Jun Park’s world was made of words—his apartment was plastered from floor to ceiling with old newspaper clippings. No one could ignore the musty scent of ink and yellowed paper when they stepped in—it clung to the air, heavy with stories long out of mind.
There were so many articles that he could no longer read them all.
But they were his muse.
The need sparked a little spontaneity.
He remembered a ladder he stored in a seldom-used room–one that he had subletted for ready cash, until work took the tenant to another city.
As he approached, a faint, bluish hue caught his eye–it leaked under the door, like a crooked finger, drawing him to his next write.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Marilyn had just moved into the remote, backwater town of Scaresdale– not willingly.
The teen’s life was a jigsaw puzzle she was trying to put together within a new frame– and new town.
She and her family had just finished freeing a row of cartons of their contents–
Finally.
Some time to explore.
Hide and Go Seek occupied the children–
It was time for Marilyn to do some exploring of her own.
Somehow, the attic had become her center of attention.
An irresistible magnet.
She stepped in, and saw–
A door.
After fiddling about with it for 10 minutes, it was time to put up the white flag.
Then, a shadow beneath it caught her eye.
Sounds of movement within the space– it had to be a room– next door.
A wooden door– locked.
A curious beam of light from the shaft below.
Marylin’s hands tugged at the stubborn handle.
It didn’t budge.
She peered through the keyhole.
A flash of red.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
Rapid motion. Too quick. Too final.
An odd shape.
Familiar– yet not.
It recoiled from her vision–
As if knowing it had been seen.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
Marilyn froze, unsure whether to open the door–
Or run for her life.
The shadow broke apart in her mind, filling the empty spaces-
With dread.
That she couldn’t name.
The air pressed harder, swallowing her.
Her breath seemed to strangle– not relieve.
The room shrank, sandwiching her between its walls.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
The shadow enlarged, morphing into different shapes.
Then, distorted, creeping sounds below the door.
It crept up in different spaces–
Dark corners of the room.
On the glass.
On the television screen.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
The walls pulsed with voiceless whispers–
Terrifyingly quiet.
Beyond the keyhole–
Arms overlapping.
A smell of lavender perfume–too familiar.
Two shadows–
Close to her in age.
Too familial.
Clear– in her mind.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑
Marilyn bounced a step back from the keyhole, a wrench around her mind.
The familiar, familial shadows.
The lavender perfume she knew too well.
The arms wrapping. Too close.
The scenes replayed in a mental tape recorder–
Gone awry.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑
Marylin’s hand hovered above the doorknob–
But didn’t turn it.
Her finger stayed in place.
Numb.
Should she?
The family.
Her eye caught a photograph of them on the wall.
All smiles at her 6th-year birthday party.
The glass was cracked.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑
The room felt–
Smaller.
Cramped.
Beyond the keyhole–
The familiar shadows still moved, too close.
The whispering of the walls grew louder.
Her mind swiveled–
To open the door,
Not.
A dark heaviness descended on her shoulders.
Her heart throbbed, an erratic rhythm.
Figures in the photograph she knew–
And loved.
This.
Her fingers wrapped around the door knob–
But couldn’t pull.
Cold sweat dripped down her fingers.
She had seen too much.
Ready–
To snap.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑
The teenager couldn’t move.
She stood still, unable to speak.
Beyond the keyhole, the shadows diminished.
Finally.
But not in her mind.
The smell of the familiar perfume lingered in the air–
The scent too cloying.
The imprint remained.
Covered in mental dust.
A stain that wouldn’t vanish no matter how much remover she used.
Never entirely swept away.
The print wrapped itself around her mind–
When it stopped to see.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
Marilyn visited the house years later-
In her litigator’s capacity.
Her father had bequeathed it to her.
He felt he owed it.
A debt he could never repay in full.
The other familiar figure–
Too present.
At get-togethers. Family events.
Always kind.
Offering hugs and love.
Even support when she needed it.
But never comfort.
She had seen too much–
Through that keyhole–
But thankfully–
Didn’t snap.
🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔑🔒🗝️🕳️🔑🔒
Original keyhole mystery by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
William Long was put out. The disgruntled electrician lacked a social life–the thirty-something-year-old spent most of his days in a garage, fiddling with light bulbs that flickered at will and lamps that emitted buzzing noises that grated on the ears.
Still, he kept the lights on–literally. Not for profit–
But for love.
Of his eleven-year-old daughter, whose giggles had once turned the atmosphere in the garage from mere electric static into sparkling fireworks.
He was a craftsman consumed by glow.
And memory.
Each flicker spoke of her.
The divorce.
No interaction in years.
So he couldn’t keep the garage silent–the quietness hummed, flooding his mind with tears he couldn’t shed.
At least not openly.
💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧
One evening, the cats and dogs came down in humongous litters.The buzz of half-reparied bulbs flooded the garage. William scrambled from his desk to answer a frantic knock on the door.
He opened it to a teen girl, soaked to the skin. Her parka and umbrella offered no protection.
Something in her eyes stirred something in William.
In her slender young hands was a battered desk lamp.
Dark. Obviously not functioning.
The girl held it up with a sheepish grin.
“Sir, could you get this working again? I’m sorry that I can’t pay you. All I ask is that it works again.”
William noticed how gently she held the lamp.
He took it from her, albeit unwillingly.
As he tinkered with it, he observed her eyes on him.
Watchful and meticulous, as though offering guidance.
With a knowing gentleness.
The lamp flickered as William continued his work, but the girl was a picture of calm.
Finally, a faint hum.
“I know this lamp isn’t the best, ” It was as though she was reading his mind. ” I onlywant it to shine.”
At that moment, William knew what the lamp was for–not its steadiness or quality, but its presence.
💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡💡⚡🔧🛠️✨💡⚡🔧
Some tweaking from the electrician, and steady light.
Though it wasn’t the brightest.
William hissed under his breath, ready to admit defeat. But the teen stepped closer.
She patted him on the shoulder. A familiar touch.
“It’s glowing. That’s all you needed to do for me. All it needed to do. All I needed.”
She left the garage with the lamp, turning back with a nod and a smile that he knew–
But couldn’t place.
Then, on a shelf behind his workbench, a photograph.
Of the girl.
He still didn’t know her. But felt her.
Tugging at his heart in ways too knowing.
Weeks, later, the teen girl returned.
The same knowing presence.
She showed him how she placed the lamp on her desk so she could study.
She left again, not telling him who she was.
Or about the photograph she had left on the shelf.
He smiled, somehow content—
With acceptance–and a little unconfirmed mystery.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
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.
We celebrate a day that women may find uncomfortable..World Menopause Day.
Both literally and figuratively.
But in that discomfort, we can find joy, humour and a little camaraderie.
So join Elena, Mavis, and Theodora as they combat those hot flashes–with a little ingenuity and pizazz.
When the going gets hot, the tough cool it down.
Redglow Secondary–where a teacher needed street smarts and strategy to stay cool–in more ways than one.
And Elena Chan, Mavis Fang and Theodora Fong found this out the sweaty way.
The ladies taught–and learned–and important lesson–When life brought on the heat, fix your own thermostat.The middle-aged female teachers knew everything there was to know about teenage mayhem and—
The M-word.
That hit ladies over 50.
The three often bantered the issue of recalcitrant students and growing older over coffee.
Theodora often gloated about how much her students taught her.
“If enlightenment is a hot flash, I must have transcended.”
The experience with M worsened when Redglow’s new principal, Mr. Ding, installed energy saving air conditioning in the classroom in an attempt to cut costs–and boost credit.
His, that is.
The three needed a strategy revamp to survive classroom and student heat–
And, as the ever-dramatic English teacher Mavis would insist–
Those darned hot flashes.
💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕
As luck had it, the AC decided that it wanted the day off.
The women and their hot flashes had proven too overwhelming–so it ‘stormed off.’
During Mavis’s English double period.
She announced the fiasco with her usual dramatic flair –and others’ equally dramatic angst.
The solution? Mr. Ding’s energy-saving cooler.
Elena wondered aloud if it had been introduced-JUST AT THE RIGHT TIME.
It DID NOT COOL.
It BAKED.
The teachers–the three heroines in particular–‘glowed’ profusely, to the great amusement of their charges.
Theodora, in particular, kept her male students’ attention.
Seeing the older, yet attractive teacher glow was gossip fodder.
But if her complaints were anything to go by, she didn’t enjoy it.
“It’s like standing in a Tandoori oven–only less hot.” She groused, flailing her arms in complaint.
Elena, ever the scientific pragmatist, came up with one of her innovations.
“Why don’t we form a Cool Club? If no one’s going to help us keep the sweat off, we will.”
Oh, she was determined.
Theodora rolled skeptic eyes–but the pressure of the heat reinforced her membership.
The resilient ladies stashed anything ‘cool’ they could think of–fans, ice packs, and frozen water bottles.
“What are these for?” Mr. Ding raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Oh, just lesson props,” Mavis brushed him off without as much as batting an eyelid.
But the students were sharp.
Too sharp for whining and water splashes to escape their notice.
And the Letter M stunned the school.
The staff room earned a moniker of Alaskan proportions–The North Pole.
Mavis grinned. “We’re legends now. Let’s not spoil the moment by telling them it’s about survival.”
And survival it was.
A frozen water bottle decided to “take a leak” the next day.
Over Elena’s chemistry practicals.
“At least it was only a mock paper.” She sighed.
But the three couldn’t help giggling over their Cool Club Thermoregulation Genius.
They needed strategy.
Stealth.
And lots of coffee.
To keep M at bay.
Operation chill had just begun.
💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕
The Cool Club’s success at maintaining it’s cool didn’t stay a secret for long.
Not with teenage busybodies and the heat—
That ate at angsty teaching staff.
So it wasn’t long before Mr. Ding learned of Operation Chill.
During assembly, when Mavis’ trusty fan whirred a little too loudly during his announcements.
“Energy waste!” He roared.
Theodora tried to defuse the situation with a flirtatious smile.
“It’s self-preservation, Sir.”
The bomb still went off.
“Unauthorised cooling devices are disallowed in the staffroom.”
That didn’t deter our friends in the Cool Club. No, no, no.
It went underground.
Literally.
In the basement prep room.
Mr. Ding hadn’t counted on Elena–and Chemistry.
The savvy science teacher rigged a cooling contraption using smuggled lab supplies.
“Technically–for O level Chemistry Classes.”
“Technically nuts!” Mavis’ throat emitted a hacking sound through the fog.
Even more whispers. Students spoke of the Misty Menopause Lab.
Even Ah Xiong the janitor had something to say. “Aiyo, the fog ladies are at it again.”
The rebellion couldn’t ‘cool’ off.
A wrong ice-pack placement one day sent out too much fog, triggering a silent alarm leading to–
Mr. Ding’s room.
Screaming, wet students.
Soaked teachers with hot flashes cooled, albeit unintended.
And Mr. Ding’s own hot flash–hotter than any other in history.
💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕
The trio paid the mandatory visit to Mr. Ding’s office the next morning. His glare cooked faster than any heated stove.
“What’s this Operation Chill?” He demanded, waving a red, soaked towel like a declaration of war.
Elena adjusted her glasses and flashed her most comely smile. “An experiment, sir. On….er…thermostats and how they work. For O Level students sitting for this year’s Chemistry exams.”
“Er…yes.” Theodora quickly chimed in. “My class sits for the paper. It’s trying to show how we adapt to climate change.”
Mavis added. “Mine’s trying to show how internal weather patterns affect the human psyche.”
A long pause. Too long.
Then, a resounding chortle–almost as loud as a ding dong.
“You ladies,” He sighed. “Are living PR nightmares.How do we convince the kids to align with energy saving after–“
He gestured to the makeshift thermo cooler next to him.
But he couldn’t deny that it worked–discipline and restlessness were down, and morale was up.
The trio had earned a well-deserved moniker–The Chill Queens.
“Ok, ok. I admit it. Cutting down on energy only increased the heat. Keep your experiment. But remember…cool it.”
So the Cool Club later celebrated the success of Operation Chill–with ice kachang.
“Here’s to beating Redglow. One hot flash at a time.”
The ladies taught–and learned–an important lesson–
When life brings on the heat, fix your own thermostat.
💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕💨❄️☕
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.
Fogton lived up to its name– an old, coastal town shrouded in thick mists of smoky grey.
They hugged the town like untold secrets.
An old lighthouse stood quiet, sentient–
Bougainvillaea–covered, once pristine, now sullied by a decade of neglect.
But rumours soaked the cobblestone steps.
Of murder and mayhem.
16-year-old Iris Moss was like the walls–overshadowed and overlooked.
But she saw more–and acknowledged what others pretended wasn’t there.
Her classmates at the town’s only High School were teenagers on edge– they wanted more than what the old, decrepit city could offer.
Among them was Thomas King, who never shied away from trouble.
And was too familiar to the police.
“Hey, guys.” He pointed to the lighthouse while cruising by with his ragtag group on a languid afternoon. ” We’ve never been in there. How’s this? Those who manage one night in the place get $50 from moi.”
To Thomas, from a family made of money, the amount was superficial.
And attractive. Thomas’s motley group of youths stepped into the home, excited by the prospect of the extra cash their parents wouldn’t give.
👻🕯️📖💭😨🔎🧠✨🪶👻🕯️📖💭😨🔎🧠✨🪶
Fog hung over the lighthouse, a dense, permanent shroud.
The property spoke of neglect.
Vines crept over the walls, and dirt caked the windows in darkness. The fog that hugged Fogtown seemed to grip it with extra intensity. Whispers rose through the walls–not loud. Just–
Persistent.
Present.
Brushing the nerves like fingertips that were over-chilled.
Some of the group’s known cynics laughed it off like the mock heroes they were. Pure terror gnawed at the nerves of others.
Their fingers wrapped tightly around their torchlights.
A faded journal lay, its pages open, on a side table.
A familiar name.
“Hey,” Thomas, ever the cynic, thumbed the pages, still chuckling. “Isn’t Bert one of those who went missing without a trace last year? Maybe they’re still–
Here! Ha!”
A stamp.
And a menacing, childish boo.
The skittish group members gasped in anguished surprise.
Iris included.
Her mouth hung open, then shut again.
She knew her silence would spell mayhem.
👻🕯️📖💭😨🔎🧠✨🪶👻🕯️📖💭😨🔎🧠✨🪶
Then, the door to the room bolted.
Itself.
Trapping the trespassing teens within the room.
Then deep, heaving breaths–it breathed with them.
The air throbbed with their heartbeats.
To face the truths about themselves, they hadn’t–for too long.
Compelling Iris to speak for herself–and her friend.
Her voice–uncontained by the dark.
She eyed Thomas squarely–and the self-named sceptic took a step back.
“Stop the mock bravado. You’re as scared as the rest of us.”
She took another step towards him–he took another backwards, and faltered.
“We laugh. YOU laugh.” She eyed him up and down. “But laughter doesn’t change the fact that they remember us.
She finally pressed him against a wall.
He couldn’t move.
“Remember you.”
👻🕯️📖💭😨🔎🧠✨🪶👻🕯️📖💭😨🔎🧠✨🪶
The group left the lighthouse, Iris in front.
Thomas, hanging his head in respectful tow.
Daylight broke through the clouds and streamed past the vine-covered walls, making the green more–
Lush.
The silence was broken, and with it, the voices appeased.
👻🕯️📖💭😨🔎🧠✨🪶👻🕯️📖💭😨🔎🧠✨🪶
Iris’ eyes lingered on the lighthouse as the group trod across white sand and cobblestone.
The fog cleared slightly–the lights within flickered.
Thanking her for speaking–for voices unheard.
👻🕯️📖💭😨🔎🧠✨🪶👻🕯️📖💭😨🔎🧠✨🪶
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The moon’s glow absorbed the night sky in the village of Lunardom.
A constant presence.
Lunardom couldn’t recall what kept it there.
What kept it strong.
The villagers revelled in its beauty, then—
The sky opened in eerie silence.
No moon.
Or rising tides, with the pulse of its gravity.
But everything felt—wrong.
The night forgot itself—
Becoming restless—and so did the rest of the sleeping world.
🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙
The forest near Lyra teemed with wildlife—not wild in the way we knew.
Birds didn’t chirp—they whispered. Howls replaced the croak of frogs. Wolves sang—humanlike tones that crept up spines and froze them.
A silver glow teased the surfaces of mirrors and puddles—but it wasn’t the light of the moon.
But its mimic.
Lyra was out collecting firewood one afternoon when on her wrist—
A mark.
It moved.
Syncing with the rhythmic movements of something—
Unseen.
And so the path to the unknown opened—in ways that would unsettle and shape Lyra’s—and the forest’s core.
The shifting mark unnerved the typically stoic Lyra-
Who, ever the heroine, embarked on a quest to settle it.
Then, an old journal in the attic.
One with pages that told of—the Lunarkin.
Ancient guardians of the moon.
Her mind—and all she knew-unravelled like spools of tangled thread.
🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙
Lyra followed the mark’s irresistible pull to the lake.
It too, behaved erratically, rippling upward to the surface instead of outward, defying and reconstructing gravity.
Then, she caught sight of herself.
Not her.
But a creature of light and bone
The guardian—or captor—of the Moon.
The being spoke, its voice thundering and gravelly.
“The Lunarkin have damaged the ancient tether beyond repair.” It intoned to the trembling girl.
“The void must have one descendant before it will be satisfied.”
The mark on Lyra’s arm spread—and pulled her.
Toward the water.
The void had made clear which descendant it wanted.
But the brave girl wasn’t about to let history repeat itself.
With a quick, practiced flick of her wrist, she sliced off her palm.
And offered it to the omnipresent, sentient being.
Then, a petrifying burst of silver.
Shards flew.
The surrounding light did an upward pirouette, and—a new moon pieced itself against the dark skyline.
Lyra’s reflection—gone.
🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙
The moon steadied itself in the night sky, its light now pale and flickering.
As if recalling its shattering.
Tides surged once more. Birds called with resounding chirps. Wolves howled, hailing the moon’s presence.
But their rhythm broke through the forest in distended fragments.
Nature’s poor mimicry of normalcy.
Lyra’s reflection was no more. But ripples formed in puddles at the sound of her name.
The village cheered the moon’s return, welcoming it with feasts and dances—forgetting the girl who gave.
Beneath the surface of the lake, a gentle, silver shimmer, shaped in a palm.
Throbbing intently with the moon’s rise.
Paying what was due the Moon.
🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙
The world continued, but lighter.
Lonelier.
The moon always graced Lunardom’s sky, but with a familiar face that took on its dim, sad glow.
Forgotten
🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Today, October 6th, is when the Nobel Peace Prize winners start being announced.
Peace is lived, not viewed—-through the eyes of a child.
🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️🌿🕊️
Home was alien to Eunice; it was her first time back there after years of documenting conflicts in war-torn countries.
The house remained as it was when she left her parents and the neighborhood—a decrepit riverside garden, walls overwhelmed by creeping bougainvillea,
Yet, the vibrance of the flowers locked the eyes of the young photojournalist.
The creeping vines throbbed with an unrest that mirrored hers—
Permanent and unresolved.
She stepped into the garden as though it was a shattered fragment of the world she now knew—chasms of chaos.
Even in the silence, she recalled the roar of broken cities.
She breathed in the still air and shut her eyes.
Broken buildings.
The holler of exploding bombs.
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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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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.
⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️♀️
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.
⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️♀️
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.
⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️♀️
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.
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.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
Startled, Rin touched a window to see a hand—
Not his.
NEVER his.
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KNOCK.
KNOCK.
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.
🔀🔀🪞🧍🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍
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.
🔀🔀🪞🧍🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍
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.
🔀🔀🪞🧍🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍
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 Getting Literal Writing Alcove 