Parallel Lives

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

Mara stepped out of her home onto her drivewayβ€”she knew each stone by heart.

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

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

She caught sight of herself in a puddle. It seemed to blinkβ€”almost a stranger.

And the familiar street feltβ€”

Different.

Unvisited.

A place unheard of.

Her life stretched before herβ€”one that felt borrowed.

The university education that her parents couldn’t afford.

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

She felt the tug of life just beyond her reachβ€”so near, yet so far.

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

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

She passed the park bench she and James used to sitβ€”

For hours.

Talking.

The masculine scent of his aftershave.

The armrest he had vandalised with Cupid hearts.

She passed the music store they used to frequentβ€”and the piano his fingertips used to grace.

A virtuoso.

Her mother.

In bed, hooked to a respirator.

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

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

Another imageβ€”odd.

Different.

Pulsing.

Of herself, following him.

Her mind veered back to the familiar streetβ€”yet not.

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

Drops of rain pelted the gray cobblestoneβ€”

The black umbrella.

One they used to laugh under on days like this.

She paused mid-step, tears drenching her cheeks.

Her mother.

Him.

Not both.

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

She found herself back on the streetβ€”

Known.

Yet unknown.

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

The white ceramic floors of the university.

She passed a cafeβ€”open where the legal library should have been.

Music streamed from a windowβ€”from a piano.

With her mom’s cries of painβ€”in sync.

She’d wanted to learn that.

Her mother.

In bed, hooked to a respirator.

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

Her mother’s tears streamingβ€”

Down a relieved, smiling face.

The smells from the cafe teased her nostrils.

She was herself, walking.

Through the university’s halls.

Carrying legal ledgers, laughing with friends from law school.

Nurse. Her mom.

Lawyer.

Her heartβ€”yanked.

Spinning, overwhelmedβ€”in both directions.

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

She stopped at a puddle and gazed at herself.

In her nurse’s uniform, pressed neatly.

Herself again, in the cafe’s window.

Donning a judge’s robes.

Both with raised right hands.

One mirrored the other.

Uncomfortable.

False.

Nurse.

Lawyer.

Not both.

Her heart yanked againβ€”landing in place with a soft thump.

Of knowing.

That she had chosen a path.

One she could not forgo.

That she had to continue walking.

She heard her mother’s breathing, now quiet.

Relieved.

Stable.

Together with laughter from the university’s hallsβ€”from herself, in a judge’s robes.

Both soundsβ€”pleasant.

Harmonious.

Mara the nurse..

The fiancΓ©e who was.

All had to walk along that street.

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

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

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

Her face clear, smiling, in a puddle.

The lamplight grounded her feet firmly, pushing them forward.

In the cafe windowβ€”herself, in judge’s robes, waving a poignant goodbye.

Smilingβ€”through tears.

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

She paused at another puddle.

Herself, in a judges robes, smiling.

Then James, in the airport lounge.

Staring.

She reached.

Then pulled back.

The plane had no seat for her.

Reached againβ€”and withdrew.

Her heart yanked.

πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜πŸŒ’πŸŒ“πŸŒ”πŸŒ•πŸŒ–πŸŒ—πŸŒ˜

.If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” 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 Office Games

The climb ends where trust falls.

πŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœ

“Morning all,” Dylan Koh’s bass voice turned the office into a boombox. “Thank you for your presence this lovely September morning.”

One that resounded in a room no larger than a child’s bedroom.

With the Famous Five–except friendship was off the cards.

The office never felt so much like a cage.

Its prisoners–five accountants eager to make–

The Climb.

The air had a metallic tang, distinct–

Blood on coins.

A low groan emitted from the ceiling.

Anton, Susan, Paul, and Fiona each had a drive to succeed that was legendary—and would make participants in The Apprentice blush.

Dylan, the CEO of Raintree Finances, continued.

“The five of you are Raintree’s nominees to succeed the outgoing Chief Financial Officer, Desmond Sim. ” He couldn’t resist a smirk. “But you need to prove that you have what it takes to fill his shoes.”

“Each of you must complete a series of tasks. The objective? To be the only one left on the corporate ladder. To eliminate–” he paused, “and be the ONLY one left standing. Literally.

The five shot glares at each other that could pierce the plasterboard walls.

“I’m game. ” Fiona’s gravelly v

ice seemed stronger than usual.

“Me too.”Anton was louder, not to be outdone.

The rest sat up straight.

Stoic.

Nodding.

Determined.

The walls of the room seemed too tight.

πŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœ

The trained accountants found the first task—

Ordinary.

Auditing a few books was of no consequence.

But they soon increased in–

Complexity.

They found themselves having to locate vital, secret files and label them all to be declared challenge winners.

Each red-marked, as if bleeding.

Of course, Fiona mislabelled one–by ACCIDENT.

Susan misplaced another—again, by ACCIDENT.

Each “accident” added weight to their breathing.

Trust was a major casualty–a mere nod was a lie.

The calculators on the table seemed to click, tallying each mistake

πŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœ

It was neck and neck–ALL four contestants overcame the initial challenges.

To face the Penultimate Task.

One which demanded–

Compromise.

Of self.

Paul and Susan succumbed—choosing right over ruthlessness undid them–integrity was too slow for mercy.

Anton and Fiona remained in separate rooms.

The task?

To sign a doctored statement or forfeit the game.

The walls of the office seemed to pause their approach; the beat of the staplers on the tables halted.

Waiting.

For betrayal.

Fiona caught sight of Paul mulling over the document; his form was still visible through a transparent window.

He raised his pen.

She raised hers.

Ambition struck quicker than mercy.

Dylan emerged from his room with the document.

Signed by himself.

Ceding trust.

πŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœ

For the employees–there had been no promotion.

The climb ends where trust falls.

πŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœπŸͺœ

.If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” 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,Β Echoes in the Dark, free for download here

Voices of Her Heart

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

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

Her gaze stayed on her wrinkles and furrows.

She seemed–

Older. Empty.

Joyless.

Visions of her heart.

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

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

No answers.

Instead, whispers.

Her body stiffened.

She cracked her neck.

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

Then, dreams.

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

Incompetent.

Irresponsible.

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

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

She sat up with a start.

The room seemed emptier– more silent than usual.

She had installed solid wood floors in the rooms.

But– creaks.

The whispers continued, now clearer.

“You’ll never be…you’ll never be….”

Too coordinated.

With her heartbeat.

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

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

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

“Get to sleep. School tomorrow.”

πŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈ

The whispers increased in volume.

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

She could no longer chalk the voices up to imagination.

Scenes of herself failing at making sales grew clearer.

More intense.

Along with her guilt.

When she thought of her little girl.

The whispers turned into half-phrases.

” You’ll never be…”

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

Her daughter.

But they were just too loud.

πŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈ

Then, the whispers stopped.

Sarah could finally sleep—

For a few days.

Then, she heard them again.

But louder each night.

Until—

A clear voice.

Cold.

Commanding.

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

It knew exactly when her presentations would fail.

“They’ll laugh at you.”

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

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

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

Her daughter’s face.

Covered in tears.

Then, the work papers she brought home turned into–

Something different.

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

One night, really loudly.

” You’ll never be enough.”

She shot up in bed, stunned.

The ominous sound seemed to sync with her heart.

She heard it again.

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

πŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈ

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

She knew what it meant.

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

And she did.

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

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

He was about to put the pen to paper.

Loud.

In her head.

” You’ll never be.”

πŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈπŸ˜°πŸ‘‚πŸ πŸ’­πŸ’”πŸ–€πŸ‘οΈβ€πŸ—¨οΈ

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” 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

White Rose Bouquet

The day was ending for Moira; she’d had an unexpectedly large number of orders from the community’s hospital.

A name among them rang.

She knew it, but didn’t want to recall.

She was about to pull down

the shutters when—

A knock.

Too long. Too purposeful. Too much like something–

Familiar.

Mira paused in the middle of packing a bouquet of roses, their thorns pricking her fingers.

A few drops of blood on the white petals—but they unnerved.

The knock was, by all means, ordinary.

A short.

Sharp.

Rap.

But it sounded strange, pressing against her nerves.

Her hand paused between the roses, her fingers twitching.

Too… insistent, resounding in her mind’s recesses.

A customer’s knock had never felt so–

Expectant, like someone wanted to walk her out

The way he used to…

🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹

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

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The knock resounded in her chest.

She gazed out of the peephole.

A pair of broad shoulders.

Like his were.

Her eyes fell on the bouquet.

His–for her.

She seemed to hear his laugh from beyond the door.

His chuckle–

Low.

Deep.

One that she wanted so much to hear.

The smell of white roses teased her nostrils.

The games they played.

How he gave her a white rose every time she won one of their little races.

Every time she cried.

She peeped again.

White roses, catching the sunlight.

Surreal.

Beautiful.

Their scent….and then his hand. Warm.

His.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹

Moira cracked the door open further.

The figure brushed past the doorframe, hands lingering on hers—

For a moment.

His fingers used to cover hers–

Like this.

Soft.

Gentle.

Warm.

Her pulse quickened—she remembered.

Needed.

Then….she stepped back.

A hand—one she knew–stayed on a rose.

She could see a half-smile on his face–not clearly.

But she recalled.

How he used to take her to her favourite restaurant—

Even when he preferred Japanese.

His soft voice as he spoke to her mum—

Sick in bed.

Her last hours.

Soft.

Comforting.

But…

The car.

Headlights, too bright.

The crash.

The gravestones—too grey.

Too bleak.

White roses, laid on the grave bed.

Like the ones he had given her.

Her vision blurred.

She needed.

Wanted.

The scent of white roses filled the room.

🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹

She held the white rose bouquet—an extra second.

Too long.

His hand still felt…warm.

The way…

She teared. Then straightened herself

She still had to meet that order.

But she still wanted to hold his roses.

Somehow.

A white rose bathed in the sunlight—

Warm.

Waiting.

🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹🀍🌹

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

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

The September 18th Numbers

Listen…to the quiet warnings.

πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“… πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…

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

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

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

With looks grouches would be proud of.

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

And yes, to make horse racing bets.

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

Almost like curved nails, reaching for attention.

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

She fingered a number– the print felt too dense.

Alive.

The metallic smell grew as she neared certain numbers.

She glanced at it.

September 18th glared at her.

Familiar–yet wrong.

πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“… πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…

She stared at the date for a few long minutes.

The metallic smell of the calendar turned her nose red.

Numbers started to peel off the pages–

Faster and faster.

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

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

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

Another date flashed.

Her deceased grandmother’s birthday.

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

It tensed within her grip.

The dates were–too correct.

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

It stored–more than mere numbers.

It was telling.

Choosing.

It had–

Chosen.

Her.

She had to warn–or confront.

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

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

A whirlwind.

September 15th.

16th.

17th.

The metallic smell overwhelmed.

Mei’s pulse thudded.

“September 18th… I know this date…”

Then, she remembered.

Her older sister.

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

She had died after fingering a kitchen knife.

Curiosity.

She had turned it turned it–

To her heart.

The knuckles around the knife in her hand turned white.

She backed away from the calendar– near her toddler.

The knife.

Waited.

Then, she dropped it.

A sigh of relief.

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

The calendar’s hinted page.

September 17th.

She clutched her young daughter’s arm.

The calendar curled. With the smell of metal.

πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“… πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…πŸ“…

The Cave Remembers

Some curiosities are carved in stoneβ€”and they never forget.

πŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽβ€ƒπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽβ€ƒπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽ

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

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

No one was moving.

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

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

For too long.

β€œMarvin,” Nicholas had furrows on his brow.

And those furrows weren’t typical.

The laughter echoed around the cavern.

β€œDid you just laugh?”

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

One he tried to controlβ€”vainly.

Then, the walls stirred.

Shadows rippled around the bison’s hooves. They pounded in echoβ€”but nothing moved.

The carvings shimmered in the light of the boys’ lanternsβ€”as if the creatures had noticed.

The hooves echoedβ€”faster.

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

β€œHello?” Nicholas’s question bore a panicked ring.

β€œHello!” An echoβ€”not Nicholas’ voice.

Thenβ€”fur. On the hooves of the etched bison.

The bison’s muscles.

Twitching.

The paintings on the wall turned.

Antlers poised.

At the boys.

Who wanted to knowβ€”too much.

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

Heard.

The tide recededβ€”but the hooves still pounded, for those who dared to listen.

πŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽβ€ƒπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽβ€ƒπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽπŸŽ

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

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” 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 Step Before Mine

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

When no one pays attention.

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

πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€πŸ€

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

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

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

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

Precise.

Too exact.

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

She stopped. It did too.

She stepped forwardβ€”it moved first.

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

Her movementsβ€”no longer hers.

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

She couldn’t unseeβ€”it. It echoed every twitch, every glance with uncanny synchrony.

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

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

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

That she had been too busy to give.

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

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

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

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

As One

Everyone needs a hero.

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

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

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

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

Hollow.

Vacant.

🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊

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

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

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

Where there was none.

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

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

In perfect sync.

Unthinking.

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

🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊

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

A crowd of dedicated to service.

One which continued its mechanical cheers.

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

His face–sunken. Pale. Stoic.

Features affixed.

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

To the same, unseen rhythm.

Their faces–his.

Sunken. Pale. Stoic.

🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊

Silence.

The group of marchers and the crowd stayed still.

As one.

Staring.

At —

🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊

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

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” 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 Blood Moon Rises

Hey, it’s the day of the Blood Moon…one of horror… for those with lingering feelings.

Or an old soldier with lingering feelings for battles that once were.

But let’s remind him–we’re never too damned old to think of something new.

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“I’m too young to feel this damned old.”

Alone, in a rundown backyard that hadn’t been tended in years. The sky was–a thing of beauty. Blood seemed to trickle from the weeping willow of a moon–echoes of the heart. A cold breeze graced the neck–wonder if it remembered. The sky was too alive–that Garth song wanted it tamed.

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Sounds of what seemed like gunfire–or a military drill at a nearby airbase. Then, bright, vibrant sparks consumed the skyscape.

Flashes in the sky, or just tricks of the mind, triggered by a moon in blood red?

The mind certainly whirredβ€”a comrade-in-arms, cut down by tracer fire. The night burned, along with the flames in the sky.

The echo of boots on wet metal was all too audible. A single red streak across an endless black canvas. The piercing whistle of the cold wind, meeting its fire. Back on the ridge, twenty-three, hollow…and that Garth Brooks song.

Dragging a fractured mind forward to an unwanted time.

Echoing.

“I’m too young to feel this damned old.”

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But old it was. The body had started creaking a few months back. A haunted mind –pitch black, against the flaming orange sparks of gunfire that once were.

That once were.

The orange sparks danced. The heart still aches–too painful.

That could never be again. But these creaking legs still carry an old man wanting his guns.

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Yes. Too young to feel this damned old.

The moon above was bleeding–too much–and the same blood trickled from my ribs. Bullets lodged during two tours of Korea and one of Vietnam.

Ones missed–too strangely.

The orange sparks blended with the stars, becoming a flickering Van Gogh canvas–a poignant reminder of the comrades left behind.

The sky didn’t care. The song still played—faint. Too true.

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Two tours of Korea. One of Vietnam.

Still here.

Still counting the countless stars years younger than the frame.

A frame still younger than the dead.

The moon in the sky still bleeds..and Garth Brooks still haunts.

Too young to feel this damned old.

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

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

The September Blues: Part 2

Would you resist the call to blend?

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The sirens stopped, but the figure stayed.

Deathly still, as if waiting to draw breaths.

Sockets wide, drawing.

Hollow.

Bloodshot.

Its presence swallowed the echo of the sirens.

Its silent gaze pressed on Janine’s ears, shrinking their calls.

Todd stared at it through the window, a picture of calm.

Too calm, like he already expected him.

Janine, meanwhile, noticed little things in the house—

Not in sync.

Lights flickered, fickle sparks in the night air.

Her phone froze, responding dutifully to the sirens’ calls.

Everything in the home jittered in disharmony, refusing her rhythm.

Heeding a will not her own.

Todd drew the being close.

Too close.

The figure drew his spirit, almost locking him in.

The young preteen whispered about what he shouldn’t know at his age-almost to an intimate, imaginary friend.

The figure whispered into his bones, carrying the weight of memory.

A weight–unlearned. The branches of the trees in the garden swayed, bending to the windows, as if responding to a conductor–

The figure in the backyard.

Todd’s knowledge, untamed, began to corrode.

He lifted his head.

And turned.

The air hummed where the figure still stood.

Angry. Edgy.

Janine’s phone froze, responding dutifully to the sirens’ calls.

The backyard tenant was closer each time Janine looked away.

Not moving.

Always nearer, though she never saw it move.

It collapsed distance–still.

Neighbour’s eyes peeked, on edge, from behind the curtains,

Waiting.

Then, Janine knew.

The civil readiness drills weren’t meant to protect–they were coined to foster obedience.

Conformity.

To a being that defined–for others.

And, like clockwork, the neighbours stepped into their backyards.

Walking in perfect sync to the movement of its arms.

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If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee β€” 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.