Tag: writing

Echoes of Kedukan Bukit

Long before rivers were charted and kingdoms recorded on maps, Sumatra’s waters carried more than trade — they carried whispers of ambition, power, and memory. In the mud and currents of a forgotten riverbank, history waits for those who dare to listen.

Some stones do more than survive centuries. Some remember.

History speaks. Listen well.

🪨

The river swelled, covering Aria’s knees. The avid scholar had risked life for art, braving the torrents of the Sumatran river in the midst of the July-August monsoon.

A relic of the Srivijayan empire — the first maritime kingdom of Sumatra — was the goal. With torch in hand, she ploughed through the mud, the river’s plaintive cries rising to a near crescendo.

🪨

Her hands mired in mud, Aria’s fingers felt their way along rocks and their crevices — until they touched a half-buried stone slab.

The Kedukan Bukit inscription covered its surface.

Then, strangeness.

A feeling of being surveilled washed over Aria — almost as if the Sumatran river itself was keeping close tabs on her.

Then —

“Aria. Seek no more.”

A lost voice.

Aria’s fingers wrapped tighter around the base of her torch.

🪨

Her foot hit the base of a sharp stone.

On it, an inscription —

In ancient Javanese.

She shone her torch on the faded outlines of the script, trying to wrestle with a language she only knew through sessions with the lecturers at her university.

But she knew enough to pause.

In shock.

The rock was transcribing on its own.

Scripting her mind.

Mapping her ambitions.

Echoing her doubts.

Mirroring her obsessions.

The rock seemed alive — and knew too well who sought it.

And then she knew — echoes of the past weren’t just echoes — they lived with those who sought them.

🪨

Aria slipped her torch into her knapsack and grabbed the stone.

It refused —

To —

Budge.

She tried again —

It refused —

To —

Budge.

She stepped back —

The stone was history, and it commanded.

Demanded humility.

Solace.

Not ownership.

She left the river, and the slab, standing.

Glancing at her — waiting.

🪨

A week later, Aria returned — no slab.

But a stone.

With a new carving.

Glowing —

Changing.

Speaking.

Her initials, etched faintly.

History still called — because she

respected.

Heard.

Was still hearing.

🪨

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.

And The Shadow Steps Back

We all have our moments – young or old – when that dark green shadow threatens to overwhelm. And we choose if it wins.
🌙✨🌙✨🌙
Liora could bring everything on her canvas to life—the deer on the lawn, the dogs breaking into a run by the lake, or the oranges in a food bowl.
Her brushstrokes made everything too real.
But her skill meant nothing.
Not to everyone who treated her sister, Selene, as if she were God’s gift to the art world.
Liora was nondescript—plain, always underdressed and preferred jeans to the floral dresses Selene always wore.
She seemed to grow dim in her sister’s light, no matter the certainty of her talent.
Whispers and glances—all about the trendiness of Selene’s latest dress.
All eyes were always on the eye-catching colour of her hair or the portraits that put Rembrandt to shame.
The list was endless, and she was never on it.
📦🕸️📦🕸️📦
Liora was decluttering the attic one afternoon—one of the many tasks her mother assigned, since she hardly received party invitations.
Selene was far too busy organising her party schedule.
While heaving boxes up a rickety ladder, Liora’s head bumped the ceiling.
And there were too many bumps along its surface to be just plasterboard.
Intrigued, she forgot the pain and groped the plasterboard with her fingers.
It lifted—too easily.
Her usually inactive limbs took her up the ladder and into a room—one she’d never seen before.
Dust-caked windows greeted her as she stepped into what was an undiscovered attic, along with a heavily musty odor.
Cobwebs, along with their residents, danced at every corner.
But she wasn’t alone.
Something followed.
A shadow.
Over time, Liora realised that its quest was selective.
It came when Liora came to the attic to cry.
When she felt that Selene got more attention.
It lurked, waiting for acknowledgement—like her.
🎉🎈🎉🎈🎉
The shadow stepped into the attic, large.
Almost tangible.
Over the next days, windows banged, furniture flew across the floor—in tandem with Liora’s sadness or jealousy.
Liora’s heart—fully alive.
Selene’s birthday party was the next day—as usual, a party marked her elevated teen social status.
Liora stayed in her room—she and Selene’s iffy clique didn’t move at the same pace.
The Shadow decided to attend on Liora’s behalf.
It moved with Liora’s emotions, tossing decorations, turning the volume knob of the stereo, and flipping objects.
It crept into the party, responding to the green colour of Liora’s T-shirt.
And the guests knew.
Lights flickered, and the boombox boomed—really boomed—much to the chagrin of the guests.
Then, it hit Liora.
She had to control it—before it controlled everything else.
Her sister’s attention.
Her own reputation.
“Get out.”
Her voice sudden.
Loud.
🖤👁️🖤👁️🖤
The shadow froze at Liora’s outburst, taken aback.
It shrunk.
Liora caught her breath.
It only moved – when she faltered.
Grew-when she shrank.
She centred herself and eyed it firmly.
The room reverted—the lights steadied. Objects returned to their places.
And it didn’t escape her sister’s notice.
She put her hand on Liora’s shoulder.
Liora merely nodded, but didn’t look at her.
With her eyes on the Shadow, she spoke.
“It’s my turn.”
It stepped back. And without a word, returned to the attic.
Calm.
No longer forbidding.
Selene stood next to her and nodded.
Liora had faced her mirror.
And thwarted it.
🌙✨🌙✨🌙
An awkward stillness filled the room—then faded.
An exchange of glances confused murmurs among the guests.
But all was in place.
Liora breathed deeply, coming into her own strength.
Her shadow—gone.
Only present if Liora refused to be.
Selene patted her shoulder and turned to her guests.
She walked into the hall, strides purposeful.
The shadow waited in the attic.
Answering—only if she failed to remember.
🌙✨🌙✨🌙

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.

Becoming History

What we find may cost much more than we know.

📦🕰️🖼️📖

It was another evening of no social calls or friends for Albert Monterio — the introverted historian genuinely preferred archiving subjects for historical research.

Everyone had gone home to their families for the evening — all but him.

The archives were empty — and profoundly silent.

Too silent.

He combed the stoically silent shelves.

In the strange quiet there was a stack of photographs from the 1946 bombardment of Haiphong.

One photograph stood out.

A photo that disobeyed its own era.

An anomaly hiding among sepia images.

And a strange rustling that he shouldn’t have felt.

🔍📷🕵️‍♂️

Albert grabbed a magnifying glass and focused on the odd,
out-of-place mark.

Everything was in ruins.

Pieces of zinc roofing were scattered on the pavements.

Smoke billowed from surrounding debris.

Two soldiers lifted a seriously wounded comrade who was attempting to walk.

Amid it all stood a child, grasping an object that was out of place for its time — a modern smartphone.

Albert shook his head.

Probably some debris the kid picked up, he thought.

But the anomaly only sharpened —
on Logic’s defying path.

🖼️⌛🖌️

A second envelope fell from the archive bookshelf.

A similar photograph.

With him, fully present, in the frame.

The child’s device showed a timestamp — the present day’s date.

The photo shimmered, and tiny sketches appeared at the corners.

A temple he was familiar with — bombed.

A street, newly built, shattering in pieces.

Smoke billowing from the debris.

The young boy showed disaster.

Showed change.

⏳💀📱

And true to that, the photograph —

Changed.

The child’s gaze had shifted —

Through the screen.

Ever so slightly, staring Albert in the face.

And then —

His outline materialising where it should not have been.

Standing, motionless, beside the child’s.

With tomorrow’s date flashing on the screen’s right.

Albert hadn’t been merely observing history — he had become it.

🕰️💔📖

The child’s device showed a timestamp — today’s date.

The time — a minute into the future.

Albert lying slumped in his chair in the archive.

A smile etched on his face.

He had found what he had to.

And become what he had found.

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.

A Room For The Invisible

Take time to remember the self.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

Marina Chua was the classic wallflower—at 34, she was perpetually passed over, whether at work or at home.

Home was just as overlooked. After all, no one noticed abandoned terrace houses.

It had a memory like a sieve. One that sorted the maize from the chaff. The essential from the inconsequential.

Even the hallway seemed to erase her, as if the house chose who it wanted to retain–or dispose.

Everyone knew the drab, cookie-cutter house on the street—they didn’t bother with them.

But there was one room that no one remembered existed.

A room. Where shadows swallowed sound. It forgot people, including Marina—but never the walls.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

It was just another weekend. One Marina spent, as usual, unnoticed- in life, or in love.

Blending in with the walls of the home – and the room.

Being the must-be-in-order administrative assistant that she was, she decided that it was time for a little decluttering.

She started with the room few remembered – that she seldom did herself.

As she started sorting items –

They shifted.

Appearing.

Disappearing.

The house seemed to be misplacing her – like an old receipt.

Her mobile began to forget her passwords and encrypted fingerprints.

The walls and floorboards whispered names that weren’t hers –

Her family members.

Her friends.

But never hers.

They stretched – and pulled back, as if needling her mind.

Testing her mettle.

Corridors rearranged themselves, bending with uncertainty.

Hers.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

Wallflower though she was, she wasn’t defeated.

Marina decided to find out more about the property she had inherited from her father when he passed all those years ago.

On one of her forays into the home’s many back rooms, she discovered a small, nearly inconspicuous space.

The dust danced in the beam of her mobile.

A hidden alcove.

Lined with decades of family Polaroids, each of a person who had disappeared.

Then-

A blank Polaroid.

Labelled with her name.

An empty slot waiting for her face.

The room wasn’t teasing or frightening just because it could; it was a room waiting.

A predator, hungry for the forgotten.

A hunger she seemed to know.

Fear wrapped around her, a shroud creeping, waiting to strike.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

She managed to shake the gripping fear off to make sense of the alcove.

And the blank Polaroid.

With her name.

She touched each of the Polaroids and the dusty shelves.

There had to be a way to lock them in place, to keep them from swallowing her.

Then she thought of the little, cherished memories.

Her dog. Her Mum’s signature fried noodles.

Her dad’s cologne, mixed with perspiration, when he returned from work.

Each memory made the room less hungry.

Weighed its menace down.

Finally, the corridors stopped bending. The stretching stopped.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

As she recalled her dog Benj, her mother’s noodles, and her father carrying her in his arms when he returned from work, the room stilled.

Every recalled detail punched a hole in her darkness.

With each recollection, the walls settled into place.

The holes became larger.

She grasped the life buoys of her memories-her lifelines.

And she knew–the room victimised.

Not those who remembered themselves or their places in the world.

Rather, they wanted the souls who felt-

Invisible.

Forgotten.

But she had won the battle between her mind-

And the room’s predatory instincts.

The holes widened-

Then vanished.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

Marina left the room, still weary.

Still on edge.

But she chose to report it to the Town Council for its-

For want of a better word-

Defects.

Several weeks passed. She chose to live fully, tapping into her passion-

Cooking.

Sharing meals with friends.

Discussing recipes.

Watching the Food Network Channel or teaching cooking classes.

Then a stall selling “Char Kway Teow” (flat noodles in soy and oyster sauce).

Receiving rave reviews in the Straits Times.

She chose to be seen again, leaving the house to wallow in its own hunger.

Insatiable need to swallow-

Those who felt forgotten.

Not Marina.

Her life was no longer dimmed at the edges.

She remembered it.

Herself.

🌑🕯️🪞🖤🏚️??️‍🗨️

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.

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 Shadow Queen

November 17. Bells tolled all over Hatfield, not in triumph, but in foreboding.

Shadows strayed where sunlight could not reach.

Elizabeth stood alone in a tight cloak, feeling the weight of the crown she held– and its power.

And the eyes that watched from everywhere–and saw it all.

🖤👑🕯️

Dawn broke with a November chill over Hatfield. The soft tolling of bells ascended with the morning sun — not in victory, but with an ominous note of caution.

Queen Elizabeth’s gaze fell over the castle ramparts. She wrapped herself tighter in her cloak, not from the chill, but from the eyes — of someone unseen.

The pants of an anxious messenger were only too audible as he ran into the room.

“Your Majesty… Queen Mary. She’s… dead.”

A heavy silence consumed Elizabeth’s room.

A raven — typically tied to a pole in a corner of the castle gardens — flew to her window and perched.

A death call to the House of Windsor.

In her chambers, Elizabeth slipped the crown off her head. She gazed at its perfectly set jewels —

Each gleamed.

With glittery foreboding.

And the whispers from the afternoon court —

“A lone queen will succumb.”

Later, in bed,

the voice of her mother haunted her ears — and mind.

“Power costs blood…”

She shot up in bed. Catherine’s voice was too loud for sleep.

She trailed through the corridors of Windsor’s halls. Each step she took was heavy with memory.

And weight.

Of her mother. Of England.

The tapestries darted from one wall to the other, as if touched by someone —

Not her.

Not a courtier.

Not there.

Windsor was testing her mettle.

She turned to face the shadows and spoke.

“If this —” she held the crown — “is mine, then I’m your master.”

The room stilled. The shadows lined up to face her.

The raven cawed once, in a sharp, approving screech.

The messenger burst into her chambers once more.

He ran before her and knelt.

“Your majesty, the council believed you would decline the throne. They’ve prepared another successor.”

A figure entered — in a dark cloak.

Her successor.

It lifted its cloak.

Elizabeth stared herself in the face.

A perfect double.

Herself to fight.

She stepped forward, unafraid.

Her double bowed — in complete homage.

It didn’t just accept her — it revered.

🖤👑🕯️

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 November Games

She did it her way–snd we should too.

☕🍂

November rain knocked on the window and glass door of the Wits Cybercafe. The interior of the cafe combined with the month’s transitional energy; it smelled of cinnamon, damp clothes, and thick espresso.

Nancy noticed another scent—quiet competition.

The delicate pastries that Wits was known for were aligned in a complex jigsaw no one cared to fix.

Yes, the game was afoot.

Nancy wondered if anyone else had noticed the friendly rivalry in the air.

The cafe’s usual coffee-soaked clientele seemed to be part of an absurd contest—whether it was who could gulp their hot coffee the fastest or fold their napkin the quickest.

Every sip of coffee felt like an unspoken contest.

Nancy tested her theory, folding her napkin the wrong way on purpose.

Of course, her rivals applauded with extra zest.

A love song played as piped-in audio, defying the cafe’s competitive vibe.

A stranger’s eyes met hers.

Ready to incarcerate.

Put her on one of the cafe’s chopping boards.

A gaze that held both judgement and irresistible curiosity.

Had she broken an unwritten rule by mistake?

The games paused—a heartbeat suspended.

She sipped her coffee—

In triumphant gulps.

And finished the last with a satisfying burp.

Horrified gasps from her friendly rivals.

Grinning, Nancy swiped her lips with the back of her hand.

Horrified gasps.

But the same stranger gave her a nod of acknowledgement—she had won this round.

She left the cafe, victorious—but slightly confused.

The rain tapped on the windows, giving her a round of quiet applause.

Her triumph, though invisible—

Perfect.

Nancy-style.

🏆☕

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 Eight Minute Countdown

Schedule–what matters.

🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩‍👧‍👦✨

Meiling was the consummate superwoman–she was her father’s sole caregiver. Her mother, bless her soul, had passed peacefully a decade earlier.

Her apartment was silent, save for the incessant buzzing of phone reminders. Mei Ling lived and breathed a schedule–she had every task planned and accounted for.

But there was one thing she couldn’t fix–

That wall clock.

It had ceased along with her mother. The very day she died.

Time had stopped, but she refused to notice. Schedules were a grief mechanism–they were safer than unwanted memories. Rolodexes, none of which were about her.

So the clock waited, patient as time itself. The hands moved–with ticks that should not have been.

🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩‍👧‍👦✨

11:13 p.m. A barely discernible hum replaced her usual calm demeanour. Outside, the intermittent glow of a streetlight.– it made its way into the corridor.

But with bated breath.

The darkness stretched, eight minutes too long.

Then, seconds.

Punctuated by the same hum—

But louder.

Thudding under her skin, on her bones, syncing with the beat of her heart.

Growing more intense, under her skin.

A lullaby she had long since mired with the clock’s odd ticks. She hadn’t heard it since the clock stopped moving.

Familiar. Sung before.

🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩‍👧‍👦✨

Then, the light returned. The hands of every clock in Meiling’s apartment froze–

1:13.

Then, slow ticks.

Time moved–the wrong way.

Backward. Soft. Steady.

Every tick accused.

Her mobile pinged with a new voice mail.

Sent by her.

“You can’t schedule me.”

The past had stolen her voice.

🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩‍👧‍👦✨

The good daughter was desperate–she grabbed a clock and brought it to Mr. Tan, her estate’s clockmaker. He didn’t just sell clock off the shelf–

He gave them life.

After looking hers over, he went to the back room of his workshop–

And returned with a pocket watch.

“Here,” He thrust it into her hands.

She stared at its gold case.

It gleamed, as if speaking–or had feelings.

She looked at him, nonplussed.

“Time remembers,” was his cryptic answer.

Then, her eyes fell on the mirror behind him.

She looked at–

Herself. Years younger.

Happier.

Schedule-less.

Untouched by grief.

She stared at the pocket watch.

An eight-minute countdown.

Her reflection wasn’t haunting. It was waiting for her.

Eight minutes–to face herself.

🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩‍👧‍👦✨

With a deft move of both hands, Meiling smashed the clock–
.
Blood trickled down her knuckles.

The air in her apartment was still–consumed by silence.

The clocks started moving as they should–to 1:14 a.m.

Her young reflection smiled through tears in the mirror.

“I remember,” she whispered wanly.

Then, she knew.

Some clocks had to come apart before they could tick.

She had been haunting herself–with her schedules.

Her over-efficient ways.

Almost soulless.

Time had started again–and forgiven her.

She helped her father into the wheelchair—the old man smiled, and grasped her hand.

She was glad to hold it–at least, for now.

🕰️⌛🩸🪞😔⏳💔👩‍👧‍👦✨

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.

Under the Floorboards

When obsession drowns out reason, only the voice remains.

🔊

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.

🔊

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 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.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

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.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

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.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

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.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

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.

🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱🧱

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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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.