daughter, were never seasoned with care or kindness, but with sarcasm.

Dismissiveness.

Contempt.

The nearest women to him had been deprived of the shelter they deserved. Of honour, in their home.

His message lit up the monitor without a truthful source.

He sat, his head in his hands. No words of reconciliation would ever reach Jane; he was remorseful.

Too late.

Grief and change couldn’t walk the same aisle.

The truth had arrived long after the sand in his hourglass had finished dripping.

The dead were beyond repair. The living –

Waiting to be fixed.

Addressed.

He clicked on the button.

To delete.

His Facebook timeline refreshed.

A photo of him and Jane, her bright smile giving the monitor the light it needed.

He had sent the right post.

🌸💐🌷🌹🌼🌺🌻🌷💐🌸

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The Window That Stayed Lit

Today is World Energy Efficiency Day. With the rapid depletion of fossil fuels, observance is more than apt.

But too much so?

We do it for survival. But when survival rules, we sometimes forget the world.

🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑

Electicia had become a ration-obsessed city; there were few energy resources to share among its needy populace. Fossil fuels had become almost negligible – electric cars had long escorted gas-tank vehicles to junkyards.

Towers blended with the dark sky; the melding prompted unwanted darkness.

But in one tower, a light shone. Nightly, without fail, at 2:30 a.m. From a window that should be dark.

Solitary and purposeful.

Intentional.

Driven by a different energy.

Speculation – then dissatisfaction – began.

“How could they -‘

“They should be evicted by the authorities -“

“Non -compliance -“

🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑

Electrician Lenny watched the tower each dusk, without fail. He’d make his rounds and return to face the tower. Each night, never ceasing. A pattern too precise to ignore.

Electric readings from the single room pushed gauges beyond their limits, mercilessly. Suspiciously. Hidden wiring warmed the ground, poking the bases of his already tired feet.

🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑

The wiring served as apt warning; Lenny knew that the tower was best left alone. But curiosity triumphed over wise judgment.

He found himself outside the main door of the tower. He pushed, and the hinges gave way almost too freely –

Quieter than expected.

An elderly woman sat, her wrinkles caressed by gentle lamp light.

She was engrossed in the text before her, squinting-electricity was a worthless assistant. The generator was an equally flawed helper.

She looked up at Lenny’s furrowed eyebrows and offered the gentlest of smiles.

Lenny returned it with a lopsided grin of his own. The light? Just the lamp reflected on the window’s glass.

🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑

Lenny filed an evaluation report with his company – there had been no violation, no overuse of resources.

As he hauled tired feet back home, he glanced up at the surrounding windows.

Silent buildings, their aura tranquil.

Ink-black.

Just obedient darkness.

A city aware of the little power it held.

Too aware to see the dawn of a new day.

🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑✨🌑

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

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A Correction, Not a Confrontation

Accuracy is respect.

📏🖊️✨

Rare Disease Day began like any other.

The escalating temperature outside made the students languid; they were already sweaty from physical education class. Mrs. Lim stepped into

the classroom.

Two words, scrawled on the board.

“Turner’s Syndrome.”

“Syndrome. That’s a disease!” blurted a student. He said it the way one mentions a headache.

The room was silent.

Just an assumption. No harm done.

Or thought.

Mrs. Lim quietly turned to the board.

“Word choice shapes thinking. And thinking shapes behaviour.”

Without addressing the student, she explained the difference between disease and condition.

Clinically. Another vocabulary lesson.

But there were details yet to explain.

📏🖊️✨

“Remember, class,” she smiled. Platform heels raised her above her height, or lack thereof. A conventional blouse covered her small but uniquely stocky frame. “Accuracy is a form of respect, especially with language. Use it wisely.”

Forty pairs of curious eyes fixed on her.

“Turner’s Syndrome is not a medical disease in the way Chicken Pox is, but it is a condition that presents some difficulties for those who have it.”

She tried to reach the highest point of the whiteboard.

Something her 4 foot-11 inch frame wouldn’t allow.

She gripped the edge of the teacher’s desk, bracing herself.

But the class was silent.

📏🖊️✨

The student who offered the remark frowned, then blushed.

It was a correction, not a confrontation.

The room straightened. The students sat up.

Mrs. Lim, ever the consummate professional, smiled warmly.

The students exchanged uncomfortable glances for a minute.

Then the same student returned the smile. The rest of the class looked at Mrs. Lim.

Gazes fixed, cautiously interested.

No one apologised. There was no need to.

📏🖊️✨

Later, alone, she erased the board.

Some words smudge easily.

Some linger.

She left one line on the board:

Be accurate.

Not for herself.

For them.

The lesson proceeded, with the students successfully dissecting the vocabulary in a comprehension passage.

The bell rang, and the students filed out of the class.

The impulsive student remained.

Mrs. Lim quietly gathered her books. She had left a single phrase behind.

“Be accurate.”

Not a category. Nor a laugh.

She had left behind a thought:

Precision is power.

📏🖊️✨

An original story for Rare Diseases Day by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

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The Last Stop on Mann’s Tour

Some hauntings don’t rattle chains. They wait in your notifications.

🕯️🌫️🚶‍♂️📖✨

I gathered with Elvis and the rest of the group, ready to grace ghostly lanes with gentle tiptoes.

Our guide, Mann, was a fellow who engaged…though without unnecessary pomp.

The buildings around the park were old. The streets, narrow. Lamps hummed in a slightly strangled way, as if they hadn’t enough Strepsils.

And we followed behind Mann like obedient shadows.

Mann launched into his spooky stories. But…they were…oddly personal.

Someone chortled suddenly. Uncomfortably.

The air thinned as the guide came to each stop.

The stories narrowed, like a zoom camera.

Oddly familiar – and tied to each group member.

A woman who declined her mother’s last call – that same woman was now frantically tapping her mobile’s keypad.

Then, there was the tale of the man who chose profit over humanity. That same man was shoving company leaflets.

Then, there was the teen who caught footage of people falling off their bikes. He was filming a boy skidding past on a skateboard, yielding to the pavement.

Then Mann stopped with an abrupt flourish. He swiveled around from his position in front to face the group.

“These stories aren’t recorded hauntings. They’re our regrets. Our behaviours. Choices that replay in a Youtube loop long after we’ve made them. Check your phones.

Each group member scrolled through their message feeds and looked up, sheepish.

With a missed notification. An unread message.

“These spirits don’t flood buildings. They’re ours. Our neglected responsibilities.”

Suddenly, we weren’t afraid of darkness. Our fear? What awaited us at home.

The silence was loud. Clanking.

Reminding.

And regret swarmed in, dark, hungry flies.

It crept over us quickly, a dangerous blanket. We dispersed, trying vainly to avoid it.

Mann again. With a new group of ghost tourists.

With their stories. Stories they must complete.

🕯️🌫️🚶‍♂️📖✨

Original story 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!

Community Standards

When the light flickers, people behave. When it stops, they explain.

💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡

Tan here. A long-term resident of Block 345, Chestpeak Avenue.

It’s not a bad place to live. The residents of Block 345 are generally orderly folk who maintain the block well. And I like that they leave everything where it should be.

But that lamp. That idiotic lamp.

The flickering of that idiotic lamp was irritating. Irregular. Inconsistent.

It happened whenever I walked past, but some enjoyed uninterrupted illumination.

That was interesting to note.

Coincidence, of course.

💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡

Take Mdm Lim, for example. The one who waters others’ plants for them. That light would behave over her.

Now me? I’m not a plant person. I like to keep up with the news.

But I’m a retiree. I can’t afford regular newspapers, so I depend on…external help.

I sometimes…er…borrow the newspapers outside neighbours’ apartments when they’re not watching.

And that darned light would go on and off over me whenever I did.

💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡

I, Tan, believe that optics must be upheld. I’ve always done this at work.

And at home as well.

Sharing corridors requires community discipline, so I make sure to return the newspapers slightly earlier.

What is borrowed must return mah? Best practice.

Tan always obeys community standards.

💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡

They finally replaced the silly lamp. See? I said that the wiring was faulty.

Nothing unusual. Just the Town Council and its nonsense.

Things went back to normal since the lamp stopped flickering. Mdm Lim waters her own plants and conserves water for herself now.

Everyone else’s – not so important lah.

Me? Now that the lamp has stopped flickering, I have decided to borrow newspapers permanently.

No returning. For what? Everyone can see anyway.

💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡

So, everything in order, lah.

It WAS faulty wiring, like I said. Glad they corrected it.

Mdm Lim waters her own plants and conserves water for herself now.

I borrow…but when no one else is in the corridor.

I don’t like that light now. It shows. Too well.

💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡🏢💡

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

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Written Too Straight

Society expected perfection from Sandra. But is perfection perfect?

📚✔️❌❓

Ms. Sandra Lee always arrived in class five minutes before her English lesson was to begin. There was no reason for this day to be any different.

The classroom had already risen before she stepped in. The lights were already on, and her students, quiet and standing, ready to greet.

But their morning salutation was not for her.

She’d always had a problem writing in a straight line on a ledger-less chalkboard.

But her name was on it this day.

She already knew the kids – there was no need for it.

It was in a line – written by someone else.

Too straight.

📚✔️❌❓

The students offered their polite greeting – almost too polite.

Their grace, too well-crafted.

Responses – too normal.

Sandra observed the teacher – an uncanny replica of herself, doling out marked homework and instructions.

The students, responding for once without any quiet rebellion.

They had finally accepted her for who she was.

But this was not her. Their politeness to this new her – her own erasure.

📚✔️❌❓

The formulae offered by Sandra’s replacement – herself – were doubtless.

Efficient. Perfect.

The students accepted the model solutions she offered without a single raised hand in protest.

No digression. No lingering questions.

The teaching was excellent, but without an ounce of warmth.

📚✔️❌❓

Then, the letter on her desk.

Thanking her for her service.

The parents were happy with Sandra’s replacement – she taught in the way the students recognized.

There was improvement. Formulae were clocked correctly, according to the letter. She had taught well, it said.

Just not good enough for – herself.

📚✔️❌❓

Sandra cleared her desk, putting her books and now needless worksheets in a box.

She carried it past the classroom and looked in at herself, finally explaining the formulae without a single missed equation.

But as she passed the classroom window, the replacement – her perfect upgrade – asked a question.

Then wrote the wrong sum on the board.

And vanished at the sound of the bell.

📚✔️❌❓

The students with half the needed formulae.

📚✔️❌❓

Original microfiction 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!

The White Field

It’s Penguin Awareness Day, and being the cute junkie that I am, I’d like to pay tribute to these wobbly fellows.
They are cute. They are also firm and stand by those in the colony who need them. Even when forgotten.
But the day isn’t just theirs. It belongs to anyone who has stood stoically by others in the face of any adversity.
Not all guardians are remembered. All are necessary.
🐧 ❄️ ❄️ 🐧 ❄️
The snowstorm had created an unending white sea – one that Buzz and his family navigated year after year. White waves swam from an omnipresent sky, covering the colony not with protection, but with threat.
The sea was rogue this year – the waves splashed forward without warning. A snow wave had almost drowned Buzz – not that the rest of the colony paid heed. Not even his parents.
He waddled painfully past the wave and looked ahead. No other penguin.
But one. A little chick.
He positioned himself beside it, nudging it forward with his beak, relieved when it finally trudged a few steps forward.
Snow continued falling; white curtains shrouded the Antartic landscape as Buzz forged ahead, a non-present adult in his colony.
The South Pole wind howled her discontent. Resilience reigned over her as the penguins made do, rotating their positions to keep the young intact.
The outer edges of the colony bore the cold. Buzz and his adult comrades slipped, uninstructed and observed, into different parts of it to shield the little ones. Like Buzz, the other birds guarded them with stoic silence.
They could have moved within the brood – duty bade them not to, and they acquiesced, without a chirp.
The snowstorm ended as suddenly as it started, leaving massive white hills in her wake. The sun peeked behind soft pillowy clouds, indicating safety to the birds as they ploughed on without pause.
The little ones, their soft grey fur and blubber offering warmth, no longer needed Buzz for protection. They plodded just as relentlessly as the elders, paying him no heed as they forged ahead.
They arrived safely at the next snow hill, their footfalls unheard and unseen. Like Buzz, they would grow and guard, unnoticed and unrecorded in a white field.
🐧 ❄️ ❄️ 🐧 ❄️
Original story 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.

Lines in Brown

This day in 1919 marks the Great Boston Molasses Flood, when a molasses storage tank burst in Boston’s East End and consumed 21 lives.

21 lives lost, and undocumented.

While history records the events, it doesn’t record the names.

Some histories cannot be left on paper — they wait to be remembered.

🟤📄🕯️⚖️🟤

Criminalist Eleanor’s job was her haven – she adored the precision and the intimate attention to detail it needed. Years in the Commercial Affairs department of the police force had ingrained foolproof method and reliability – traits that made her renowned.

January 15 took her to an abandoned industrial site – one where tension and chaos were still very much married. Molasses had erupted in waves of brown from industrial containers, drowning 21 workers in viscous sea of dessert thick enough to build another Berlin wall . The atmosphere overwhelmed in a sickening instant.

Molasses lines still trailed along the sides of tanks, creeping from something – unseen. Brown and sticky. Gripping. Unyielding.

Accusing.

But Eleanor was but a monitor of records, not memory. She was tasked with verifying the truth – not on reflection of responsibility.

The sickly-sweet dessert was a trained assassin assailing Eleanor’s nose – the cloying scent wrapped her nostrils with a vengeance. The air bore sweetness where none should be. Time had softened, but not erased it – it didn’t move. But remained almost deathly unsettled.

She had recorded the event before, without missing a beat.

Safely. Accurately.

But the events and dates did not sync. The numbers bore no weight – meaningless. The dates had no breath.

Accuracy had trumped reverence.

The names of the 21 lost souls, dissolved with the viscosity that had enfolded them.

Then, the viscous remains reshaped.

Hardened.

Becoming a tangled mass of brown limbs, melded together in linked chains that could not be broken.

Then they rose, in a circle, surrounding Eleanor.

Approaching her, but not reanching.

21 links, glistening with dessert gleam.

Reminding.

Eleanor stared at the forms, too dumbstruck for words. Mesmerised – but aware enough to find them odd.

None of them spilt forward. None screamed.

She remembered the file that she had put on the table beside her, open to a blank page.

The figures stared, nodding.

And she understood.

The record she had to complete. That she would complete.

And the day she would finally mark with remembrance.

🟤📄🕯️⚖️🟤

Original story 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.