Death’s heart pounded as he sprinted through the forest, driven by the pulse of that elusive, dazzling blue light. The roots beneath his feet seemed to stretch out, eager to trip him. The deeper he ventured, the brighter the blue light blazed, its call swelling louder with every heartbeat, as if drawing him irresistibly closer. His excitement grew, and he stumbled into the middle of a village square. As he stared at his surroundings, curious eyes fixed upon him. Whispers floated among the villagers as they took in his ragged cloak and wild, unkempt hair. Death had nothing to his name—no parents to claim, no origins to trace, only a shadowy existence shrouded in mystery. With no name of his own, the people dubbed him Death, for wherever he wandered, sickness and sorrow inevitably followed.
Yet, the thrill of the chase quickly faded, replaced by the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. The mouthwatering aroma of food wafted through the air, making his hunger even more unbearable. As he approached a stall, he gazed longingly at the food on display. “Please,” he begged, “spare me just one apple.” The hawker glared at him in disgust and shooed him away. With no place to stay, Death sought refuge in a dark alley. It was a creepy place, but it didn’t seem to bother him. The excitement he felt upon arriving in the village after days of trekking through the forest now seemed meaningless.
“H-hi,” a timid voice stammered behind him. Startled, Death turned to see a girl. No one had ever spoken kindly to him before. She held out an apple. He looked at it with hungry eyes before snatching it from her hands and devouring it in a heartbeat. She was a pretty girl with rosy cheeks and curly blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders. But what captivated Death the most was her eyes; those eyes were a dazzling shade of blue, unsettlingly familiar, as if they whispered secrets from a buried past. “My name’s Hope,” she said, smiling, “you must be new around here.” Death nodded and introduced himself. “Interesting name,” she mused, giggling. “Much more interesting than anyone else’s around here.” “Bong!” the clock tower chimed, signalling nightfall. Hope glanced around nervously. “I have to go,” she said. Nice meeting you!” And with that, she skipped away, humming a cheerful tune. Death couldn’t help but feel a rare spark of joy—he had made his very first friend. With this newfound warmth settling in his heart, he closed his eyes, surrendering to a deep, contented sleep.
“Boo!” a voice suddenly cried, jolting Death awake. It was only Hope, but it startled him nonetheless. “Catch!” she yelled, tossing him another apple. This too was devoured hungrily. Hope watched him closely, curiosity in her eyes. “Where is your family?” she asked. Death hesitated, his voice soft and distant. “I’m not sure…” he said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Hmm… fascinating!” she said, her gaze thoughtful as she studied him intently. Suddenly, she jumped up. “Come on, follow me!” she urged, skipping away. Death hurried after her through the bustling marketplace. When he finally reached her, he was blown away by the view. They were on top of a mountain overlooking a valley. The breathtaking view left him speechless. “Let’s explore this mountain,” Hope suggested. He nodded, still mesmerized by the scenery.
They ventured through hidden trails and discovered breathtaking views until exhaustion overtook them, and they sat side by side, watching the sun sink below the horizon. “I’ve never had a friend before,” Death admitted softly. “And I’ve never met anyone as intriguing as you,” Hope confessed. Their eyes locked, and they exchanged warm smiles. Hope rested her head on Death’s shoulder, intending to drift into sleep. But suddenly, she gasped, clutching her chest, and collapsed. Panic surged through Death as he tried to rouse her, but she remained still. Cradling her lifeless body, he raced back to the village, shouting for help. The villagers recoiled in fear as they gathered to see what was happening. In the centre of the crowd, Death knelt, tears streaming down his face as Hope lay pale and motionless before him. “Out of the way!” barked a man who appeared to be the village healer. After examining Hope, he shook his head grimly, signalling that she was gone.
All eyes fixed on Death, fingers jabbing toward him. “Murderer!” the crowd bellowed. “Lock him up!” The loss of Hope shattered him, plunging his mind into darkness. When he finally stirred, he found himself caged, trapped by grief and iron bars. But now, all that mattered was being with her once more. Desperation clawed at his soul as he pleaded, "Let me see her once more, even if it costs my life." As he drifted into sleep, his wish took form in a dream. He found himself in heaven, and there was Hope, radiant and peaceful. "Hope?" he called out, his voice trembling. She turned to him with a warm smile and extended her hand. Just then, a figure dressed in white, with a long flowing beard, appeared beside her.
“You've seen her,” the figure declared, his voice echoing with ominous finality. “Now pay the price! You must descend into hell to atone for your sins.” Death's heart sank. He had just found her, only to lose her again. “I’ll go,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm within. “But why must Hope suffer this death?” The figure hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “You were born with a curse, one that dooms those you love. But Hope’s fate has always been intertwined with yours, bound by a destiny neither of you could escape. She gave her life, to dismantle the curse, breaking its hold forever.” The weight of those words crushed Death's spirit. He fell to his knees, overwhelmed with guilt. It was his fault. Summoning the last of his strength, Death rose and walked towards the gate of hell. Just as he reached it, Hope appeared beside him, her hand slipping into his. “I'll follow you wherever you go,” she whispered, her smile unwavering.
And together, hand in hand, they stepped through the gate, ready to face whatever awaited them. They journeyed together through every realm, never straying from each other’s side. This is why, wherever Death goes, Hope is never far behind, trailing with a promise of brighter days.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
The wind howled through the chain-link fence that surrounded Stonebridge Middle School, carrying with it the first whispers of autumn. Maisie walked alone, her footsteps barely a whisper on the cracked pavement. She knew what awaited her inside the school—the stares, the whispers, the isolation. But today, the silence felt heavier.
On this day 63 years ago, her grandfather, George Frank, was convicted of murdering a young woman, Margaret Fields, and a man in his 30s, John Oak.
John’s body was found in George’s house. Although Margaret’s body was never found, witnesses claimed to have heard George and her arguing shortly before the time of death, followed by multiple gunshots.
Rumours spread like wildfire—some said the two had discovered something dangerous; Others speculated that George had acted out of jealousy or rage.
George was sentenced to nine years in prison. Once he was released, he was treated with hostility, facing constant judgment and scorn from the community.
The story passed on through generations as if it were a legend, the stain on his name left an indelible mark on Maisie’s childhood.
“Hey, freak! Searching for your next target?”
The taunt echoed in the hallway, Maisie kept her eyes down, her heart pounding. She was used to being treated like a pariah, a monster in waiting; feared for sins that weren’t hers.
She clung to the certainty that the kind, gentle man who raised her could never have committed such a terrible crime, though he never confirmed nor denied it. But with each passing day, she was battling the gnawing doubt that had taken root in her heart—the fear that maybe, just maybe, the town was right about her family. About her.
Once she reached the safety of her room, Maisie collapsed on her bed, exhausted from the relentless bullying. The grandfather clock loomed in the corner, its face forever frozen at 8:57 p.m., the exact time of the alleged murder. Maisie loathed that clock, yet she couldn't bring herself to get rid of it.
Something was different today– a primal fury had taken root in her, focusing her thoughts into a destructive impulse. As if guided by an unseen force, she stood and approached the clock. Without thinking, she kicked the clock with powerful force.
The clock began to chime, a low, eerie sound reverberating through the room. As the ancient mechanism groaned to life, the world around her began to blur and spin.
Suddenly, everything went dark.
Maisie opened her eyes, only to find that she wasn't in her house— she was standing on a cobblestone street, and the air smelled of cigarette smoke and freshly baked bread. The soft strains of music from another era drifted through an open window.
Maisie entered a nearby bookstore and approached the cashier.
“Excuse me, could you tell me the date?” she asked.
“It’s October 18th, 1961,” he replied.
She froze, the significance of the date hitting her hard.
She had been transported back to 1961–she had been given a chance to uncover the truth once and for all, and she had to act quickly.
First stop, George’s Diner.
After wandering through the familiar yet distant town, Maisie spotted her grandfather at the till of his diner. She hardly recognised him—he looked much younger, his face free of the weariness that would later haunt him. Maisie observed silently from a booth, waiting for closing hour.
She made a promise to herself to not interfere with whatever happens today, terrible things happen when you change the past; she had learned that much from movies.
Maisie tailed her grandfather home, sneaking in through the back door and making her way upstairs. She hid under the bed in the room where the murder was to happen. Soon after, she heard a frantic knock, followed by footsteps. Margaret and George entered the room, arguing heatedly.
Margaret paced the room, her voice trembling. "I didn’t mean for it to go this far, George! I thought I could handle it."
George stood by the window; his fists clenched "You’ve gotten mixed up with the wrong people! Now John is after you, and you're dragging me down with you!"
Margaret backed away; her eyes wide. "I know, I know, and I’m sorry! I didn’t know it would be this dangerous."
There was an unrecognisable look in her grandfather’s eyes, a look that made her question what he was truly capable of.
BANG! The sound of the front door slamming open. It had to be John Oak. The fear in George and Margaret's eyes confirmed the thought.
The man stormed into the room, standing in front of the grandfather clock. His face twisted with anger. He carried a gun.
"Thought you could run, did you, Margaret?" He sneered.
Margaret shrank back, terror in her eyes. George stepped in front of her, a protective shield against him. "Leave her alone John, I won’t let you hurt her," he demanded.
"She knows too much!” the man shouted frustratedly. He raised the gun, pointing it straight at George’s chest.
“Now move, or I’ll shoot you both.”
Margaret’s face was laced with panic. She threw a nearby object across the room, hoping to create a distraction.
The man’s attention shifted towards her. In that moment of distraction, George lunged at him. They wrestled, the gun slipping from John’s grip and skidding on the hardwood floor, halting at Margaret’s feet.
The room fell deathly silent— amplifying every unspoken fear.
Margaret picked the gun up, aiming it straight at John and tightening her finger around the trigger
“Margaret wai-” George began but it was too late.
It happened quickly, too quickly that Maisie wasn’t able to process it.
Margaret fired.
Maisie screamed; her voice drowned out by the piercing sound of the bullet.
She watched in shock as John staggered back on his feet, falling hard against the grandfather clock, a crimson red pool forming around him.
George looked as horrified as he met Margaret’s eyes.
“W-what have I done?” Margaret stammered in disbelief, the reality of what she'd done began to sink in.
“Listen to me Margie, you need to go somewhere far from here, somewhere safe. His gang will hunt you if they find out.” George pleaded.
“I’ll take the fall. It’s better than losing you.” George’s voice trembled, his eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and determination.
“There must be another way!” Margaret said, breaking down into a violent sob.
Tears streamed down George’s face as he pulled her into an embrace. Police sirens wailed in the distance– red and blue lights flickered against the windows.
The world began to blur again, and Maisie felt herself being pulled back to the present. When she opened her eyes, she was back in her home, standing before the clock. But something was different—the clock had started ticking again as if it had finally been set free.
Her grandfather had been innocent. The truth was crushing—he had suffered until his dying day simply to protect Margaret Fields.
Maisie looked down and noticed a piece of paper in her hand with an address written on it. She rode her bike following the directions, arriving at a secluded house in a different town. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
When it opened, Maisie gasped– standing before her was Margaret Fields, looking exactly as she had in 1961.
"You found me," Margaret said softly, her eyes filled with warmth.
Maisie smiled, tears welling in her eyes. "I had to know the truth."
Margaret nodded. "And now you do. Your grandfather was a good man. He saved my life. George always knew you were a curious child, he trusted you would seek the truth on your own– not to prove to the town but for you yourself."
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
In a tranquil village situated on the outskirts of a dense, enigmatic forest, there resided Sycamore, a hare blessed with the extraordinary ability to comprehend the thoughts and emotions of all creatures around him. This remarkable gift garnered him both reverence and fear from his fellow villagers. While leading a peaceful life, Sycamore was unsettled by a strange and ominous dream about an impending danger. One crisp autumn morning, as he pondered this unsettling dream, he was approached by Reynard, a young fox with a bold spirit and a curious mind.
“Sycamore,” Reynard said with a tone that betrayed his concern, “rumors are circulating about a shadow in the woods. I’ve heard whispers that it might bring calamity to our home. What do you sense?”
Sycamore narrowed his large, expressive eyes as he focused on the subtle disturbances around him. He felt a ripple in the forest's energy, like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending waves through the tranquil world he knew. "The forest speaks of an ancient power awakening," he said, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. "It is not just a shadow, but a manifestation of something that has lain dormant for ages. We must act quickly to uncover the truth and protect our home. "Reynard, with his characteristic determination, nodded resolutely. “I will rally our friends and prepare for whatever lies ahead. Let us meet at the edge of the forest by sundown.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden hue across the village, Reynard gathered their closest allies. Among them were Thistleback, an ancient tortoise with a deep connection to the forest’s lore; Marigold, a wise and graceful deer known for her healing abilities; and Lark, a swift and intelligent bird with unparalleled navigation skills. Each had their strengths and insights that would prove crucial in their quest.
With the night falling around them, the group set off into the forest, guided by the ancient map Thistleback had provided. The map was marked with cryptic symbols and shaded areas, hinting at the journey that lay ahead. As they ventured deeper into the forest, they encountered the first of many trials.
The dense thicket they faced was almost impenetrable, with thorny branches and tangled vines obstructing their path. The air was thick with tension, and each step seemed to amplify their fears. Reynard’s heart raced as he imagined failing his friends, his fear of letting them down almost paralyzing him. Sycamore, too, felt a deep-seated anxiety—what if his ability to understand others failed him in this dire situation? His greatest fear was losing his gift, and with it, his ability to help those around him.
Despite these fears, Reynard and Sycamore supported each other. Reynard’s nimble movements cleared the thorns, while Sycamore’s empathy helped calm the group’s nerves. Together, they pressed on, learning that their unity was their greatest strength. Their courage was tested, but their resolve only grew stronger.
The next trial was a vast chasm that yawned before them, its depth obscured by the swirling mists below. A rickety vine stretched across the gap, swaying ominously with each gust of wind. The crossing required not just bravery but trust in one another. Reynard’s agility was crucial as he scouted the best path, while Marigold and Lark encouraged either side of the chasm.
Sycamore’s role was to keep the group calm and focused, channelling his gift to ensure everyone’s emotions were in harmony. With careful coordination and mutual trust, they managed to traverse the chasm, each step across the vine a testament to their collective strength and courage.
As they neared the Silent Grove, the forest grew darker, the trees seemingly closing in around them. An eerie silence enveloped the air, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. The Silent Grove was a place of ancient power, and as they approached, the atmosphere grew increasingly foreboding. The heart of the Grove revealed itself—a shadowy figure pulsating with malevolent energy, its form shifting and undulating like dark smoke.
The figure introduced itself as the Guardian of the Grove, a spectral being of immense power and wisdom. “The shadow you face is not merely an external threat,” the Guardian intoned, its voice echoing with an otherworldly resonance. “It is a manifestation of an ancient rift—a tear in the fabric of the forest’s harmony. This darkness feeds on negativity, discord, and fear. If left unchecked, it will consume everything.”
Sycamore, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation, asked, “How can we banish this shadow and restore balance to our home?”
The Guardian’s glowing eyes seemed to pierce through to their very souls. “To defeat the shadow, you must confront the darkness within yourselves. Only by overcoming your inner fears and doubts can you hope to dispel the darkness that threatens the forest.”
With newfound resolve, Sycamore and Reynard faced the shadow. The entity loomed larger and more intimidating, feeding off their fears. Reynard used his agility to create diversions, darting around the shadow to confuse and disorient it. Meanwhile, Sycamore focused on the core of the shadow, drawing upon the light of their unity, hope, and the strength they had gained from their trials.
As they worked together, the shadow’s form began to falter. The darkness that had once seemed insurmountable was pushed back by the combined power of their courage and friendship. The spectral figure of the Guardian watched with approval as the shadow dissipated, its dark tendrils unravelling and fading away.
With the shadow vanquished, the forest began to heal. The ancient tree in the glade, once twisted and gnarled, started to bloom again. The grove was bathed in a warm, golden light, and the oppressive darkness lifted, revealing the forest’s true beauty.
Returning to their village as heroes, Sycamore and Reynard were celebrated for their bravery and wisdom. The villagers rejoiced, grateful for the restoration of peace and harmony. Sycamore and Reynard’s journey not only saved their home but also deepened their friendship and taught them the profound power of unity, courage, and hope.
The forest thrived once more, a testament to overcoming darkness with light and shared strength. As Sycamore and Reynard looked out over the now serene and vibrant landscape, they knew their bond would forever be a beacon of hope for all who faced the shadows within and around them.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
Celine never knew what love was.
Her parents had dumped her in the orphanage the very second she was born – well, at least that’s what she had been told.
Staring at her reflection through the mirror cracks, she sighed. She hated her face with her pale skin, eyes too far apart, freckles… But most of all, what she really hated was her hair – strands of silver hair flying in every direction that could not be tamed with a hairbrush. She didn’t blame anyone for not wanting her.
A chilly draught filled the room, sending chills down her spine as she stepped away from her threadbare bed to close the open window. The wooden floorboards creaked under her light footsteps. Celine did not want the day to start.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she thought about the day she met her new foster mother.
“Hello! I’m Cathy,” she said, her sickly-sweet voice dripping like honey. She pulled Celine in for a hug.
Celine recoiled at her touch as if she had just been burnt by acid. Cathy frowned but quickly plastered a huge smile on her face.
“I have a feeling we’re going to get along very, very well.”
A girl was standing in front and staring at them.
“This is Layla, she’s a really sweet child. About your age, too.” Cathy introduced. She strode away, leaving Celine staring at Layla. She had long eyelashes framing her sparkling hazel eyes and wavy, brown hair falling down her back in curls.
Celine’s hopes were shattered as Layla’s lips curled into a sneer. Her eyes flew up and down Celine’s face in disdain.
“You don’t belong here.” She pushed past Celine and walked away, leaving her standing all alone.
“Kids! Wake up!” Cathy burst into the room, breaking Celine’s train of thought.
Celine rubbed her locket – it contained a picture of her parents inside. Their faces were straight, showing no sign of adoration or happiness. She always wondered: was it really true that they didn’t want her? Why did they abandon her? Was she too ugly? Too noisy? Or perhaps, were they forced to?
As she made her way down the rickety stairs, she felt a piercing shove in her back. She whipped around. It was none other than Layla, wearing a smirk on her face.
“What’s in your locket, weirdo?” she said, reaching out. Celine flinched and backed away, but Layla grabbed it quickly. “Oh, how sweet, it’s a picture of your dearest parents.” Anger started bubbling in Celine, threatening to overflow.
“Give it back!” she screamed. Layla beamed at her, her eyes wide and innocent. The other foster kids were staring.
“I said give it back!” Celine roared. She snatched the locket.
The lava exploded.
Celine shoved Layla as hard as she could, flinging her to the hard stone wall. She wanted to hurt her, really hurt her. She hated Layla. She hated her pretty curls and her stupid smirk and dimples and-
“What’s going on- stop!” Cathy shouted, grabbing Celine, holding her away from her precious child Layla. Celine fought as hard as she could, her eyes livid and full of malice. She escaped from Cathy’s grasp, watching Layla’s eyes full of pain and shock as she lay on the hard cold floor. Then she pushed past all the kids and stumbled up the stairs.
Celine was told that she would be locked in the attic for the night. Celine sighed, pressing her back against the wooden door. She really messed up.
Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. It was always the same, always a loop: she would get a new foster parent, life would get better, she’d meet someone, and a fight would start. She would always be blamed for it, no one caring to know her side of the story. It was always the same, never-ending cycle.
She shot up, an idea running through her head, then rummaged through an old cabinet in the attic. Her fingers trembled as she tied together dusty bedsheets. Satisfied, she tied the end of one bedsheet to the bedframe. Then, she climbed down the window.
She wiped her wet eyes on her long sleeves, soft flakes of snow pelting down on her neck. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she knew she had to get away, as far away as possible from Cathy, far away from the human world. She wouldn’t miss anyone.
Her feet sunk deeper and deeper into the ice-cold snow, leaving behind a trail of footprints. She shivered. It was starting to snow hard. Her feet were numb and red and raw.
Squinting her eyes, she struggled through the thick canopy of pine trees dusted with snow. Images of all the foster parents she had ever had, and the parents she never had, flashed in her mind. Perhaps if she had never gotten into that stupid first fight in the first place, life would be very, very different for Celine.
She collapsed into the thick snow.
“Mum? Dad?”
She could hear a loud, ticking sound coming from a clock. She tried to run, to move, but she was stuck. She squeezed her locket, over and over and over again. Sweat dripped down her neck as her heart pounded faster.
The clock was ticking louder, screaming in her ears.
“Mum! Dad! Help me! Please!”
The locket dropped to the floor with a crash, its crystal cover shattering into a million pieces. A deafening, ringing sound filled her ears.
She was out of time.
Celine sat up with a start, panting. Where was she? She glanced around, panic seeping into her veins. She was in a dimly lit cave, the rough rock walls pressing in on her. There were slivers of light coming from the entrance. She started walking.
There was a wolf in front of her.
She stared at the wolf.
It stared back.
Strangely, Celine felt no fear.
The wolf padded across the snow. Celine followed. Was she crazy? She was led to even more wolves, their small brown eyes all looking at her and her only. She looked out into the vast, white wilderness. Celine clutched her locket tightly. The icy, bitter wind blew wisps of her silver hair around. She had never seen this side of the world before: she was always told the forest was a dangerous place. But it was so quiet, so tranquil, so… serene.
Celine ventured further into the blizzard. The wolves followed.
And she was snatched into the howling wind, with nothing but whispers of forgotten love and her soft powdery footsteps left behind.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
I am an immortal.
Time passed quickly for me, since I would forget the beginning and there would be no end. There was little to do but exist. Playing a part in the world seemed to have no lasting effect. Anything I built faded away, any person I met passed away. It all felt so inconsequential.
In an endless ocean of days and night, I saw humanity come and go, none of them were memorable, except one, she was different. I saw her here and there, slipping through the fabric of time. Sometimes old, sometimes young, she found me first, or maybe I found her and she came back for me. I don’t know.
But it was early, very early. Not long after I discovered that time did not pass for me as it did for others. In Egypt, during the time of the Pharaohs. I was sitting on the bank of the Nile, watching the water slowly passing when she sat beside me. She was old.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice broke the silence.
I turned to see a woman standing beside me. She had an aura of familiarity, yet her presence was entirely unexpected. Her accent was strange and otherworldly.
“Yes.” I replied.
Her accent was strange.
“Who are you?” I asked.
She smiled at me. “I forget that you still haven’t met me yet.” She extended a hand. “I’m Kiaru.”
Her blue eyes were beautiful, shining forth with a vibrancy that belied the wrinkles on her face. I glanced at her hand then accepted it.
“Have we met?” I asked.
She replied with a nod.
“When?” I tilted my head slightly to the left.
“A long long time from now.” She replied, her smile showed her lovely dimples.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I’m special, like you.” She replied.
She turned towards the Nile as well, watching as the water passed.
“Time doesn’t pass for you?” I asked.
“It flows around me. I dip and dive through it though I can’t control it.” She smiled, a bit of sadness in her face. “This is the earliest I have come back.
“Oh, do you like it?”
“I like that you are here. I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
She took a handful of the zilt, rubbing it between her finger and forefinger.
“Are we friends?” I asked.
She turned to look at me. “More.”
I realized that I hadn’t introduced myself yet, even though I knew that she probably knew my name already. Within a blink of an eye, she was gone.
I didn’t see her again for another century. The memory of the initial encounter was fading but still present.
When I saw her next, I was walking through a village, going to buy vegetables when I saw her. She was young, younger than me. She was just a child. I couldn’t explain why I was drawn to her, maybe it was because she looked out of place. Her clothing was strange. She looked different than everyone else and she was scared. Streams of tears were running down her face. I did not recognize her yet. She was an oddity that had attracted my attention amidst a sea of sameness.
I walked up and knelt down In front of her. Her brilliant blue eyes peered out from her dark blue ish hair. As soon as her eyes locked with mine, I knew. I don’t know how, it just did.
She looked so different this time, not the wizard woman that had sat beside me a century before. She was just a scared little girl.
“Kiaru?” I whispered.
Her eyes widened, she wiped the tears off her face using the back of her forearm.
“I..I don’t know what’s going on. How do you know me?” She asked.
I reached out and offered my hand to her, just as she had done so long ago. After a moment of hesitation, she took it. I gave it a squeeze of comfort.
“I’m Xavier, I met you a long time ago. When you were older.” I said. She stared at me, confusion clouding her features.
“I.. what does that mean..?” Kiaru broke down into tears again. I pulled her hand closer and wrapped her into a hug.
“You are special Kiaru, like me, wherever you go, if you find me. I’ll be the same. I will be here in the world, always waiting.”
She cried into my arms, trying to understand. She didn’t want to be this way. Then she was gone.
A few hundred years had gone by when I saw her again. I had grown restless in the intervening time, tired of watching the flow of humanity around me. I had taken up the sword and put it down. I had ruled and been ruled. None of it made an impression. None of it mattered, I just wanted to see her again, I just wanted her to be safe. To be there for the one person that might understand me and that I could understand in return. And then she was there.
A beautiful woman, my age by appearance, though I was hundreds of years beyond her. She was standing on the edge of a field, watching the gentle sway of the crops. A faint smile was on her face as I slowly walked towards her.
“Hello Xavier.” Her smile was bright as ever.
“Hello Kiaru.” I replied back. She took out her hand and I accepted it, feeling its warmth.
“It has been a long time.” I whispered.
“Has it?” She squeezed my hand. “I could never tell.”
My thumb rubbed the back of her hand slowly and methodically, feeling the smooth skin and the bumps of her bones underneath. She looked at me, seeming to ask ‘how long?’.
“A few centuries.” I said.
“That long?” She asked. I nodded in reply.
“When did you last see me?” She asked again.
“In the village town, you were crying.” I lace my fingers between her, locking us together, hoping we could stay like this. Her time would be short though, just as mine was always long.
She nods, that was the first time.
“You’re my constant, you’re the only way I know time.” She said.
I nodded, I understood.
“I am glad we found each other this time, Xavier. The last trip was.. upsetting.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Sometimes things don’t always go right.” She said with a hint of sadness.
“What happened?” I asked.
She rested her head on my shoulder and looked at me with a smile. “Let’s just enjoy this moment. It will happen when it happens.”
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
Mila was a mink. She lived in the forest, in a place called Grassy Groves. What is a mink, you ask? Well, minks are furry little creatures, similar to a weasel or stoat. They are semiaquatic and live in places close to water…but I digress. Let’s begin the story.
One day, Mila was chatting with her friends Wade the weasel and Ellissss the snake.
“Have you folkssss heard the newssss?” Ellissss asked. “The old wolf Thorne issss sssstepping down as the king of Grassy Grovessss!”
“Oh, yes, I heard,” Mila replied, making a face.
“Really?” asked Wade. “Who’ll be his successor?”
“The worst possible candidate: Jinx the python,” Mila answered. “He’s very powerful, being the head of the biggest snake gang in the woods and all, so he’s the most logical heir.”
Wade looked horrified. “This is terrible! We can’t let slimy old Jinx become king. He’d make an awful ruler!”
“Agreed,” nodded Ellissss. “I ssssay we go find old Thorne and convincccce him not to sssstep down.”
“Let’s do it!” Wade declared excitedly. “I’ll pack.”
Together, the trio set off for Thorne’s den.
“Where…pant…does Thorne…pant…live again?” puffed Wade.
“He lives in a cave somewhere in Wildwood Capital,” replied Mila.
“Oof, that’s a long way from the Sylvan Suburbs, isn’t it?” gasped the weasel. “How do you plan to get there?”
“We’ll take a shortcut!” Mila stopped in front of a bush. “Let’s see…it was left at the Bigbelly Bush, then right…oh, yes. Right this way!”
After what seemed like miles, the trees began to grow much closer together than before. They looked battered as if a rabid cat had been using them as scratching posts.
Mila placed one furry finger on her lips, signalling to the others that they should keep quiet. “We are now entering Tree-Ninja Thicket. Keep your voices down — the residents here don’t take kindly to visitors.”
As if to prove her point, the leaves of the nearest trees began to tremble violently. Suddenly, a dozen tiny blurs leapt through the air and landed in front of the group.
“Who goes there?!” yelled a few fierce voices in unison. The sun shifted directly over the treetops, bathing them in a warm golden light and revealing the voices to be a dozen angry, grey-coloured squirrels.
“Hang on,” Wade said, suppressing a smile. “The ‘tree-ninjas’ are…squirrels?”
“That’s the Society of Grey Squirrels to you, chicken-eater!” the squirrel in front snapped. He wore a strange crown fashioned from acorns. He seemed to be the leader. “What brings you thieving lot to our woods? Trying to steal our acorns, are you?”
“Of course not!” Mila jumped in. “We’re on a quest, and we only wish to pass through these woods —”
“No dice!” the squirrel roared. His crown of nuts wobbled precariously on his tiny head. “This land is precious to us. It is our heritage, our birthright as grey squirrels. We require payment for you to pass through our thicket!”
Wade gulped. “Uh, I was saving these walnuts for later…but you folks can have it.”
The squirrels peered at his walnuts.
“Very well! We accept your payment. You may pass!” hollered the ridiculous squirrel ruler. Mila, Wade and Ellissss quickly surrendered their nuts and continued on their way.
After their encounter with the ‘tree-ninjas’, Mila doubted they would come across any other troubles.
She was wrong.
“Stand and deliver!” bellowed a fearsome voice as a huge furry shape leapt out of the shadows and landed with a snarl to face the three. Mischievous eyes gleamed at them from behind a grinning orange face. In one paw was a wooden slingshot.
“This is a robbery,” Moxie the fox snarled. “Hand over your belongings now, and you won’t get hurt.”
Wade reluctantly started emptying their bags, but Mila stopped him.
“I’ve got a plan,” she whispered. “Just trust me.”
Moxie swept her beautiful black-speckled tail across the forest floor. “I’m waiting, people. Hurry up! I have another robbery scheduled for seven-thirty!”
Mila collected all their things in one bag. “Here you go, Moxie…nice to see you’re still in the mugging business.”
Just as Moxie was about to snatch the goods from her, Mila suddenly puckered her lips and released the most piercing, shrill whistle ever to be heard in the woodlands.
Suddenly, a large hawk swooped out of the canopy and dive-bombed Moxie, making her drop the bag of goods on the ground. Before Moxie could recover, Mila grabbed the bag and dashed away with her friends.
“Thanks, Harold!” she hollered, sprinting across the forest floor. Harold the hawk screeched in welcome as he soared away, leaving behind an angry fox screaming for revenge.
Two minutes and fifty yards later, the group regrouped by a tree stump.
“Well done, Mila,” wheezed Ellissss, gasping for breath. “What…What wassss that?”
“Harold the hawk is an old friend,” Mila explained. “He said if I ever needed something, I could just whistle and he’d be here.”
“Well,” Wade commented, “lucky for us, this stump marks the entrance to Wildwood Capital. We made it, folks.”
They all cheered. Now they just had to find Thorne the wolf. After a while, they found Thorne’s den, a huge cave at the forest’s edge.
Mila took a deep breath. “Well, let’s go in.”
Together, they plunged into the deep, dark cave.
“Thorne!” Mila cried when they finally stumbled upon the old wolf. He was enormous, towering over them on his throne. His dark red robes draped over his luscious black fur. On top of his head stood a golden crown, far more spectacular than the squirrel king’s. Mila cowered before him. “I mean, Your Majesty. We bring greetings from the Sylvan Suburbs.”
The old king grunted. “Speak.”
“We think it would be terribly unwise to hand down the crown to Jinx the python, sir.” Wade stammered. “I think I speak for everyone, sir, when I say that he would make a terrible king.”
The wolf burst into laughter. “And what? You would rather me not step down, would you? Don’t you understand, child, that I am old? I am far too weak to continue ruling, boy. It is the only way.”
“But Jinx is the worst possible successor!” argued Mila. “He’s arrogant, manipulative and cares for no one except himself. The forest would be a horrible place to live in under his tyranny!”
“Fine, then!” growled the wolf. “It won’t be Jinx. But then who will take my place as king?”
Just then, a dozen snakes slithered into the cave. They were led by none other than Jinx the python himself, gliding on his smooth green scales.
“Ah, Jinx,” Thorne frowned. “I think I’ve changed my mind. You see, these brave animals have convinced me not to hand you the throne when I step down.”
“WHAT?!” Jinx spat in outrage. “What? Do you mean these…pathetic little critters from the suburbs? They ordered you to turn me down?”
“Yes,” Thorne answered. “I’ve reconsidered. Now take your reptiles and get out, before I make you.”
All around Thorne, glowing red eyes suddenly appeared, revealing an entire pack of wolves crouching in the shadows.
Jinx paled, realising he was powerless in Thorne’s home. He reluctantly slithered away with his gang of snakes, shooting one last hateful glare at Mila.
“Now that we’ve gotten that taken care of,” Thorne sighed, “who will be my heir now?”
Mila smiled. “May I suggest someone, sir?”
A few days later, the animals of Grassy Groves gathered to crown their new king, Harold the hawk. After careful consideration, Thorne agreed that Harold was indeed worthy to take his place. The entire woods rejoiced, and the sun shone brightly on the happy woodlands for many years.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
1
“STOP!”
Isa’s shout cut through the air, freezing the gang of youths who’d been stoning the dog. She scrambled down the bank and splashed through the small stream. Ice-cold water swirled around her bare feet.
“Leave, or I’m calling the police.” Her hand was shaking. She clenched her fingers shut.
Isa set her jaw. “Go!” Though only eleven, she towered over the boys, who looked to be about the same age as her. They turned and ran, though one threw a small pebble at her while fleeing.
She crouched down, next to the golden retriever they had been tormenting. His beautiful coat of light gold gleamed in the early morning sun. Snuffling, he nosed around in her outstretched hand for food.
Isa laughed. “Nothing, I’m afraid. Except…” She pulled out a dog treat from her pocket. She had brought it just for him. Isa held out her hand once again.
The dog gobbled it up and looked up at Isa with his tongue hanging out. He trotted over to the stream and sat there with his head cocked.
Isa laughed. For ages, she had been trying to get this dog to come near her. If she managed to, he would be the one real friend she would have had in a while. She hadn’t gone to school for months. Not since her aunt got COVID-19.
Since Aunt May was in hospital, Isa stayed alone at home with no one to care for her. Knowing this, the doctors dropped by every day to bring her takeaway food. Isa supposed it was okay, definitely better than the hospital food she had eaten last time.
Isa slipped on her sneakers, left on top of the small hill she had slid down, and ran through the waist-length grass. Around her, the sun's rays tinged the playground equipment a warm shade of gold. It shone on Isa’s back, weak enough that she wasn’t in danger of harmful UV rays.
Around her, the dog ran in circles.
Isa unlocked the door. The dog was still following her, and she thought, I should give it a name.
She heard the doorbell and looked through the curtains. Doctor Mark, the usual delivery man. She opened the door and knew there was something wrong. A wave of worry washed over her.
“Your aunt’s health is deteriorating,” he said. “She wanted you to come see her.”
Isa immediately slipped inside and put on a mask. She locked the door on the dog, telling him: “I’ll be back soon.”
“New friend?” the doctor asked as he handed her a sandwich. “Are you keeping him?”
“I suppose so.”
Fifteen minutes later, Isa was walking through the doors of the hospital. It was all white and blue, and smelled of disinfectant. People decked out in blue masks crowded the area, coughing and sneezing. The pandemic was brutal, the death toll rising every day.
Inside her aunt’s room, the doctors all stood with grim faces.
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do. She’s dying.”
Isa walked closer. I can’t hug her, she thought. I can’t hold her hand. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
“I’m sorry, Aunt May. I love you,” she whispered. For the first time, she understood what “the silence was deafening” meant. Someone say something. Anything.
She ran into the car park.
In the doctor’s car, the back of her throat burned as she struggled to hold back her tears. As they reached her house, she muttered a quick thank you and jumped out of the car. She whipped open the door, slammed it shut and raced up the stairs, flinging herself onto her bed.
The dog whined.
By evening, Isa’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying. She couldn’t stop sniffling and sneezing, and she knew she should have an appetite, but she didn’t.
She made her way downstairs, pouring dog food into a bowl, which she pushed towards the dog. The day she had bought it for him, she hadn’t given her aunt a second thought. He whimpered, as if sensing her feelings.
It was already dark. Isa went upstairs, bringing the dog with her, and slept.
Next morning, Isa woke with a jolt, coughing and sneezing. She glanced at her watch and noticed it was 11. She realised she had missed all Doctor Mark’s visits.
She brushed her teeth and had a bath, giving the dog one too.
Maybe a visit to the park will make me feel better, she thought.
She fed her dog, unlocked the door and set off. But her mind was still on her aunt, and she was constantly sneezing, her eyes watering. From sadness or because she had caught a cold, she didn’t know.
She hadn’t even known she was crossing the road. She heard a loud honk, felt something heavy tackling her, and then nothing.
Isa was in a field. Rays of golden light played on the tips of wheat plants growing up to her shoulders. She was running, laughing all the while, and tripped. Somebody grabbed her and tickled her, both of them giggling.
Everything changed. She was swimming in cold water. Someone was next to her, yelling out instructions and doling out praise. She felt a warm glow of pride that countered the cold of the water.
Then it faded to black. But not before her last thought.
Aunt May.
2
The first thing Isa heard when she woke was a beep.
It repeated non-stop like one of those stubborn alarm clocks. Groaning, she cracked open her eyes, which felt like they had been cemented shut.
She was in a cold room, covered with a white duvet. Morning light streamed in from thin blue curtains. She turned her head, and knew where she was.
A hospital.
Her aunt’s hospital.
“And he rescued you,” Doctor Mark concluded, telling Isa about the accident. “He pushed you out of the way of the car and almost died himself. The vet is stitching him up in the clinic across the road. And something else. You had COVID-19. If no one had gotten you to the hospital, you would have died. As luck would have it, we managed to cure you.”
Isa and the doctor visited the vet the next day. The dog jumped on Isa, excited to see her and she laughed, rolling around on the floor with him.
“Now that you don’t have a guardian, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to an orphanage,” Doctor Mark confessed.
“It doesn’t matter,” Isa laughed. “As long as I have my dog. And I have the perfect name!”
She called her new dog.
“Come, Hero!”
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
In the small coastal village of Plassie Bay, where the ocean seemed to stretch infinitely, there stood an old lighthouse that had endured many storms. It was a stone structure with a lantern room at its peak, and its beacon had been a guiding light for sailors for more than a century. The lighthouse was manned by the last in a long line of dedicated keepers, a man named Thomas Hale.
Thomas was a solitary figure in his early sixties, with a face weathered by years of exposure to the sea and a beard that had long since turned to silver. He lived in a small cottage beside the lighthouse, surrounded by the extravagant beauty of the rocky coast. His life was a quiet one, scheduled by the daily duties of maintaining the lighthouse. Every evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Thomas would climb the stairs to the lantern room, ensuring the beacon was ready to shine through the night.
The villagers of Plassie Bay respected Thomas, though they rarely saw him. They knew he was there, keeping the light burning. Over time, as modern technology developed, the need for a lighthouse keeper vanished. Automatic systems had been installed in most lighthouses, and most of Thomas's peers had retired or moved on. But Thomas remained as guardian of tradition and safety.
One autumn evening, as a storm brushed on the horizon, Thomas went about his usual routine. The sky darkened quickly, and the wind howled through the cracks in the lighthouse's old stonework. The waves crashed violently against the rocky shore, and the sea seemed to be in a frenzy. Despite the approaching storm, Thomas felt a sense of calm. He had weathered many storms in his time and had never once delayed his duties.
As he prepared to light the beacon, Thomas noticed something unusual. A shadowy figure appeared on the shore, moving with speed despite the growing ferocity of the storm. It was a young woman, dressed in a ripped coat, her hair whipping wildly around her face. She seemed to be making her way toward the lighthouse, battling the winds with every step.
Thomas's first instinct was to call out to her, but the howling wind swallowed his words. Instead, he hurried down the staircase to the door. With great effort, he managed to open it and shield his face from the rain. The young woman, barely able to stand against the wind, fell into the lighthouse.
“Help me,” she cried, her voice barely audible over the storm. “I’m lost.”
Thomas helped her inside and guided her to the warmth of the lantern room. There, he offered her dry clothes and a cup of tea. As she warmed herself by the small fire he had lit, Thomas could see that she was not just lost but deeply troubled.
“My name is Eliza,” she said, her voice trembling. “I was on a ship, but we were caught in the storm. I’m the only one who made it to shore.”
Thomas’s heart ached for her. The sea had stolen many lives, and he knew all too well the destruction it could bring. “You’re safe here,” he told her. “The storm will pass, and we’ll figure out what to do.”
As they sat together, Thomas and Eliza began to talk. She told him about her life before the storm—the ship she had been on, her family, and the dreams she had to see new lands. Thomas, in turn, shared stories of his years as a lighthouse keeper, the storms he had weathered, and the ships he had guided to safety.
The hours passed, and the storm outside began to come to a stop. The wind died down, and the rain turned into a steady drizzle. Although the windows in the lantern room were small, they could see the first light of dawn shining through the clouds.
Eliza’s eyes were full of gratitude. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you,” she said softly.
Thomas smiled gently. “You don’t need to repay me. It’s what I do.”
As the sun rose, Thomas and Eliza made their way down the lighthouse steps. The storm had left its mark on the coastline, but the worst was over. They could see the wreckage of Eliza’s ship scattered along the shore and the remains of a few other vessels that had met the same fate. It was a sad sight, but it also reminded Thomas of the importance of his work.
Eliza stayed in Plassie Bay for a few days, recovering and helping with the clean-up. The villagers welcomed her with open arms, and she quickly became a part of the community. She and Thomas forged a deep bond over the shared experience, and she often visited him at the lighthouse, bringing news from the outside world and stories of her recovery.
As the weeks turned into months, Thomas noticed a change within himself. For years, he had lived a life of quiet solitude, but Eliza’s presence brought a new vitality to his days. He found joy in sharing his stories and in listening to hers. The lighthouse, once a symbol of isolation, now felt like a beacon of connection and hope.
One evening, as the sun set and the sky was painted with hues of pink and orange, Thomas and Eliza stood together on the balcony of the lighthouse. The sea was calm, and the light of the beacon swept across the tranquil waters.
“I never thought I’d find such a friend in the middle of a storm,” Eliza said, her voice filled with warmth.
Thomas looked out at the horizon; his heart full. “Sometimes, it takes a storm to bring people together. And sometimes, it takes a guiding light to show us the way.”
Eliza smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Thomas. For everything.”
Thomas’s gaze remained fixed on the sea, the light from the lighthouse reflecting in his eyes. The storm had passed, and in its wake, it had revealed something precious—human connection, forged in the crucible of adversity.
As the days turned into years, the lighthouse continued to stand tall, its beacon a symbol of resilience and hope. Thomas and Eliza’s friendship remained a testament to the power of kindness and the strength that can be found in the most unexpected places. And so, the last lighthouse keeper’s light burned on, guiding not just ships, but also hearts, through the storms of life.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
In the small town of Maplewood, nestled between rolling hills and a sparkling river, lived a curious 10-year-old girl named Lily. With her wild curly hair and bright green eyes, Lily was known for her vivid imagination and love of adventure. She spent her days exploring the town's nooks and crannies, always searching for something new and exciting.
One crisp autumn morning, as golden leaves danced in the breeze, Lily overheard her grandmother talking about the Whispering Woods. "Those woods," her grandmother said in a hushed tone, "are magical. The trees speak to those who listen closely."
Lily's eyes widened with wonder. She had to see these woods for herself! After breakfast, she packed a small backpack with a notebook, pencils, and a peanut butter sandwich. Then, with a quick goodbye to her parents, she set off on her bicycle toward the edge of town.
The path to the Whispering Woods wound its way through colorful wildflowers. As Lily pedaled, she imagined what kind of magic she might encounter. Would the trees really whisper? What secrets could they share?
At the forest's edge, Lily parked her bike and took a deep breath. The trees before her were ancient and tall, their branches reaching out like welcoming arms. She stepped onto the soft, leaf-covered ground and entered the Whispering Woods.
At first, all seemed quiet except for the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustle of a small animal. As Lily ventured deeper into the forest, she began to notice something unusual. The leaves seemed to sway even when there was no breeze, and she could have sworn she heard faint murmurs coming from the trees themselves.
"Hello?" Lily called out softly. "Can anyone hear me?"
Suddenly, a gentle voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Welcome, young one," it said. "We've been waiting for someone like you."
Lily gasped in amazement. The trees were really talking! She spun around, trying to figure out which tree had spoken. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice filled with excitement and a hint of nervousness.
A low chuckle resonated through the forest. "We are the spirits of the Whispering Woods," the voice explained. "We've watched over this land for centuries, but few humans can hear us anymore. You, Lily, have a special gift."
Lily's heart raced with joy. "What kind of gift?" she asked eagerly.
"The gift of true listening," replied the voice. "You hear not just with your ears, but with your heart. That's why you can understand us."
As Lily walked further into the woods, more voices joined in. Some were deep and gruff, like old oak trees, while others were light and airy, like young birches. They told her stories of the forest's history, of the animals that lived there, and of the changing seasons.
Lily listened intently, scribbling notes in her notebook. She learned about a hidden spring with healing properties, a family of foxes that lived in a hollow log, and a patch of rare flowers that bloomed only once every ten years.
As the day wore on, Lily realized she had a special mission. "The town has been thinking about cutting down part of the forest to build new houses," she told the trees. "Is there anything I can do to help protect you?"
The forest fell silent for a moment before a wise old maple spoke up. "Lily, you can be our voice. Tell the people of Maplewood about the wonders you've seen here. Remind them of the importance of nature and the magic that exists in these woods."
Lily nodded solemnly, understanding the weight of her responsibility. As the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the trees, she knew it was time to head home. "I promise I'll come back," she said to her new friends.
"We know you will," the trees whispered in unison. "And we'll be here, waiting to share more secrets with you."
With a wave goodbye, Lily made her way back through the forest, her mind buzzing with all she had learned. She couldn't wait to tell her family and friends about her incredible adventure.
Over the next few weeks, Lily visited the Whispering Woods every chance she got. She brought her friends along, teaching them to listen closely to nature. Although they couldn't hear the trees speak as clearly as Lily could, they began to appreciate the forest in a new way.
Lily also spoke at a town meeting, sharing the stories and insights she had gained from the Whispering Woods. She described the intricate ecosystem, the rare plants and animals, and the sense of peace the forest brought to all who visited. Her passion was contagious, and soon the whole town was talking about the importance of preserving their magical woods.
Thanks to Lily's efforts, the town council decided to cancel their plans for development and instead declared the Whispering Woods a protected area. They even set up nature trails and educational programs to help others connect with the forest.
Lily's adventure had not only changed her life but also made a significant impact on her entire community. She had discovered that sometimes the most extraordinary magic lies in the simple act of listening—to nature, to others, and to the whispers of wisdom that surround us all.
As years passed, Lily grew up to become a respected environmentalist, always carrying the lessons she had learned from the Whispering Woods with her. And though she traveled far and wide, she never forgot her first magical adventure in the forest near her childhood home.
The Whispering Woods continued to thrive, its secrets safe with those who knew how to listen. And on quiet days, if you ventured deep into the forest and opened your heart, you might just hear the trees whisper, "Thank you, Lily," as their leaves danced in the wind, telling stories of a curious little girl who had become their greatest friend and protector.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
Clara Whitmore had always been curious about the locked door at the end of the hallway in the old Whitmore estate. It was a grand house, passed down through generations, each more secretive than the last. The door was ancient, its wood weathered, the keyhole worn by age. Her parents, Lord Henry and Lady Margaret Whitmore, had warned her never to go near it, insisting that some mysteries were better left unsolved. But Clara’s curiosity was insatiable.
Her closest ally, Julian, a young scholar with a passion for the unknown, has a keen eye on the door as well. Often, he spoke of parallel worlds and alternate realities, his theories conveying a blend of brilliance and madness. "Clara," he said one evening as they sat by the fire, "what if that door is a portal?"
"To where?" she asked, intrigued.
"To everywhere," he replied, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "To other worlds, other versions of us, living different lives."
The idea haunted Clara, triggering visions of endless corridors, each leading to a different reality. She began to believe that the locked door in her own home might be more than just a barrier—it might be a gateway.
Her curiosity intensified with each passing day until it became an obsession. She started spending more time in the hallway, lingering near the door, listening for any signs of life beyond it. The air around it felt different, charged with a strange energy that sent shivers down her spine. She imagined what might lie on the other side—a world of endless possibilities, or perhaps a dark reflection of her reality.
One evening, when her parents had left for a ball, Clara decided it was time to discover the truth. With Julian by her side, she tiptoed down the hallway, her heart pounding in her chest. She had found the key months ago, hidden in a dusty drawer in the attic. Now, the key felt heavy in her clammy hands.
"Are you sure about this?" Julian asked, his voice tinged with both excitement and fear.
"I have to know," Clara whispered, determination hardening her resolve.
With a deep breath, she inserted the key into the lock. The door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling down into darkness. A cold draft of air wafted up from below, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else—something sweet and rotten.
As they descended, the walls around them seemed to shift, the stonework shimmering as if caught between worlds. The air grew colder, and soon they found themselves in a small, windowless room. But it wasn’t empty.
In the center stood an ornate, full-length mirror, its surface rippling like water. The frame was carved with strange symbols that neither Clara nor Julian recognized. As Clara approached the mirror, she felt a strange pull.
"This is it," Julian murmured, his voice trembling with awe. "This is the portal."
Clara reached out, her fingers brushing the surface of the mirror. Instantly, the world around them dissolved, and they were thrown into a dizzying whirlwind of light and sound. When they finally landed, they found themselves in a different room—similar, but not quite the same.
"What just happened?" Clara asked, her voice shaky.
"We’ve crossed over," Julian replied, looking around in wonder. "This is the alternate version of our world."
However, something was wrong. The room was filled with mirrors, each one reflecting a different version of Clara and Julian—some older, some younger, some dressed in strange, unfamiliar clothes. As they moved closer to the mirrors, they realized that these reflections were not merely images; they were alternate selves from parallel worlds!
Suddenly, one of the reflections stepped out of its mirror, a sinister smile on its face. This version of Julian had a cold, calculating look in his eyes, and as he approached, Clara felt a chill run down her spine.
"Welcome," he said, his voice eerily similar to Julian's but laced with malice. "We’ve been waiting for you."
Before they could react, more reflections began to step out of their mirrors, surrounding Clara and Julian. Each alternate self had a different intent—some curious, some hostile, some desperate to escape their realities.
"What’s happening?" Clara cried, backing away.
"We’ve opened a door between worlds," Julian explained, his voice full of dread. "And now, they all want to cross over."
As the room filled with their alternate selves, Clara realized they had made a grave mistake. The mirrors were not just portals; they were gateways to countless realities, each fighting to survive, each version of themselves vying for control.
In a desperate attempt to escape, Clara grabbed Julian's hand and ran back towards the original mirror that had brought them here. But as they reached it, they saw their reflections disappear, replaced by other versions of themselves, staring at them with hollow eyes.
"No," Clara whispered, tears streaming down her face. "We can't be trapped here."
But it was too late. The room began to collapse in on itself, the walls closing in as the mirrors shattered one by one. Clara and Julian could only watch in horror as their reality crumbled around them, their bodies disintegrating into fragments of light, absorbed into the endless multiverse.
Ultimately, their reflections—now mere echoes of who they once were—remained trapped in the shattered glass, forever waiting for the next curious soul to unlock the door and take their place.
In the multiverse, where countless realities converge, the Whitmore estate remains a forgotten place where time and space intertwine, and those who dare to enter may find themselves lost in a maze of mirrors, their identities fractured, their lives forever altered.
The estate stood silent once more as if nothing had happened. The door at the end of the hallway remained shut, its keyhole tarnished with age. But those with a keen ear might hear faint whispers- echoes of those who had been lost, calling out from the other side, warning anyone who might dare to enter, the grave consequences that await them…
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
As dawn broke over the Lizhou District of Guangyuan, the first light of morning gently illuminated the wispy window screens of my room, casting a warm, golden hue across the floor, a perfect contrast to the events of the day. The air was crisp and filled with the sweet sighs of the partridges, dappled with the aroma of wheat from the fields. Roosters crowed. The faraway chatter of the market marked the beginning of a new day in this idyllic corner of China.
The pottery bowl was set down with a muffled thud onto the worn wooden plank that served as the dining table in the Wu family home. The door to my shared room with my grandparents, which no one had bothered to oil, opened with a low creak, and I shuffled out through the clay-laid hallways into the small living area that hosted most of my family’s activities when they weren’t working in the fields. My father peered at me over his bowl of porridge from his east-facing seat. “Zetian, you’re late,” he grumbled, “and why is your hair so dirty? You’d better clean up before the officials get here.”
I grumbled through my bowl of slop—the day I had been dreading had arrived. Today, I would be wrapped up in my best hanfu, a delicate fazhan secured in my intricately styled hair, and sent off to the Forbidden City for the harem selection, like a rag doll with a smile permanently plastered on my perfectly powdered face under the intricate hairdo my mother would meticulously craft for me. The thought of being locked up in a highly secure fort with no way out, surrounded by other women who toddled around in their delicately bound feet that they deemed "feminine," talking and giggling in hushed whispers, was enough to make me want to drown myself in the pigsty water trough.
The hour that the gentries arrived to take us to the Forbidden City had come. With the well wishes of my grandmother and the reminders to keep my hair in place from my mother, I unwillingly dragged myself through the crowd of villagers circling the small, huddled line of girls in the city center to get to my spot in line. The sight of other girls as young as 12 being prettied up and willingly handed over by their parents made me sick to the depths of my stomach. While boys the same age as us were studying right then, we were being surrendered to the imperial harem that would no doubt add a cartload of trauma to our lives. The distant sounds of the oxen-led carts only added to my distaste—for a country that claimed through the local officials that they would “provide only the best resources” for the village girls attending the harem selection, they weren’t being very generous about the transportation conditions.
A horn blew. The bustling chatter of the crowd went silent as the official from the capital city gave the same speech he did every year about the amazing living conditions at the harem and the tests that the girls would have to undergo to qualify as imperial concubines or, at the very least, imperial maids. “Perhaps,” the potbellied official said while trying his best to appear sincere, “your daughter will be able to rise to the rank of an empress one day!” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and barely managed to stifle a laugh. Even though I was a peasant farm girl, as uneducated as I was, I knew that only daughters from noble families or high-ranking officials could ever even think of being an empress. Peasant girls like us? We would have to stick with being maids and servants, doing all the grunt work in the palace. I tried not to scoff at how plainly the official was trying to fill our heads with fantasies of becoming the emperor’s queen, deceiving us with hopes that would never be.
In an effort to distract myself from the now monotonous voice of the spokesperson and the disgust boiling inside me at the lies of the palace, I turned to the girl next to me in line. The girl looked no older than 13 and wore much plainer robes compared to mine. I took notice of her calloused hands, rough from the work in the fields just like mine. Cautiously, I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Pst,” I glanced at the name badge precariously dangling at the neckline of the frayed bodice she was wearing, “You’re called Xiao Shufei?” The girl whipped her head around so sharply the charms dangling from her zhan almost took me out. She nodded, a small smile playing on her face. “Do you think we’ll make it to the last round?” she quietly asked, as if scared that the spokesperson could hear her over all the ruckus of the crowd. I snorted. “I do hope not,” I said, “I’d hate to be dumped into a big pile of drama with all the other concubines. Plus, we’d basically have no freedom whatsoever in there.”
Shufei thought about it for a while, then turned around and told me in a hushed whisper: “You could overthrow them, you know,” she glanced back at the other girls in line, so readily accepting the fact that they were no longer themselves, but rather objects owned by the imperial family, “You could be the Empress, show them what it’s like for us. For all the other girls out there being forced into this just because their families wanted some compensation money. For all of them already in the Forbidden City, bound to their contract, being forced to serve the imperial family.” “So, what am I supposed to do?” “Your worst, of course.”
The conversation was cut short as the carriages suddenly arrived in front of us, and we could both see the line of girls in front of them getting whisked off into their seats and a life of servitude and obedience. I peered past Shufei at the number of girls in each carriage, and realized that when the line reached them, the only friend I’d made so far and I would be separated. Just as the girl before Shufei got escorted into the carriage, Shufei turned around. “They’ve lived the dream long enough—” a guard grasped her arm, “be their nightmare, Zetian.” I watched as Shufei was whisked off into the carriage and I was soon escorted to mine as well. Who knew if I would ever see her again? The three other girls in my carriage made feeble attempts to have a conversation before we arrived, but I allowed myself to isolate from them and drink in my thoughts. Who knew if I would ever see her again? I would not let more girls endure this. I would be a nightmare, and no one would ever stop me.
I’m on my throne. I can feel the power radiate off me as I sit next to Yizhi, while he sits upon a higher pedestal; I am undoubtedly in control. Of him, of this monarchy, of this empire. I gaze mercilessly down upon the now Consort Xiao, the girl who once encouraged me to break through, but is now my greatest rival. Survival is essential. Power is indispensable. I will not allow her to threaten the stability I have fought so hard to achieve. The younger me still fights for her in my heart, almost convincing me to pity her, a girl from the same frontier village as me, a girl who once shared my struggles and dreams. However, I will not allow myself to give in. Her sacrifice will not be in vain. “Execute Consort Xiao alongside Empress Wang. May they be blessed in the afterlife.”
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
Paris, France, August 25 1944
It was 1944 when I found them, or rather, they found me.
I can vaguely remember the first sounds of tracks appearing near the end of the day. It was alien and unfamiliar, in a way startling, and not to my cup of tea. I was in a hollow under a house. It was warm. It was cosy. It was home.
But that would be the last time I would call it that.
I got out to stretch my legs. The air was calm, the atmosphere was still. Then I heard voices.
“Jerry did you see her.”
“Yeah, cute little Chartreux isn’t it? She’s one adorable little fur ball.”
“Excuse me, I’m male,” I said calmly, forgetting humans can’t understand other animals.
“Let’s keep her.”
“What if the old commander gets mad?”
“Don’t be a wimp Jerry. He’s a softie, they’ll get along well.”
And just like that, that would be the last time I saw my home. As two hands lifted me into a metal box, I felt a gentle stroking.
“Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you.”
As I was lifted in, I gazed down, seeing words adorning the side of this machine reading ‘Churchill Mk VII (A22F) Cheshire’ in gleaming white paint. Strange choice to proudly display this tin can’s name but I didn’t question it.
Inside this metal box were 5 men. Oscar, the man who found me and the machine gunner; Jerry, the gunner; Martin, the commander; Peter, the driver and Matthew, the loader.
“Oh, it’s a little kitty cat!” laughed Matthew.
“What do we name her?” asked Oscar.
“I don’t know, maybe Cheshire? Like the tank?” suggested Peter.
“Great idea Peter, now old man Lewis Carol will be following us around now isn’t he?” teased Martin.
“Oh shut your mouth you b******,” hollered Jerry.
As the men argued, the machine came to life. Tracks squealing like piglets. We were off, to where I don’t know
And this is where it all began.
78th Armoured Division on the road, August 26, 1944
Life with these guys is, unusual.
Firstly, I can’t hunt. It’s not exactly normal for cats but it will have to do.
Every time I try to hunt, one of them will see me and catch me before I can even see any prey. Becoming domesticated after being a stray for years is weird.
We’d stop off on the side of the road every once in a while for a cup of tea. I’d be let out of the cage that these humans called a ‘tank’ and be allowed to frolic in the fields for a bit.
And it was oh so relaxing.
As the wind flowed past my fur, I lid down and relaxed. The sounds of the country engulfing me and drowning out reality. Butterflies flew, birds chirped and the leaves rustled. It was soothing.
“Cheshire? Where are you?”
With Oscar’s call, I scampered back to the tank. Tea was over.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you are one adorable little thing? Oh yes you are you little cutie!” Oscar cooed.
I let him cuddle me and purred out loud. The rest of the crew roared with laughter as his ‘baby talk’. But we didn’t care.
Even with the song of gunfire and black powder, there was still empathy.
Night fell and the sky became adorned with gorgeous lights. The dark blue hue was interrupted with bright spots. On the side of the road, our division set up camp. The clanking of metal and the delicious smell perked up my ears.
It was supper time.
Oscar and I set behind the tank while the others were preparing supper. I sat on his lap as we looked at the stars.
“You ever wondered what these are, Cheshire?” asked Oscar. “I always have.”
No I haven’t I replied. All I’ve seen is just a bunch of Germans and French prostitutes.
But he didn’t hear me, because of the usual.
“Old pops told me that he heard that those stars are all of the loved ones who are no longer here with us. They are just looking down on us, rooting us on in troubling times.”
It was an interesting thought, and I let that thought sink in. My mom, the other kittens in the litter who I never saw again, could they be there?
Oscar continued to stroke my head as the band began to play. And the singing was oh so sweet.
“It’s a long way to Tipperary! It’s a long way to go…”
As I slowly grew tired, I heard more voices.
“She’s adorable eh?”
“Indeed she is, our little mascot.”
This time I didn’t attempt to correct them. I just purred.
My eyelids grew heavy and I began to drift off, under the blanket of the stars.
Compiègne, France, 31 August, 1944
We entered the city in the morning, and it was calm, too calm.
Usually, when it is too calm for us predators, we can’t relax. Vigilance is still needed. And here was no different. When we drove in, not a sound could be heard. Martin warned the crew to stay alert. Peter and Jerry weren’t too happy.
But soon Martin was proven right.
Driving round the corner, a division of soldiers began the assault. A panzerfaust whizzed by and destroyed the Cromwell beside us. My heart stopped and I hit the roof, my fur standing on end. The turret goes flying. Sparks shoot out in all directions. The air clouded and hell was let out. Martin gave the order to back up as the infantry began to fill the German divisions with lead. A massive bang erupts and the tank shakes. I jumped and hit the roof as the boom vibrates the whole machine. A shout came from the turret and my heart stopped.
Our tracks were broken, our fate was sealed.
Matthew, our loader, and Oscar got out to repair the track. The rest of the division pushed forward toward the attackers. I climbed out of the open cupola to look out. And that’s when my blood ran cold.
Behind us a group of soldiers came around, and they had another anti-tank gun with them.
I yelled for the men to get into cover but my meows were drowned by the gunfire. Due to God’s blessing or his exceptional hearing, Oscar hears me and looks behind. He sees the German guns and freezes.
It was too late for the rest.
A boom erupts from behind and the tank is hit. A tremendous explosion rocked the vehicle and I was thrown off.
Suddenly the world went blank. The sounds of gunfire gradually softened as I blacked out.
I could sense nothing, see nothing, and hear nothing. I could only think about them.
6 years later
So I’m still here.
But the rest, not so much.
The Germans destroyed the tank but were later mowed down by British machine-gun fire. They then found me amid the wreckage and brought me to London.
Maybe it’s for the best. I’m very done with war.
Every night, as I look up at the stars, I remember their faces, their smiles, their songs, and what Oscar said.
‘Those stars are all of the loved ones who are no longer with us…’
If it’s true, then they are still there, looking down on me and smiling.
My life has come to its end by now. As it slowly slips away, I think of them and their faces. I remember Oscar’s gentle touch, Martin’s commanding voice, Jerry’s grumbling and laughter, Peter’s kind heart and Matthew’s youthful energy. The many adventures we had on their mortal realm, and the one’s we’ll have up there, frolicking amongst the stars.
I’m coming boys I whisper. I’m on my way.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
The wind lashed at towering buildings, howling like a ghost. It pulled and tore at tree branches, sending dozens of leaves scattering to the ground. Rain poured from above, pattering against the street. People rushed past, clutching black umbrellas over their heads, coats flying behind them as their shoes splashed against puddles.
No one paid attention to the man walking at the side of the street dressed in a trench coat and fashionable leather shoes. Despite his leisurely pace, his face was set, stormy grey eyes narrowed and crinkled at the ends.
The man worked as a private detective for the police. Walking along the street, he glanced around mindlessly, surveying the people running past him. One woman stepped into a puddle whose water splattered onto the ends of his coat, but the detective paid no mind.
He was heading towards the local bar, which was a small building in between a closed boutique with its windows boarded up and a barber shop, circular bright lights blinking on its large red board on top of its door. The bar was the man’s favourite place to go to, with its low ceiling and a gramophone in the corner playing low jazz music. The bartender was an honest and observant man, qualities the detective admired.
The detective pushed open the twin wooden oak doors of the bar. As usual, jazz music was playing from the gramophone in the corner — he recalled the bartender’s story of how he had obtained the gramophone. The bartender had simply found himself in an antique shop examining dusty shelves, and noticed the gramophone. A voice in his brain was telling him that there was no point in purchasing it, whilst the voice in his heart was screeching at him to buy it. The bartender had decided to listen to his heart, and bought the gramophone.
“The usual?” the bartender asked as the detective slid onto the high stool, putting his hat onto the counter. The bartender was a tall and slender man, with dark eyes that reflected the amber lights hanging from the ceiling, and raven hair that was turning grey at the ends. He always had a warm smile to give to his customers.
“The usual,” the detective agreed. The bartender nodded and went to the back before returning with a glass cup of golden liquid filled with ice cubes that clinked as he slid it across the counter.
“How was work today? Did you solve the case of Mrs. Wright’s son?” the bartender inquired.
The detective nodded slowly, taking a long sip from his cup. “Yes, it was solved,” he said. “The police in this city are no good. They depend too much on private detectives like me to get things done.”
“Sometimes it’s like that,” the bartender smiled. Suddenly, his eyes widened. “Oh — give me a moment.” He headed back to the room behind the counter. The detective raised a brow but said nothing, downing the remaining liquid in his glass in one gulp. The bar was deserted. He guessed it must’ve been from the downpour outside, and also because it was nighttime. All those people rushing past him earlier were rushing to catch the train back to their loved ones.
The detective was about to doze off when the bartender returned clutching a black box in his hands.
“A present for your wife?” the detective guessed, crossing his arms.
The bartender smiled, placing the box on the table. He took the now empty glass cup and wiped it with a cloth. “Detective,” he said slowly, chuckling lightly, “my wife and I divorced years ago. This is a gift from a friend from overseas. He said that in this box, there will be an item that contains life’s wonders.”
“Oh? He gave you money then?”
“Money, hm?” the bartender mused. He set the glass cup down. “No, no. Money would be nice, but it comes and goes.”
The detective’s eyes narrowed in slight interest. “What is inside then?”
“You see, my friend stated that the item in the box was quite costly. He gave it to me as a birthday present. As his friend, I should appreciate gifts that have made people venture cross lands to obtain them.” The bartender turned around, arranging the glass cups on the opposite counter. “Detective, I have something to confess. I do not need to see life’s wonders anymore. I am a man who believes he has already seen what he needs to, and that he needs no more. The best type of man is one who isn’t prone to greed, yes?
“Working at this bar allows me to see many of life’s greatest wonders. I get to see people from all type of backgrounds. I get to see new people every day, and that expands my view on the world. Detective, you, on the other hand — you meddle in cases that blur between black and white. There is nothing wondrous about crime. Therefore, I think you should have it. It would be my gift for my friend in return of helping another friend.”
“You said this was expensive, no?” the detective said, raising a brow. “I do not need jewellery to sell, bartender. Perhaps you could hang it around your neck to attract more customers. The rich are attracted to glamorous things, after all.”
The bartender guffawed. “Who said it was jewellery? Look inside, detective. I think you will be surprised.” He nudged the box closer to the detective, a sly smile playing on his lips. It was quite obvious the man wanted to spill what was inside.
“Very well then,” the detective decided. “Farewell.” He grabbed his hat and put it on. Coins spilled out onto the counter. “Tips for a friend,” he explained before placing his hat on top of his damp hair and briskly walking out of the bar.
When the detective arrived home, he hung his hat and coat onto his coat rack and went to light up his fireplace. The flames flickered vivid red and fiery orange. He sat in front of the fireplace, rubbing his hands in front of it, warmth spreading across his skin. He exhaled through his mouth.
The detective gazed at the black box sitting beside him on the red rug. The flames from the fireplace reflected off its sleek surface.
What could possibly be in this box that could make life wondrous?, the detective thought. Money is not it, and so are fancy accessories. I can’t possibly think of anything else humanity could want to admire living. You can’t put power into a box as small as this.
Curiosity piqued, the detective lifted the cover of the box, and nearly dropped it. His eyes widened in surprise.
Sitting in the black box was a chocolate bar. He had heard of this confectionary before, but never tried to buy it as he thought it was just another piece of sweet to rot children’s teeth. The detective shook his head and took the chocolate. It was slightly melted from the heat of the fireplace.
He bit into the bar. Gooey sweetness oozed into his mouth. It was a wonderfully simple taste — sweet like any other candy, but soft and milky at the same time. It was addicting, and soon the detective had finished the chocolate bar. The bartender had said that the chocolate bar had been costly, and the detective thought that with such a delicacy as fulfilling as this, he thought that the price was appropriate. He quickly shook his head though — this chocolate bar, costly! It was absurd.
The detective sighed. That bartender… Is he saying that simple delicacies and gifts from close ones are what make life so wonderful? I should’ve just gone straight home after work.
But he was smiling.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
Sweat beads dripped down my forehead; my fists clenched my short, plain black dress so tightly that my knuckles turned white. My leg bounced sporadically as I anxiously waited for the emcee to announce the champion for the 2024 Desdemona Art Festival. After 4 years of sitting in this same hall, doing the same ritualistic routine of drawing, painting, and staying up every night to make sure of its utter perfection, with how hard I worked, surely I would win this year. Right?
The crowd was silent with anticipation as the emcee pulled a piece of yellow cardstock from the white envelope. His eyes scanned over the text as he brought the silver microphone to his lips. His mouth opened as his charismatic voice burst forth. The tension in the room spiked as the announcement travelled through the speakers.
“And the 1st place prize of this year’s art festival goes to... Dalia Matsuyoshi! Congratulations!” The man’s voice boomed into the speakers and rang in my eardrums. A cacophony of loud claps, screams, and cheers erupted from the crowd. The clattering of noises to emotions that echoed throughout the halls of my mind only served to remind me of the consolation prize that was my failure.
I was encased in a slow, muffled world of my thoughts. The loud cheers were merely a mumble as I sat there on that familiar velvet-red chair. No tears fell from my eyes, but my heart wanted to scream and shout. Not out of excitement like the crowd, but out of pity for myself. The saline raindrops from my eyes were building up, threatening to overflow. I refused to embarrass myself in front of all these people—but I already did that anyway.
Snapping out of my trance, I watched as Dalia stood tall in her long, white floral dress. She wore a cardigan with matching colours to her dress. Her long, brown hair sat in a neat braid on her shoulder, tied with a pale pink ribbon. Her gold hoop earrings clinked against her neck as she ran—elegantly, might I add—in her white Mary Jane shoes towards the stage to collect her awards.
My mother—the main judge of the art festival every year—shook her hand, long and slim with well-taken care of nails. Those very hands held onto her certificate and giant check. They both looked forward to where a photographer was stationed. “And... smile!” a voice called, almost a muffle before a small white flash came from the camera. But it wasn’t as blinding as Dalia’s pearly white smile.
—
I walked out of the suffocating auditorium, tightly wrapping my sheer black shawl over my bare limbs. My feet carried me towards the competitors’ paintings. I admire the other competitors’ muses displayed throughout the hall before halting in front of my own. It was a depiction of a city. Giant, dark blue buildings towered high on both sides of the frame. Vibrantly coloured lights shone from the windows, reflected onto puddles of rainwater on the road. The shadow of a woman stood in the middle as if admiring the cityscapes under the shower.
My eyes studied the illustration over and over again and found all the flaws in the strokes my brush left on the canvas. The buildings were just slightly off-proportion, and the lighting was sloppy. The woman’s anatomy was imperceptibly wrong. Her pose wasn’t lively enough. The design wasn’t good enough.
I am not good enough.
I dug my nails into my palm. I watched from the corner of my eye as a familiar figure walked to my side.
“Hey, Mom,” the name rolled off my tongue. “We’re leaving, Mallory.” My mother’s orotund voice commanded me. She barely spared me a glance before she began a stroll towards the exit. Her tall, red stiletto heels clicked against the white tiles. I frantically grabbed the frame off the wall and, like a duckling, wobbled timidly to my mother’s side.
—
I opened the door to my art room. The smell of cheap acrylic paint washed over me as I walked in. Clutching the textile in my arms, I mechanically dragged myself over to my easel and threw the canvas on it haphazardly. My fingers dragged over the fabric, feeling the dried varnish that stained the cotton.
The bottle of water that was my emotions finally cracked and began to pour out. Cold, salty raindrops streamed down from my eyes like rain clouds and soaked my face. My nails ripped into the hardened fabric, leaving a giant slash in the middle of the painting I once called a masterpiece. My vision was blurry as my body moved on its own. I broke the wooden frame that held the cloth with a loud crack. I snatched a tube of acrylic off my table as my tears dripped onto the floor and the tarp. I wrung the vivid paint out and smeared it arbitrarily all over. The smell of fresh tears and solvent coursed through my nose as my body continued to destroy the drawing before my arm knocked the easel over with a deafening CRASH!
The wreckage dropped to the ground as my easel hit a shelf that held my watercolour paints. Glass bottles shattered all over the ripped material and broken wood. My river of tears activated the watercolours. Its pigment stained the fibres like spatter on a car window.
I kneeled in front of the debris and pushed away the glass shards to stare at the ruined landscape. The different textures of veneer blended to create something abstract, something different. My hands grazed over the path the hues weaved—admiring the destruction my grief had created. I knelt there dazed as I watched the watercolour infuse itself with the acrylic.
I retrieved my phone from my pocket and snapped a photo of the bundle of dye. I opened Instagram and posted the picture. In the caption, I wrote the name I had given for my new showpiece.
Envious of perfection.
I didn’t even bother tagging the post. I watched as the circle spun while I rose to my feet and raised my easel back to its original position, placing the frame on it. I gazed at my work one last time before I turned on my heel and walked out of my art studio.
—
My eyelids unfurled, allowing my room ceiling to come into view. I turned to my side against the soft pillow to face my bedside table. I pulled my icy phone off my charger and turned it on before my mother slammed the door to my room open.
“What the—Mom? Why did you-” I began to speak before my mother cut me off.
“Mallory, did you make this?” She asked before she showed me the photo of the mess I had left in my art studio the night before. “Uhm… Yeah, I did.” I mumbled before getting out of bed. “I can go clean it up.”
“It’s trending on social media.”
The moment those words left my mother’s mouth, my body was frozen in place. Me? Really? I opened my mouth to retort before my phone buzzed. I looked at the screen, and my eyes were on stalks.
99+ notifications from Instagram.
I stared back at my mother, shock evident in my eyes. She showed me the post on her phone—500k likes. My post had 500k likes.
“I’m blowing up,” I muttered as the revelation hit me. “Holy crap, I’m blowing up.” Adrenaline rushed through my body as the numbers kept increasing. Then my mother’s phone vibrated. An unknown number had called her.
She turned the screen towards her and pressed ‘accept’ before she brought the phone to her ear. “Hello?... yes, Mallory Desdemona is my daughter.” She told the person on the other line. After a minute of silence, my mother handed her phone to me. “It’s for you.”
My hands trembled as I shakily grasped the phone and brought it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon, is this Mallory Desdemona?” A male voice spoke into the microphone.
“Yes, that’s me,” I replied, a slight tremor in my tone. I heard a shuffle on the other end before the same male voice spoke up again.
“I am calling from the Angsa Art Exhibit. We would like to display your art piece ‘Envious of Perfection’ at our next art gallery in KL. Would you be interested?”
I dropped the phone.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
“Magnificent, magnificent! He is no doubt the best painter in all of Winslow. My lord you will be immortalised in this glorious portrait!” exclaims the count’s aide, showering his lord with a sea of compliments. Edgar keeps his paintbrushes as he listens.
“Here are your coins, off you go,” the aide drops a small pouch of coins into his hands.
Immortalised. The word echoes in Edgar’s mind as he walks down the cobblestone streets of Winslow. As the moon shines, the streets are no longer buried under carts and stalls, but are empty and wide. The Count of Winslow, an esteemed family, that would be remembered in history, their legacy preserved in the grand archive of the Imperial Library, and in art. Even after their deaths, they would live on.
Edgar wonders if he, a mere artist, would ever be remembered in such a way? Always the artist, but never the art.
He quickens his pace as snowflakes begin to descend, gradually covering the streets in patches of white. When he hurries by an alley, two orphans catch his eye. They cuddle close as the wind howls, shivering in their thin and tattered clothing.
Edgar’s hand lingers in his pocket, feeling the cold metal of the coins, but he doesn’t pull them out. I’ll bring some food for them tomorrow. Edgar sighs as he tightens his scarf, and walks away into the snowy, unforgiving night.
***
Edgar stares at the unopened letter. The sender’s address is one he hasn’t seen in three years: Mistwoods, Levael. His birthplace. He opens the letter and reads it.
Dear Edgar, your father has passed. The funeral is on the 14th of Suncrest.
Regards, Isabel Phillips.
Edgar closes his eyes, and sees the faces of his parents the day they disowned him. How did they find his address?
After they kicked him out, Edgar wandered the south where there was nothing but trees and hills, carrying his artworks along, emaciated and broken. He had a strange encounter with a ginger cat, which led him to Winslow.
14th of Suncrest, it’s tomorrow.
Exhausted, Edgar throws himself onto his bed. Next to it are dozens of unsold paintings. The noblemen appointed him to paint their portraits, but few admired his artworks. Immortalised in this glorious portrait, echoes the aide’s voice. An idea sparks——a portrait, a self-portrait. Perhaps, through this, he could be remembered, be immortalized.
To be remembered, remembered… The words sing in his dreamy mind as he drifts into slumber.
***
The funeral was solemn, as all were. Edgar stood at the back. No one approached him. In Mistwoods, a man’s success was measured by his ability to hunt, chop firewood, or grow crops. An artist was none of these.
After the ceremony, Edgar quietly handed his mother some money. Her wrinkles were more pronounced than he remembered. He turned to leave. His mother didn’t ask him to stay, and he knew, as he walked away, that he would never return again.
Back in Winslow, a loaf of bread sits on his kitchen top. The orphans. Edgar rushes back to the alley, but the orphans are gone. Where could they be?
“Mr. Phillips? What are you doing here?” a voice cuts through the cold air, disrupting his train of worries. It’s Mrs. Dorian, the carpenter’s wife.
“Have you seen two orphans?”
Her face saddens, “Oh my, I suppose you don’t know. They passed away last night.”
A stone drops in Edgar’s heart. “What?”
“They were so young. If my husband had agreed, I would’ve taken them in…”
Mrs. Dorian’s voice fades. Edgar’s mind raced with guilt. If I hadn’t hesitated… If I hadn’t waited…If…
But it no longer mattered.
***
A month drags by.
Edgar trudges along the streets in daze. His self-portrait remains an empty canvas. After all that happened, does he truly deserve to be remembered?
Suddenly, something jumps on top of him and swipes off his hat. Startled, Edgar turns around just in time to see a ginger cat darting away.
“Hey!”
Edgar sprints after the cat, dashing and weaving through the bustling streets. At last, the cat hops into the window of a small shop wedged between two large buildings.
Exasperated, Edgar goes in. A faint bell announces his arrival. The shop is a labyrinth of bookshelves, with a warm, musty scent of aged books. Strange, Edgar thinks. I’ve never seen this shop before. Something soft rubs against his legs, he looks down to find the ginger cat, clutching his hat.
“There you are!” Edgar snatches it back, scrutinizing it for bite dents.
“Welcome to The Quill,” says a female voice behind him. Edgar turns to find a gorgeous young woman with lilac-coloured eyes. There’s something timeless about her beauty, almost otherworldly.
“I see you’ve met Benedict. I apologise if he caused any trouble. Feel free to browse the shop,” she picks the cat up and disappears into a backroom.
Edgar wanders past a placard marked memoir, so many Me’s, I’s and My’s. What a luxury, to be remembered. To be immortalised in literature and art. The shop seems empty until Edgar spots an old man reading by a coffee table.
“Mr Morray!”
The old man looks up, stunned by the sudden exclamation of his name.
“Mr. Phillips? It’s been so long! I’m surprised you remember me.”
“How could I ever forget my first buyer?” Edgar grins, sitting opposite him. Edgar tells him of his recent struggles, of his musings on how to leave a mark on the world.
“But maybe I don’t deserve to be remembered. My story is the most ordinary, I was a failure back in my village, I couldn’t even help two orphans. Noblemen contribute to the empire, they’re heroes. Perhaps some people are meant to be art, and some are only meant to be artists.”
“I beg to differ my friend. We are all both art and artists. We are the crafter of our souls, our greatest masterpiece. You are who you create.”
Mr. Morray’s words are warm and ardent.
“Here, take this book. I think you will enjoy it.”
As the faint bell announces Mr Morray’s departure, Edgar studies the title of the book.
The Immortal Artist.
He peels back the cover, heading straight for the last page as he always does. The words rest at the top:
To be born is a blessing, the artist says. After centuries, your actions may fade, your creations may not be remembered, those who knew you will also disappear. In the fullness of time, everything fades into nothingness. But stand tall, my friend. For it won’t ever change that you’ve set foot in this world and made your mark. However shallow or deep it may be, it engraves within the soil, the bedrock, and the souls. You are, and always will be——an immortal artist.
***
Dusk has given way to the dark.
Beatrice flips the closed sign on the door and begins rearranging the books on the shelves. She hears a light whoosh behind her. “Benedict.”
It isn’t a ginger cat but a young man in a perfectly tailored orange suit. His vibrant golden hair compliments his emerald eyes.
“Oh Beatrice, why are humans always so cynical?” he yawns idly and lounges on a leather chair.
Beatrice arches a brow, “First of all, it’s Lady Beatrice to you. Second, you always say that, yet you take pity and help them.”
“They need to worry less and live more, you know? They can be so clueless sometimes.”
“You were human once too.”
“And I lived a splendid life!”
“Sure, sure. Well now, it’s time for us to leave,” says Beatrice, turning off the lights. The shop begins to shrink.
Benedict smiles, looking out at the serene town. “Goodnight, little town.”
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
Chapter 1: A Collection of Recollections
On the outskirts of town, there lived a rare beauty who escaped from a past unfortunate event. The incident of her family’s massacre impacted her mentality deeply, causing memory loss. This condition persisted for two years until one day, when those memories, equipped with motives, resurfaced again.
Year 526, Ludville
The final rays of dusk fill up a messy room cluttered with paintings. A young woman can be seen sitting still on a chair. Her slender hands slowly reach for the equipment needed to start painting. As she began to stroke the blank canvas with grace, tears streamed down her delicately structured face.
Jeanette: “Recalling their pain is excruciating; however, these recollections of memories are crucial for my… revenge.”
Firm in her current sole motive, Jeanette skilfully illustrates the horrific moments her fifteen-year-old self witnessed exactly three years ago. Each was completed with precise details to remind her to never forget again.
She’d store those numerous personal paintings in a special locked room, residing in her own hard-earned two-story house in Ludville.
Younger Jeanette has survived independently by doing caretaking tasks, including selling paintings she made as a side gig. Even the common folks of Ludville are now familiar with her, knowing her background as a pitiful orphan with a praiseworthy personality.
***
Jeanette hastily rose up from her seat after completing what she thought was the final piece of her recollection. Her face is brimming with determination, eager to finally execute the first step of her meticulously long-planned revenge.
Chapter 2: A Series of Discoveries
On the next sunny day, Jeanette is still sitting in the same special room, fully concentrated on reading a book. The book is her diary, in which she wrote something important.
NOTE
Jeanette is my name.
The Rileys’ were my family; they were of nobility and responsible for governing the Riley Dukedom in the west.
My dad was Duke Linden Riley, and my mother was Duchess Maeve Riley.
Happy and blissful we were, up until that day. The day where everything was lively one minute, dead silence the next. I witnessed it, trembling from fright over what I'd seen.
In the midst of chaos, my mother revealed slight details regarding my true origins to me, convincing me that I wasn’t of their blood. She said it with a soft tone, telling me to come back after escaping and find the journal she kept in the study room.
Those sudden words really made me bitter and more bitter. To respect her wish, though, I shall find the journal she mentioned.
***
Year 526, The South
Jeanette, clad in a black cloak, is now standing in front of the gates belonging to Riley Mansion, located in the Riley Dukedom. It is tattered in bleakness after the remorseful incident that befell the noble family.
Upon seeing each corner of the mansion, Jeannette timidly snivelled. She spent some time admiring the interiors before heading straight to her dad’s study room.
While extensively searching through the place, Jeanette stumbles upon something peculiar.
Jeanette: “A lever that opens up—*kchak*—a journal. Huh, neat!”
***
Jeanette read through the papers, her heart submerged in water.
Year 508, 31st of April
The royal palace declared that the queen had passed away after giving birth to an heir. During the conference, I noticed the king looked unusually solemn.
I pray for the welfare of the king and the new heir.
___
Year 508, 2nd of May
Chaos wreaked havoc on the inner palace upon the disappearance of the newborn heir.
Thankfully, the king’s only sister, Princess Margaret, was able to capture the guilty culprit and return the newborn heir alive.
___
Year 508, 3rd of May
Maeve informed me of something staggering: she found a pitiful newborn wailing near the small stream, located behind our garden during her daily stroll. The newborn is a girl, currently under our momentary care.
___
Year 508, 10th of May
After numerous painstaking investigations and evidence later, we have confirmed that the newborn is of royal birth.
Overruling all possibilities, she could only be the new heir.
___
Year 509, 18th of June
Maeve and I decided to adopt the newborn and name her Jeanette. She has grown to be a kind girl.
Pristine silver eyes are a special trait confined to the Moon’s descendants. We had to cast a spell that would hide her unique appearance in order to protect her from unsuspecting threats.
***
Jeanette’s state of mind is conflicted, incapable of processing new thoughts. Overwhelmed, she dashed out to the unkempt gardens, filled with blooming white carnations, in search of solace. With tears welling up in her eyes, her cheeks flushed from the verge of breakdown.
Suddenly, it dawned on her that the surroundings’ view, fully basking in moonlight, was pure and meditating.
’Pretty.’
Chapter 3: Utmost Decree
After calming herself down, Jeanette is able to think straight. Based on the meticulous disclosure, she speculates that the same person who planned her disappearance is also responsible for her family’s demise. ‘Could it be Princess Margaret? If so, who is the returned newborn then?’
Various questions emerge inside her brain.
Instantaneously, a striking pain hit her head. Unsteady and losing her balance, she slumped to the ground.
Still conscious, she heard a sweet voice calling out to her. Her eyebrows scrunched, eyes wide-open, ‘Are my senses tricking me?’.
The Moon: “No, they aren’t.”
Jeanette: “Huh, it spoke!”
The Moon: “Yes, I can, Child of Aperilune. At last, I’m finally able to take this chance to inform you of my utmost decree: I need you to recover your fateful throne so that the Naybyruna Kingdom is saved from an impending doom! -phew”
It turns out that the Moon has been trying to reach Jeanette, as she is the rightful heir of the Aperilune, the Moon’s beloved descendants.
It convinces Jeanette further, indicating that her speculation is correct.
Chapter 4: A New Beginning
Year 531, Hala Palace
Inside the ostentatious halls of Hala Palace, Jeanette is present. She’s there as a proper royal caretaker, overseeing the ill king’s welfare—her birth father.
Throughout these five years, contrary to the decree, Jeanette’s efforts to reclaim her throne were pointless. The appointment of Princess Miette as the sick king’s representative has solidified her future enthronement.
In other words, Jeanette’s impostor has ultimately won.
After spending four years secretly investigating inside the palace, Jeanette now knows the mastermind’s identity, including their grand plan.
Unfortunately, she has little to no chance to interfere, as the plan is already progressively moving towards its objective.
***
Sunlight pours in through the window as Jeanette draws up the curtains.
Jeanette: “Your Majesty, please wake up, it’s time to take your meds.”
Weak King Ehaan slowly opens up his eyelids, puckering his lips to muster a few words.
King Ehaan: “… Jeanette, I’m glad you’re here each time I open my eyes.”
Jeanette’s lips form a gentle smile.
King Ehaan: “Your constant care for me makes me feel like you’re more of my family at times.”
Hearing those words, Jeanette’s heart sombres. They continued to chat until the king fell asleep.
***
Chaos reigned as blazing flames spread everywhere, with piles of dead bodies littering the streets. A war has occurred in the capital of Naybyruna Kingdom.
The initiators were the Eos Empire, the Sun’s empire of the east. Striving to conquer the Moon’s kingdom to reign supreme.
Unsurprisingly, the Moon’s kingdom is on the losing side, thoroughly weakened after their king’s passing.
Jeanette’s frail body lays static on the ground, unmoving. She died.
Suddenly, long arms belonging to a striking young man embrace Jeanette’s body gingerly. His eyes glinted mournfully, he’s adorned with the unblemished uniform of the Eos’ military commander. Uttering,
“Regretfully, it seems I’ve arrived too late. Again”.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
Her eyes snapped open, and for a moment, she didn't know where she was. The room felt heavy and oppressive. Her hands felt warm, so she raised both of her arms in an attempt to awaken her senses. The room was quiet with the only source of light being her desk lamp. Her coffee was still full, but its steam was long gone. Paperwork was scattered across her desk as she scanned her messy workplace, trying to retrieve any memories she might have lost before she fell into deep slumber. As she started to regain her consciousness, she stared at the ticking clock on the wall right in front of her, the only source of sound in her quiet, yet eerie room. 1:46 AM.
"Ugh, I fell asleep again..." she sighed as she gathered all the scattered papers on her desk. She was at home that night, working under the deadline of a project submission. The night felt unnaturally cold, she kept feeling a cold shiver running down her spine; something was wrong, but she couldn't put a finger on it. Then it hits her, “Aexen!" she yelled, dropping everything she was doing and rushing to her bedroom. As she approached her bedroom door, she stopped. The hallway was dark, a suffocating kind of darkness, and colder than her office. She felt an uneasy sensation the closer she got to the door, with the floor creaking from her movement slowly stirring her nerves. Her vision blurred slightly, shadows seemed to stretch and twist around her with every creaking step she took. The darkness wasn’t just an absence of light; it was thick, almost tangible, as if the air itself was closing in around her. She felt dizzy, her hand shaking as she grabbed the door handle and twisted it slowly while pushing the door open. She peeked through the partially opened door, sweeping her gaze across the bedroom. A silhouette of what seemed to be her husband, Aexen, lay quietly tucked in at the right side of her queen-size bed. Her heart felt relieved to see her lover was safe and sound.
But as she was about to leave, she heard a distant whisper. "You're late," it said.
"I'm sorry, Aexen. I was just—"
"You're late..." The whisper interrupted her.
"Aexen, I was—"
"You. Are. Late." The whisper stopped her reply again.
The same sentence kept getting louder and louder with each reply she gave, the tone becoming increasingly insistent, almost accusatory.
Her terror mounted steadily as she slammed the door closed. She locked the door by wedging a chair she found nearby. She then huddled on the floor next to the chair, her knees drawn tightly to her chest, trembling uncontrollably as she heard a distant thud growing steadily louder as it approached the door. Suddenly, she heard three gentle taps that echoed on the door. A soft, muffled voice drifted through the door, barely audible but filled with a gentle urgency, its tone strangely calm, yet unnerving:
"Mind opening the door for me, love?" it asked, followed by three more gentle taps on the door.
The voice sent a shiver down her spine, enough to make her thoughts collapse into chaos as she bolted away from the door.
"What else do you want from me?!" she yelled as tears started to run down her face. The hallway echoed her response with every reflected sound getting more slurred.
She fled downstairs as her fight-or-flight response got the best of her. Downstairs was an ominous, dreary living room connected by a kitchen that was dimly lit by an old, yellowish ceiling lamp. Shadows danced faintly on the walls, twisting into unsettling shapes, giving her the uneasy feeling that something was lurking just out of sight. She walked around mindlessly, trying to slow her pace and calm her rapidly beating heart. Still gripped by horror, she hugged herself, trying to seek bits of comfort from herself. Once she had settled down slightly, she searched her pockets for her mobile phone, but it was nowhere to be seen.
"No, no, no!" She expressed her frustrations.
"It must be on my table upstairs..." she said, realising the worst scenario had come into play.
While she tried to keep herself from breaking down again, she remembered that there was a corded wall phone in the kitchen. With no time to lose, she leaped and ran to the kitchen, approaching the reddish, corded wall phone. Without hesitation, she contacted '999' and begged for a response.
"999, how may I help?" the line responded.
Just hearing that one sentence released an overwhelming pressure inside her heart. She did everything she could to describe her current situation to the operator, but her time of peace wouldn't last long. In the midst of expressing her horrors to the operator, a loud bang shook the walls from upstairs. She dropped the phone in shock as she heard a chair hitting the floor upstairs multiple times, flickering the kitchen lights with each hit. The situation escalated once more as slow thuds followed by creaks made their way to the stairs. Her body tensed and became rigid, with trembling hands as she heard every movement upstairs. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, coming in short gasps as if she was struggling to get enough air. Her heart rate increased as her voice became shaky and high-pitched, barely more than a whisper as she tried to speak.
Fear had taken control all over again as she instantly went and hid behind the kitchen counter, abandoning her call. She huddled and hugged herself close, covering her ears as she heard the footsteps walking down the stairs. Her eyes flickered anxiously, awaiting her impending doom. But during this time, her eyes caught a glimpse of a teddy bear beside her that reminded her of the one she had when she was just a child. In desperation to seek comfort, she swiftly took the bear and hugged it tightly around her chest with her eyes closed tight, resembling a lonely child struggling to sleep in the dark. She closed her soaking eyes and focused on the noise around her. She heard vibrations of the footsteps, her rapid heartbeat, and the noise of her sniffling back the mucus that leaked out of her nose.
The whispers began again, faint but persistent, a constant murmur that made it hard to think, to breathe. Even after covering both of her ears, it wasn't enough to stop it from plaguing her mind and turning it into a mess. The whispers were slowly followed by loud, continuous banging on a door that increased in volume with every bang.
"It's going to be okay. It'll be okay. Nothing is wrong," she said to herself repeatedly as she tried to cope with the things happening around her.
As the echoes of whispered fear faded into an eerie silence, she cautiously opened her eyes. Her trembling gaze swept across the cold, dimly lit kitchen floor. There, half-buried beneath scattered crumbs and shadows, was a crumpled newspaper. Shakily, she reached for it and straightened the front page. The headline stared back at her with chilling clarity: 'Man dies; Wife claims self-defence.'
She laid back her head, realising what had truly happened to her. She stared at the kitchen cabinet door in front of her, contemplating the past that had led up to this moment. As her moment of clarity came, she heard a distant, mumbled voice after a bang on the door.
"Police!"
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
──── 18th of June, Pahang Contingent Police Department, 2024
The sound of ringing calls and keyboard clicks are the familiar voices heard around the police department. A tall officer came in the office and pushed the door open slowly so the pile of files does not fall midway.
“Inspector Julie, another case of murder has been spotted around Taman Semilir.” The well-knit officer came to the messy desk and slams the new files labelled ‘UNSOLVED CASES 2024’.
“Thank you, Inspector. I’ll see you in a moment.” The female inspector with long orange hair tied in a ponytail calmly said without batting an eye to the panting officer and kept on focusing typing on the old desktop.
“Hope you’ll check out the case.” Zakariya glared at busy Julie. She nodded and continued typing on the desktop.
Zakariya was one of her classmates during secondary school. He always got bullied, and seeing him getting a place in the police department made her very proud.
Once Zakariya left her office, she shuts down her desktop and grabbed the top file labelled “ MURDER OF SYAFIQ ZULHILMI : 2nd of June 2024”. She studied the file and jot down some notes.
“Syafiq Zulhilmi, 26, no wounds could be found and organs are not affected by any substances..” Julie tilted her head and grabbed more files from the pile.
Syafiq was one of her friends during secondary school. Seeing him getting murdered without any trace of findings and any proofs makes her strive for justice.
‘What are these black polaroids left as well?’
──── 21st of October, 2013, 5:51 p.m.
The teenage boy in the corner sighs once again hearing the voices of his parents fighting and shouting again. He plugged his earphones and tries to sleep, but then a blood-curdling scream echoes around the house. He quickly got up and opened the door, to see the man; whom he thought was his father, holding a bloody knife over the dying body of his mother. Tears swelled up on his eyes. He ran back to his room, full of anger and timidity.
“YOU! HOW DARE YOU KILL MY MOTHER!” He shouted angrily.
“Come on now, she’s being a nuisance, you know that too. You’re now free to go to your wanted parties! Yay! ” The crazy man leaped in joy and grinned.“ You wouldn’t think I’ll let you go anywhere after seeing the scene, do you? ” The man walked slowly towards the boy. The boy heard a faint voice.
“Shutter death in an instant.”
He grabbed his antique camera that his grandma gave him when he turned thirteen few years back. He took a full shot of the crazy man approaching him the sudden burst of light from the camera flash flooded the room. For an instant, the entire space was bathed in a blinding brightness, as if time had paused to capture that single moment without flaws.
As the boy opened his eyes, he saw the man laid down, dead. With a shocked face and a blue face, he knew that man wouldn’t get back up again to even move a finger. A pitch black polaroid comes out of the camera. To the naked eye, that’s what it supposed to look like. But for the boy, it shows a silhouette of a woman, with extremely long hair and a gigantic mouth with the same sharpness and size as a kitchen knife, choking the approaching figure of his father.
He grinned and walked out for the evening.
──── 27th of June, Pahang Contingent Police Department, 7:09 p.m.
After the meeting with Sargeant Hafiz, Julie asked for everyone under Unsolved Case Team to stay in the hall. The confused officers abided the request. It’s been a while since they had a meeting after they successfully solved a missing person case around five years ago, and does not have any other cases to work on. The whispers between new members of the Team shuts down when Julie came back in the meeting room with a pile of files and slams it on the meeting table.
“Alright everyone. Here’s what we want to discuss. There’s a new case to solve, and I’m afraid to declare it as a serial murder.” Julie’s stoic face echoes a chilling aura for everyone in the hall. She pulled a whiteboard that was near the room and started writing details of the case.
“To further elaborate and after several discusses with the organization of the team, we found several similarities that happened to the victims. No wounds detected, body was untouched, no chemical response within the body and..” She stopped and reached for something in the file and pulls out a pitch black polaroid.
“This, is left on every single crime scene.” The black polaroid is put onto the table. One of the officers gasped loudly after having a glance at the photo. Every head in the room turned to the gasping officer. The female officer with short bob haircut stood up, took the photo while gulping and stared at it closer.
“Inspector, this is a paranormal case.”
After a moment of stillness, the room erupted with the noises made by the officers. Julie frowned. “Kira, please tell us in detail on what you see in the polaroid.”
“There is a silhouette, woman even, with extremely long hair, opening her horrifying large mouth with knives as teeth to bite the poor woman.” Based on her reaction, Inspector Julie knew she wasn’t lying. How is she going to prove this to the Sargeant? Besides, they never held any paranormal cases before.
“Inspector, let’s meet with Sargeant Hafiz, NOW!” Julie stood from her chair and shouted at Inspector Zakariya beside her.
Just when Zakariya starts to follow, Julie’s walkie-talkie gave signals. She picked it up.
“Hello? Inspector, we received a call from a woman stating that a man is following and taking photos of her in Jalan Wira 88.”
Both inspectors looked at each other and ran out from the room.
──── Jalan Wira 88, 9:27 p.m.
The bruised girl laid on the rocky road. She could hear the police sirens, but it was so difficult for her to follow the noise after being hit by the perpetrator. She thought today would be a fun follow-up of an ex-classmate, but it ended up being a nightmare. She had no more hope. She could hear footsteps coming from behind. She closed her eyes, hoping it’s not a painful death.
“This is what you get for bullying him 15 years ago, Hawa. You, Syafiq and her are monsters. Now receive what you deserve.” The figure laughs before pulling out an extremely old camera and kicks Hawa to face the man.
“HEY YOU! STOP RIGHT THERE!” The most awaited voice made the figure smiled. He turned to face Julie, pointing a gun right at him.
Julie was stunned.
“Jiehong?”
“Ding-ding! Finally, we met again, Julie.” Jiehong laughs and raised his hands. The sirens found the scenario and tried to catch Jiehong, but he ran away, dropping his camera.
“CATCH HIM!” Julie shouted to the nearest officers, while Jiehong fled within the darkness. Zakariya walked up to her, and saw her shaking.
“You know him?” Zakariya asked.
“He was once of our classmates, remember?” Julie looked down and saw Zakariya already took Jiehong’s camera.
“JULIE! GET AWAY FROM HIM!” Hawa shouted crazily, pointing at Zakariya. Julie turned. The lens was right at her face. Zakariya grinned, and clicked the shutter.
“Good night, Inspector.”
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
“Ma lune,” I whisper, shutting my eyes and letting the memories flood into my brain one last time.
SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO
I sit on my hanging chair, the one my dear mère gifted me on my sixth birthday, swaying gently as I let my mind drift into a world of rockets and outer space. The grass beneath my feet is a soft green blur as I stumble into the depths of my reverie. Suddenly, a small finger taps my cheek, pulling me back to reality. I glance up, and there she is—a girl, about my age, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the moonlight. Her excitement is audible through her words, “Salut! Quel est ton nom? Je m'appelle Lunette et j'habite à côté de toi!” Hello! What’s your name? My name is Lunette and I live next to you! Her French surprises me—I didn’t expect someone French to be in this neighbourhood—as does her ability to climb over fences.
“Je m'appelle Alain, et Lunette est un si beau nom.” My name is Alain, and Lunette is such a beautiful name, I reply, her name sounding even more beautiful as it rolls off my tongue.
She giggles, a sound so sweet it makes me smile, and I pat the empty spot beside me on the hanging chair. She hesitates for a moment before shuffling over shyly, taking the seat next to me. We start talking, awkwardly at first, but as the minutes pass, we get lost in conversation. Time flies unnoticed, and by the time her mère calls her home for dinner, I know we’ve become best friends.
“So, Lunette, I think we are best friends now. Can I… Can I call you ma lune?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly with nerves as I feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment, because what if she says no?
She smiles at me, a smile so pure and warm that I feel a flutter in my chest. “Of course, Alain,” she replies softly, sending butterflies to erupt in my stomach with those simple words.
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
“Ma lune,” I whisper into her ear during class, the teacher prattling on about algebraic expressions in the background. Lunette turns to me, sighing as she drops her notes on my desk. I chuckle, ruffling her hair playfully. She glares at me, but I can see the smile she’s trying to suppress, and my heart swells with happiness.
Just last week, as we sat together on my favourite hanging chair, she pulled out a small paper heart and asked me to unfold it. Inside was a love note, simple yet sincere, and when I looked up from reading it, her eyes were filled with hope. At that moment, I knew she was the one—the love of my life, the girl I would marry one day.
For now, we’re just boyfriend and girlfriend, but I treasure every second of this part of our journey.
I shoot her a grin and she sighs, allowing her smile to break free. “I hate you,” she grumbles through her smile. I let out a laugh, enjoying the way her cheeks flush pink. I ruffle her hair again, drawling, “Sure you do, ma lune.”
SEVEN YEARS AGO
“Lunette, ma lune,” I murmur as I wrap my arms around her waist from behind. She lets out a shriek, her body tensing before she relaxes, realising it’s just me. “You scared me, mon Alain,” she huffs, turning to face me with a playful pout. I chuckle, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.
Graduation is just around the corner, and the future we’ve planned together feels so close I can almost touch it. We’ll go to art college, graduate side by side, find a part-time job at a cosy restaurant, save up for a little apartment, and then—by 24—we’ll get married. It’s the perfect plan, one we’ve dreamed up together, and I can’t wait to make it our reality.
We walk away from her class and head to her favourite coffee shop, the one where we’ve spent countless hours together. As she rambles about her day—her voice animated and her eyes sparkling—I listen intently, soaking in every word. Yet, beneath my focused attention, my thoughts drift. How did this incredible girl make me fall so deeply in love with her? It’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times, but the answer always eludes me, leaving me only with the certainty that I never want this feeling to end.
THREE YEARS AGO
“Lunette,” I drawl, rapping my knuckles on the bedroom door impatiently. We finally got into college and moved in together last year’s summer. We studied hard on weekdays and spent our precious time with each other on the weekends. We were so happy because everything went just as planned.
Were. Because what we didn’t plan for was her giving me the silent treatment for a week. I gave her space, hoping it was just stress from school. But it’s been a week now—seven days of barely speaking, barely seeing her. The silence is eating at me and I miss her so much. I need to know what’s going on.
After a while, the door creaks open, revealing ma lune. Her usually glowing face is pale, eyes shadowed with worry. “Alain,” she whispers, her voice trembling as if she’s holding back something. I step inside and take her hands in mine, feeling the coldness of her skin. “What’s wrong? Please talk to me.”
She closes her eyes, as if gathering the courage to say something she’s been shrinking from. “I know, Alain... I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to ruin everything we’ve built together, but…” She falters, and frustration builds inside me. Is someone bothering her? Or is she going to break up with me? I squeeze her hands as a form of encouragement and she exhales a shaky breath before she finally says it.
“I’ve been diagnosed with cardiomyopathy. The doctors... they say it’s advanced, and it’s fatal.”
My world shatters in that instant. I pull her into my arms, holding her as tightly as I can without hurting her. “No, ma lune… I don’t want you to leave me. We’ll fight this together, every step of the way. I promise I’ll be with you until the very end.
Tears finally escape her eyes and a sob wracks through her. “I don’t want to leave you either, Alain,” she murmurs. “I don’t know how much time I have left, but I’m so grateful that I spent most of my time with you. I want to spend the rest with you, please?”
I press a kiss to her forehead, my eyes welling up with tears and my heart aching. “Don’t worry. We’ll make every single second count.”
PRESENT
I finally open my eyes, tears rolling down my cheeks as I gaze up at the moon—my moon.
I feel her close to me, so close that I can almost hear her voice, whispering to me from the heavens, telling me to be strong, to carry on. But how can I, without my moon guiding me? Yet, as I stand here, watching ma lune illuminate the sky with her light, I realise that she’s never truly left me.
With a deep breath, I close my eyes once more, and in that peaceful moment, I picture myself in the sky, surrounded by stars, and there she is—my radiant Lunette. I reach out, and she takes my hand, guiding me into the light. We’re together at last, dancing among the stars, our love eternal, just as we always knew it would be.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
Tucked away in a hidden corner of the Samunsam Forest in Sarawak, lay the village of Kampung Tanjung. The tall trees around the village shielded its dwellers from the scorching sun, while the cicadas hummed away with their usual rhythmic tune. Though annoying, the villagers were used to its sounds. This wasn’t just a backdrop to them after all, it was home.
Laila, a seventeen-year-old girl, was in one of the village huts. She couldn’t help but wonder why the cicadas were always so noisy. She finally turned to her grandmother and asked, ‘Nenek, why do the cicadas make so much noise?’ Her voice carried genuine interest.
Nenek was Laila’s grandmother and had cared for Laila ever since she was five, shortly after the mysterious disappearance of her parents. The villagers also knew her as a storyteller, always delighting the village children with many stories and myths, all relics of a bygone era.
‘Ahaha… it is just a mating call, sayang,’ chuckled Nenek.
‘OH, SO THAT’S WHY—’ started Laila.
‘Enough, sayang. It is getting late. Off to bed now,’ interrupted Nenek.
‘Fine.’
—
The next day, as the sunset loomed closer, a line of trucks rumbled into the village. The villagers, including Laila, watched curiously as a group of well-dressed men arrived, led by a stern-faced man.
‘Selamat petang, everyone,’ greeted the stern-faced man with a rather forced smile, Laila noted.
‘I am here to bring prosperity to this village. I plan to clear part of this forest for palm oil plantations. This will create jobs for everyone and provide you with a stable income. All I need is your cooperation. What do you say?’
Laila was speechless, her shock turned to horror as she watched the village elders nodding in agreement.
‘Excuse me, but what will happen to the forest? The spirits—’
Mr Tan, or so his name was, chuckled. ‘Spirits? Those are old tales. Fret not, child, we’ll proceed with caution.’
Laila didn’t have time to argue, for the allure had already swayed the villagers.
Seeing this, Laila ran back home. ‘Nenek, what should I do? They’re going to tear the forest apart!’ cried Laila, tears streaming down her face.
‘The forest is in peril. It is time,’ said Nenek mysteriously. ‘There is somewhere you need to be, sayang.’
After days of trekking, Laila reached her destination.
‘Find the spirits. They will help.’
—
Those words of Nenek kept her going for the past few days. But now, as she stood in front of the grove, fear gripped her.
‘You have come,’ a voice whispered in her ear.
It was the spirits.
Laila did all she could to stop herself from shrieking in fear.
‘We have been waiting for you, Laila,’ another one continued.
Laila softened at the sight of their soft, glowing eyes and felt a strange sense of comfort despite the eerie situation.
Before she could start, another spirit spoke.
‘We know why you are here, Laila. The forest is your birthright. Your parents didn’t disappear; they gave up their lives to protect it. You are the daughter of the guardians and now its protector. Everything is up to you now.’
Laila was stunned. Her parents… guardians of the forest? She had heard Nenek mention the existence of guardians before. But she never expected them to be her parents.
‘What must I do?’ she asked, her voice firm despite her uncertainty.
‘Return to your village, stand against those who seek to harm the forest. Only then will we intervene.’
—
A week later, she found herself in front of her sleeping grandmother. After returning a few days ago, she was shocked to discover that the forest had almost completely changed.
The once-thriving forest was now replaced with barren land. As if that wasn’t enough, strange occurrences like wild animals straying into the village, crops withering, and the river turning murky had plagued the village. Villagers had fallen ill from strange sicknesses for which there was no cure. Nenek, too, grew weaker by the day.
Laila pleaded with the villagers, warning them of the consequences of the deforestation, but no one paid her any heed.
‘We can’t stop now, Laila,’ one elder said. ‘We need this. Your grandmother wouldn’t want you to resist progress.’
‘Progress,’ Laila thought, the word stinging her with irony. Could the destruction of their home truly count as progress?
Laila glanced at Nenek, lying frail on her straw bed. She had no choice but to continue fighting.
‘Nenek,’ Laila whispered, holding her grandmother’s hand, ‘I need to connect with the spirits again. How do I find them?’
Nenek’s eyes opened tiredly. ‘The waterfall… beneath the waterfall… you’ll find what you seek.’
—
Laila knew exactly what her grandmother meant. Days later, she arrived at Gunung Rimbalu Waterfall, once famous for its beauty, but now forgotten.
Behind it, she discovered a hidden cave filled with ancient drawings telling the tales of the previous forest guardians.
Deeper inside, Laila found a small, carved stone on a pedestal, glowing with an otherworldly light.
She stiffened. She had seen this stone before. Nenek had shown her carvings and drawings of this very stone, said to have enough power to summon the spirits. When she was younger, she thought it was just another myth Nenek loved talking about, but now she knew better.
‘This has to be what Nenek was talking about,’ she whispered, reaching for the stone.
‘Searching for something, child?’
Laila spun around to see none other than Mr Tan himself.
‘Mr Tan? How did you—’ she started.
‘I’ve known about this place for a long time,’ interrupted Mr Tan. ‘My ancestors sought this power but were thwarted by yours.’
Laila’s heart pounded. ‘You knew? Is this why you’re destroying the forest?’
‘Of course,’ Mr Tan replied nonchalantly, stepping closer. ‘The spirits hold great power. Once I control them, I control all.’
‘I won’t let you!’ Laila shouted, shaking with anger.
‘You don’t have a choice in this, child,’ sneered Mr Tan, lunging at her.
The stone slipped from Laila’s grasp, hitting the ground. As it did, the chamber was engulfed by a blinding light from the stone.
The spirits of the forest had awoken.
‘You have defiled our land,’ the spirits’ voices echoed throughout the cave. ‘You will pay.’
The ground beneath him broke apart as the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. His screams sent shivers down Laila's spine, but they eventually faded away, leaving Laila in shocked silence.
‘You have proven yourself, Laila,’ the spirits said calmly. ‘But remember, the forest’s balance is delicate. It requires constant vigilance to protect it.’
‘I’m ready. I’ll try to improve myself for this forest and its dwellers.’
The spirits smiled and faded away as an eerie silence started to fill the cave.
—
By the time she reached her village, the cicadas were still humming their endless tune, but to Laila, it sounded different. It felt like a reminder of what was at stake.
Nenek was waiting for her by the doorway, her expression unreadable in the dim night. ‘Did you find them?’ she asked.
Laila nodded. ‘Yes, but they didn’t give me the answer I needed.’
Nenek smiled tiredly. ‘The forest has its way of speaking, sayang. You have to listen.’
‘We need to gather everyone. They must know what’s at stake,’ Laila said.
Nenek placed a hand on Laila’s shoulder. ‘You are ready, Laila. The forest chose you for a reason. Now go, and let them hear your voice.’
With that, Laila stepped into the night, her aim clear. She would protect her home, no matter the cost. Although the spirits had faded, their presence remained, ready to guide her every step of the way.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
Tick, tick, tick . . .
With each beat followed a tick from that noisy, dated antique of a clock. I can practically feel myself growing deafer every waking moment, but I would not have it any other way. Digitised clocks never sat well with me compared to those analogue ones. They are loud, sure, but there is an odd sense of comfort that comes with the repetition of each ticking sound. Regardless of analogue clocks being better or not, I should probably get up now. I groggily tug away at the sheets, my socked soles landing on the ground. The morning air that wafts through the atmosphere meets my skin, resulting in goosebumps. “Is it nearing December already?”, I mutter under my breath. The cold breeze felt, well, colder than usual.
I brush it off, the concept of time is always a daze to me. My eyes then dart to the ceiling, although my vision is slightly blurry, I noticed how the aged plasters had been starting to peel off from the walls. Then, as if second nature, my body instinctively makes its way to the bathroom. My mundane routine carries on as per usual, brush my teeth, shower, go to the kitchen and look for food. As I make my way to the kitchen, an unfamiliar face greets me, “Up so early, Beau?”, it was a woman with friendly creases, each wrinkle as if individually drawn to tell a story. “Uh, yeah.”, the unforeseen greeting had flustered me slightly, I fluttered my eyes as I returned the senior lady’s smile. Do I know this woman? Before I can ask, she brushes past me and pours herself a cup of coffee. “Have you been sleeping well?” She asks again, snapping her head in my direction. Hollie probably has her friends over again, with her book club and whatnot. “Yeah, I think so,” I shrug, my answer earning a gentle pat on the shoulder from her before she walks away. Weird.
I sit myself down at the table, a white, flower-patterned tablecloth adorning it as I indulge in some cereal in a bowl with a similar pattern. Eating nowadays seemed more like a task than a necessity, since hunger or even thirst is something I barely experience, but there is always room for cereal. Speaking of which, Hollie must have moved the food items around the cabinet, finding the cereal had been quite the arduous task. Speaking of which, I wonder where Hollie is. The morning passes by like a blur, every person I have come across, I fail to recognise. Did Hollie always have this many friends over? Who’s the woman I came across earlier? So many questions, so little motivation to find out for myself as I get up from the kitchen table, letting out a soft grunt. Perhaps it would do me some good to get some fresh air, I thought to myself. Once I make it to the door, my slender hand reaches to turn the doorknob, but a tender voice stops me in my tracks. "Excuse me Mr. Fletcher, where are you heading off to? You should be resting in your quarters.”, this time, a middle-aged lady in an all-white uniform approaches me. Her dainty hands resting on my shoulders as I feel a slight push in her ministrations, guiding me back to my room. My room?
Hold on a second, where in the world am I?
Tick, tick, tick . . .
I pace back and forth in the room; have I been kidnapped? Is this a human trafficking operation? Or am I in a mental institution? The repeating tick of the analogue clock slowly dies out as the questions in my head get increasingly louder, also repeating. Repeating. All over again. My frail fingers run over my hair, the frustration clawing at me. That is when I realise. Where’s my hair? Every beat that passes by a tick follows, along with the descent of my mentality. This must be a dream, but why does it feel so real? Subconsciously, my eyes drifted to the mirror behind me.
One tick, two ticks, three ticks, then four.
The analogue clocks, once providing comfort from each second, has turned to a countdown of the horror that awaits me.
My eyes finally focus on the image, lying there before me. A frail old man, in his mid-70s, the significant amount of hair left on his head as white as snow and wrinkles ornamenting his pale complexion. This old man, looked back at me with the same terror that I held in my own eyes. Beau, you have truly gone mad, have you? No, there is no use simply questioning it now. Answers. I need answers, and quick. My slightly trembling body exits the room and blindly wanders around the unknown building in search of... something, anything, that would answer my questions. Eventually, the pursuit of answers results in concerned stares and interrogative remarks all of which I hide myself away from, that inevitably lands me in here. An office room with several indexed cabinets, storing confidential and personal information of each individual. Frantically, I searched every folder in the “B” cabinet. “Beau Fletcher, Beau Fletcher...” The name repeats on my tongue as if a chant, my eyes locking on each and every folder until I finally find it. “Comfort Care Hospice Resident, Beau Fletcher. 76 years old.” I read out loud, then, my eyes flicker to Medical History. That is when the world comes crashing down on me.
“Dementia.”
.
.
.
In a surprisingly calm manner, the folder is returned to its rightful position, and I make my way back to my room. It is as if my eyes had opened for the first time, I am finally seeing the world for the way I was supposed to. I close the door behind me, slumping down on the chair adjacent to the window and sigh. My family...my wife, my children. “Hollie...” I sigh out, how long had I forgotten? How long had it been since that day I sobbed mindlessly in front of her grave? Natalia and Robbie, my shining rays of joy... Had they forgotten about me? Had they ever come to visit? Defeated, I hang my head low and as if muscle memory, my hand pulls open the drawer of the desk in front of me, revealing a brilliant blue journal book that showed signs of aging, but despite that was clear of dust. I should write this down, I thought to myself. After spontaneously opening to an empty page, I begin to write, “25th of August 2024...”. I wrote down everything I knew, everything I started to remember, everything... I did not want to forget.
Then, it strikes me how worn this book was. How used... it was. I flip to a previous page, and the page was full of writing, my writing. Every single word, similar if not the same as what I had written 20 minutes ago. Then, I flip to another previous page, to another and another... and they all included the same content. The first entry being March 19th 2019. I chuckle to myself, not out of amusement, rather, shock, I had been repeating the same sequence ever since 2019. I suppose there is nothing more I can do as I wait for tomorrow, unsure if my brain will be able to withhold the memories I had regained today. I close the journal book, setting it on the table, silently praying I remember to read it tomorrow. I lie myself down on the bed quietly, letting the ever so constant ticking sound of the analogue clock fill the room. My tired eyes slowly sealed shut, wondering what awaits me tomorrow. I will forget, that much I know. I am helpless to that fact yet a strangely content feeling bubbles up in my chest. Content, because I know, tomorrow will come regardless. And when tomorrow comes, maybe everything will repeat all over again like clockwork. When tomorrow comes, maybe they will be here, to see their dear old father. When tomorrow comes, maybe, just maybe, she will be here with me instead and we could finally be together again.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
“Only God is allowed to judge you,” her father once told her.
Nayla knows that’s meant to be true, yet she finds herself in the centre of judgement at all times, a tourist attraction. Stares from her male classmates bore into her head as she brings her brown waves up into a ponytail, but her eyes follow that of the girls adjusting their hijabs in the corner of the room, giggling with one another. Maybe she is judging them too.
The group of girls burst into gasps and squeals when the classroom door slides open. Adelia walks in, arms with long sleeves glued to her body, white shawl cascading down past her shoulders and chest. Whenever a new school year rolls by, a different girl in school will make the big decision to start covering themselves. She was one of two girls who hadn’t made that step in their class—well, until now.
Leaving Nayla Amani alone, with her hair tied up, skin of her arms pricking at the breeze from an open window. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, it was the opposite. Envy intricately weaved itself into her smile as Adelia approached the desk in front of her. She lets out a weak, “You look great.”
”Thanks Nayla,” Adelia replies, a gentle smile dancing on her lips. Her shawl is the colour of purity and faith, reflecting well on her character. “It felt like the right time.”
When will it feel like the right time for her? Nayla nods silently, pushing her thoughts away. She collects the right words as they tumble from her throat. “It takes strength.”
“You’ll get there, don’t worry.”
Adelia’s words are meant as reassurance, but shoot bullets through her skin. It takes strength, she’d said, but she herself didn’t feel strong. Maybe she’d been trying to convince herself. All she needs is her beauty, isn’t it? Her hair that falls past her shoulders in waves, skin sparkling and never dull, her smile crafted by angels, only wielded by the most divine. Right?
”Only God is allowed to judge you,” she remembers Pa saying. So why does it feel like everyone else is doing that, too?
-
When she returns home, her mother is setting the table, picking up a vase of daffodils before wiping the table with an old rag. “Mei-ah, you’re home!” Ma calls with a beam. “Later you call your brother. I made fish for dinner. Hope it brings luck with that job interview,” she says in stunted English. She always did believe in superstitions.
”Sure, Ma.” Nayla loves her mother, but watching her peers and their mothers at parent-teacher conferences, covered head-to-toe, she wonders if she’d grown up with a conservative, Muslim mother, if it would have been easier for her. If she had a female figure to look up to, if someone she loved so much could still be beautiful while covering up… Would she be at peace with herself?
Nayla heads to her bedroom, and on a whim, reaches for the bottom drawer of her dresser that snags on the carpet when she pulls it open. A white shawl hides in the back corner, cowering when her hand picks it up. Throwing it around her head mindlessly, the girl in her standing mirror smiles. Her fringe peeks from the sides of her face, the fabric framing her cheeks as she holds it in place.
Her face in the reflection morphs into the image of Adelia, her classmates, their mothers—people she’d be jealous of. A hand reaches for her cheek, the image dissipating like mellow butterflies drifting away, returning to her own visage. You’re not them. You’re meant to be Nayla Amani. You’re meant to be pretty.
A knock at the window scares her, head shooting towards the rhythm only one person knows. Wang Jianyu, her childhood best friend and neighbour. Their bedrooms are connected by a large tree branch, so it’s a common occurrence for him to swing by. The shawl pools around her feet as she stumbles to open the window for him.
His hands are slapped over his eyes. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No, no, not at all—“ she kicks away the shawl, hoping he won’t notice. “What brings you here?”
“Nothing, really.” His brown eyes glance her up and down. “You look pretty, but you looked happier in that.” He points at the fabric on the floor.
Her cheeks flush with warmth as she picks it up. “Did I?”
“Well, I know I don’t really have a say in this stuff, but I think so,” he replies, sitting on her bed. “I can listen.”
A few moments pass and she thinks he might get up and leave. He doesn’t move. “Do you think… I can do it?” The fabric, now bunched in her hands, looks up at her longingly. “Why are you so afraid of me?” It asks.
“Better question, why wouldn’t you?”
“That’s not really what… people expect of me, is it?” Nayla says. “Wouldn’t it be weird if I suddenly showed up with it on?”
“Why does that matter?” Jianyu asks. “I mean, I know I’m not… Muslim, obviously. But what matters is your relationship with God, right? Who cares what they think?” He leans back, looking away from her. Is that because he couldn’t stand to look at her, or because of something else? “I read that somewhere.”
“I guess.” She shrugs. “Why’re you looking at my wall? What’s so interesting?”
“Well, if you’re going to start wearing the hijab, I have to lower my gaze, right?” He replies. “Uh, I read that somewhere once too.”
A sigh escapes her. “It’s not that easy. It takes strength I don’t have.”
Her hands jitter as she releases her grasp on the shawl, her reflection gazing at her with empathy, smile wavering. She already knew all that, so why does it feel so different from someone else? From him?
“If you believe you don’t have strength, then you won’t,” he says. Oddly wise for a guy who rolled into her bedroom. “But I know you. I think you’re strong.” Jianyu exhales, getting up with his eyes shut tight.
“Don’t try to walk with your eyes closed, idiot, you’re gonna run into somethi—“
“Ow!” A thud and a hiss through his teeth fills the air as he slams his forehead against the window frame.
“I told you so,” she mutters after he leaves.
Pa’s words echo in her mind as she takes one last look at the fabric. “God is forgiving. He sees your effort. In the end, the only one that may judge you is Him.”
-
“You’ll look great in this!” Adelia, shows Nayla a picture of an influencer, shawl wrapped around her head in ways Nayla can’t begin to comprehend. Her classmates pack the restroom mirror, leaning closer to fix their headscarves. “Liya, do you have extra pins?”
Nayla’s lips curve into a soft smile. Once, these girls were nothing but classmates to her. Now, they’re helping her wear the same white shawl she once hid in the bottom drawer. The faith she once stowed away. “I didn’t think you’d help.”
“Of course we would. Why wouldn’t we?” Liyana replies with a playful scoff. “Good thing Jianyu asked me to bring extra pins.”
Nayla’s head tilts. “Huh?”
“Oh, was I not supposed to say that?” She giggles. “Never mind.”
Adelia works some kind of magic on her, folding and pinning the shawl in so many places, she definitely won’t be able to recreate this look. As if she can read Nayla’s expression, she says, “Don’t worry, I’ll send you the tutorial video.”
Her eyes light up, twinkling with an excitement Nayla can finally share. “Ooh! I brought some super cute pins you can have.“ She reaches into her skirt’s pocket and opens up a small pouch of silver pins and brooches gleaming under the lights.
“I like that one.”
The delicate silver petals remind her of daffodils—Ma’s favourite flowers. Maybe they’re her favourites now, too. “They represent new beginnings and attract positive energy, Mei. You know I love symbolism.”
Adelia’s smile grows. “It suits you.”
With the final pin in place, the girl in the mirror—no, Nayla, stares back at herself. The white shawl flows below her shoulders, reflecting the sunlight peeking through the window. The daffodil glints in the light as she tilts her head around, trying to look at herself in as many perspectives as possible. Her smile is unfamiliarly bright, lips pinker, cheeks full and blushed.
It takes strength, she said. Words she wished to manifest for herself, the same strength that would push her in that direction. Her friends’ smiles, proud yet soft as the petals of flowers on a spring morning. It takes strength, and finally, she feels strong.
She meets Jianyu in the corridor, watching his patient smile turn into a wide grin. He waves her over. “You look happy,” he ex.
Nayla’s shoulders raise in a casual shrug. “It felt like the right time.”
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
The sky was still untouched by the light of dawn, and yet the heat still persists in letting its presence be known. The bus’ air conditioner conveniently decided to break down right at the beginning of the heat wave, and moments like these made Karim seriously consider the prospects of buying a new bus, one with an actual working A/C system, and wouldn’t cough out black puffs of smoke from its exhaust.
But, he shouldn’t. He can’t.
Hospital bills are constantly increasing, and he already borrowed money from several relatives just to make ends meet. A wave of sadness washed over him, dull and familiar. He thought of his wife, Aminah, asleep in the cold hospital ward alone. This is her fifth year battling Stage 4 ovarian cancer. Karim stood by her side throughout everything; quelled her sobs the day she was diagnosed, held her hand when the pain of the chemotherapy wrung her dry, watched helplessly as the wretched illness takes and takes, deteriorating the woman he loves. If he could, he’d take away all the pain from his sweet Aminah and bear it all himself a thousand times over. Then, she can live the life she deserves, away from those ghastly machines and medicines. Maybe then she could finally cradle a bundle of joy in her arms, something that the cancer robbed viciously from them.
But Karim is no longer young, and he is far from naive. The Earth is round, the sky is blue, Death will take Aminah from him and there is nothing he can do. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Aminah’s inevitable death is not something he wants to think about. Not now. Not yet. Not ever.
He shifted his attention to his passengers, two of them are his regulars, the remaining one, he hasn’t seen before. Karim twisted the ignition, and the bus rumbled to a start. As he drove, he glanced at the rearview mirror just to check in on his passengers seated on the seats that have grown so familiar to him over the decades, he can map out the layout with his eyes blindfolded.
Seat 4A
There sat Aaron Chen, muttering definitions and functions of cells under his breath. Aaron liked to think of himself as a non-sentimentalist, too good to grow attached to anything, but the daily ride on Bus 41 was an exception.
For the past 7 years, he would sit right behind the driver’s seat and talk to Pak Karim as he drove. He would talk about school, gas prices, football matches, anything that comes to his mind; and the older man would chime in with a few opinions and stories of his own.
However, this particular morning, he can’t afford to do that. In a few hours, he’ll be sitting for an exam that will decide the course of his life. All of those nights burning the midnight oil, the back aches from being hunched over textbooks and worksheets, it all led up to this. His fingers alternated between fidgeting with his school tie and his compact Biology pocket note, and he groaned when he blanked out on a few details he was supposed to memorise. Aaron’s head slumped and he sighed. Last night was the third all-nighter he pulled in a row and he was beyond exhausted.
‘Calm down. Focus,’ he told himself, ‘remember why you’re here.’
To be a doctor, and save lives.
No…that’s not really it, isn’t it?
If he’s being true to himself, all he ever wanted was to escape the poverty he was born in. Days spent without a single meal, recess spent in the library because he had no money to spend, the pitiful glances thrown at him, a lifetime of this made him bitter. Resentful. He would lie awake on the thin, bare mattress on his floor, stare at the leaking ceiling and wonder: why? Why did his parents have him when they knew they couldn't afford it? He never asked for any of this.
Aaron doesn’t want luxury, nor lavishness. He just wants to stop being poor.
He’ll work himself to the bone just to never spend another second wondering if the hunger will finally take him in his sleep that night.
The bus slowed to a stop in front of his school and Aaron cursed himself for getting distracted. He tucked his books in his bag, careful not to tear the already torn seams even further.
“Thanks, Pak Karim!” he chirped, hiding his exhaustion behind a cheerful tone.
“Aaron?”
Before he could do anything, Aaron felt Pak Karim slip something into his hand. A RM5 note.
“You look thinner. Buy yourself some breakfast,” the man said.
“Pak Karim-”
“Just take it. I insist,” he urged, and Aaron knew better than to argue.
Aaron watched the bus fade into the distance.
Pak Karim didn’t even charge him for the ticket.
Seat 7A
The door snapping shut pulled Mrs. Suryanti out of her thoughts.
Oh…the schoolboy left, already?
He reminded her of someone.
Her daughter, Dinah, is so much like that boy. Young, vibrant, bright,
‘What could she be doing right now?’ Suryanti glanced at her watch, calculating the time difference between Malaysia and her homeland, ‘getting ready for school, maybe?’ a smile surfaced on her lips.
‘My little Didi. Always so smart.’
A feeling akin to a knife burying itself in her chest appeared as she remembered her little girl is not so little anymore. How many milestones has she missed? How many birthdays, school awards, laughter, and tears? How much did Suryanti sacrifice when she came to this country?
She remembered the day like it was yesterday. She remembered the airport and how cold it was. She remembered Dinah, who was no older than 8 years old then, whose height didn’t even reach Suryanti’s shoulders.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” she remembered saying as she wiped away the tears streaming down her daughter’s cheeks; all the while holding back her own tears that threatened to spill. She remembered walking to the boarding gate, double-checking her belongings, ensuring she brought everything she needed with her.
Now that she recalled – she had left her everything behind.
In a few months, Didi will graduate from high school.
“I want to go to university, Bu.” she had told Suryanti during a phone call, “I’ll study hard, get a good job. Then, you won’t have to work anymore.”
“You can finally come home.”
Oh, her soul yearns for it. But university costs money, and Suryanti needed to make enough of it to support her daughter’s ambition before she could finally allow herself to go home. To say it wasn’t cumbersome would be a lie, but if it meant her daughter won’t end up like her, Suryanti would do it, a thousand times over.
The bus halted at a stop a few metres away from a small diner.
“Thank you, Karim,” she murmured, descending the steps.
“Anytime, Suryanti.”
The door shut behind her, and she exhaled heavily, ready to begin one of her many shifts.
Seat 10A
“Adam, be like that abang, alright?” Siti murmured to her baby, asleep in her arms as she watched the schoolboy in the bus get off at his stop, “studying even in a bus, carrying a book with you everywhere you go.”
The bus continued its drive, and Siti stared at her son, at the flutter of his eyelashes, and the roundness of his rosy cheeks. It felt like a knife gutted at her, spilling the contents of her chest.
She’ll never see him grow out of his babyish features.
Adam was not born out of her own will. In fact, he was the embodiment of everything that happened without her will. Adam was not at fault, and Siti knew that. But she also knew that she won’t be a good mother. She’s only 19, jobless, with no support. Even her own father won’t look her way anymore. How can she raise a child under that condition?
The bus stopped, and another passenger got off. Siti knew that her time was running out. She pulled out a piece of paper containing his name, birthdate, and nothing more that can lead back to her. She tucked the paper into the blanket wrapped around her son, every bit of her soul screaming for her not to.
Her chest felt heavy, as if tied to a boulder. Adam will grow up wondering why his own mother abandoned him, and he will find no answers.
She knew why: he deserves a better life; something that she can never provide.
“I’m so sorry, sayang,” she whispered, voice strained. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, a final goodbye.
Siti placed him on the seat and wrenched herself away from him.
She got off the bus. If her steps were any heavier, the ground would cave under her feet.
The bus drove off, and she dropped to her knees, sobs wracking her frame.
“Forgive me.”
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
It had been two hours since the duke left the mansion.
The darkness flashed across as he galloped on his horse. He whipped it again, straddling tightly as its hooves struck the ground, trembling the woods around them as they dashed through the forest. Layers and layers of large trees loomed over them, blocking the moonlight from peeking into the woods.
His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the growls of the beast. Stupidity mocked him. He had been reckless, stepping foot into its habitat was absurd. He traced his fingers down the shaft of his absent blade. What good would a horse do?
He was outmatched.
A sickening feeling churned in his guts.
The beast was catching up to its prey. He could envision it so clearly, four muscular claws digging into the ground as it chased. It ran swift as the wind, every leap steady and firm as though it ruled these woods.
But he wasn’t going to let himself die here.
However, something was off. The ground ahead was barely visible, or maybe not visible at all. The edge of a slope appeared before him. He pulled the reins hard, coming to an immediate halt. The rocky brim crumbled beneath. He pivoted his body to haul his horse around, its hooves struggling to grasp the ground. They staggered lower from the surface.
With the horse now in a panic, the violent bobbing shook him off balance, until he was thrown off the saddle. He tumbled down the slope. Chunks of rocks bashed into him, ripping his clothes and slicing into his skin.
He sank into a pit, limbs sore from the bruises and cuts. Just then, his ears picked up distant growls, and within moments, the space between him and the beast was dangerously close.
As expected, the beast landed in the pit. With that proximity, its illuminated features displayed majestically in the dark: silver fur on its feline-like body, hungry pale blue eyes, and fangs yearning to sink into his flesh.
It crouched, ready to charge.
He lay there, the murky ground against his crimson-soaked garments, the icy wind pricking his skin. He was alone with his ragged breathing in the silence.
He mumbled under his warm breath. “Pull yourself up…”
But as he strained to do so, a glint of burning red light flashed across from the corner of his eye. It swooped past his neck, a sensational heat rushing along with it before striking the ground.
The ringing silence turned to noise.
The surface was set ablaze, creating a barrier of scarlet flames between the duke and the beast. Both backed away. The object remained static on the ground. He edged closer while avoiding the flames—it was an arrow, its shaft carved in black with the motif of a wild inferno. He scanned the area, searching for where it came from, but something else captivated him.
A figure leapt into the air behind him—a person.
The bow in his hand was loaded with a blazing arrow. His dark cloak fluttered in the breeze, and his silhouette was bathed in moonlight.
The arrow was released.
The roaring flame shot like a meteor and punctured the beast’s flesh, burning patches of its silver fur into a greyish black. It howled in pain.
As the figure plummeted down, the curtain of scorching flames froze into a solid wall of transparent ice. The figure stood there, exuding a mysterious ambience—an unknown power. The figure's cloak veiled most of his body, with a hood covering his head. His cloak was ink black, but shimmering patterns of ice and fire were embroidered in blue and red along its rim.
The beast didn't advance further, instead, it retreated, spitting out a final roar before it sprang out of the pit and away into the woods.
The duke stared blankly at the wall of ice in front of him, a mixed feeling of shock and awe bottled inside him.
The figure turned to him. He wasn't tall nor did he have a muscular physique. His face was masked, leaving no parts of it visible but his eyes. His right eye was a ruby red; his left eye a sapphire blue. The mask may have hidden his identity, but there was something that couldn't be hidden—his aura—it radiated from his eyes. Something was burning inside this anonymous figure and he hadn't the slightest clue what was happening.
Despite his sore and wounded limbs, the duke bowed. No words could express his gratitude, nor his admiration for the figure. There was no doubt he was a great warrior. His service would be significant to Dawnspire—a protector—and they needed him.
“Thank you,” the duke said solemnly. “I am Arden Kingleys, the duke of Dawnspire. Please, how will I ever repay you?”
The figure instantly kneeled, frantically shaking his head. He didn’t speak.
“Then, I would like to make an offer.” The duke contemplated for a moment, but his next words shook the air. “Become a knight. I will grant you power in exchange for your service to our kingdom. You have the potential to become an exceptional warrior and lead our army as a formidable general.”
There was no reply. The figure didn’t meet his eyes.
“Very well, I hope you gravely consider my offer. Feel free to seek me any time, I owe you my life and I am a man of my word.”
The rest of the night ended in a blur. An injured duke and a masked figure made their way out of the woods. The stars swirled, the darkness glared.
There were no words from the figure after he left the duke.
Only silence.
~~~~~
Within the depths of the woods, we stood amidst the open ground, me, and my brother, Merrick. We checked our stances, swords in our grip, and a battle erupted.
I swung my blade, aiming at his throat—a vital body part. The scraping of hot metal pierced through my eardrums, a satisfying yet agonising sound as my blade closed in on him. Sparks flew, searing our skin in the heating grounds of battle. He parried, and both of us toppled back. I steadied myself before thrusting forward once more, seeking an opening where I could strike.
Something happened last night.
Warm sweat dripped from our necks. The wind brushed across my unmasked face. Our blades collided several times, neither of us letting up until I unarmed him and forced him to the ground, my blade just an inch from his chest.
My hand quivered.
“I win,” I said smugly. That concluded another day of training. The curtains of night were falling, veiling the Sun from the world. Stars would soon decorate the ceiling of darkness. “We should head home now.”
“Estelle, my dear sister,” he said, his words playful at his lips, “your performance is especially fierce today. You’ve been off since you got back last night, I almost thought someone died.”
The trees watched, a brother and sister, but they kept silent. Only the trees knew who I was under the mask.
“Don’t worry, I won’t kill you even though you’re annoying.”
“That’s not it.” He waved my statement away. “Did something happen yesterday?”
He met my gaze. “Nothing much.” I met the duke.
“You alright?”
“I’m perfectly fine.” I wasn’t.
A loose offer to become a knight was just presented to me—a chance—to prove I was more than what others expect from a woman. I could be a warrior.
He peered at me with suspicious eyes, silence creeping under our feet.
“If you say so.” He didn’t pursue further. “You know, you really are skilled at the art of combat, you’d make a great warrior.”
It was then that reality slapped me in the face. My burning heart turned to ashes, and the desire to accept the offer dissipated. All my life, I have dedicated it to one thing—hiding. You hid behind a mask because no one would accept your true self. The battlefield was a territory of men. That was it.
But would I risk it now? Masquerade myself and step into their domain?
A sudden air of melancholy tightened around me. I couldn’t do that, not when our mother sacrificed herself to protect us—to protect me. I trained only for self-defence, but I have grown to love it and yearned for more, to be seen and respected. I wanted to sparkle like cold hard ice and burn like a roaring flare. I wanted to be a knight of Dawnspire.
“You coming?” Merrick’s voice rippled through the woods like water. I trudged behind him.
I continued to ponder about the muddle of events. I knew fire leaves ashes, but if the ashes reignited, they would spark flames again. Perhaps, if this was written in my fate, it would reach out to me again.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
It was a rainy morning, the kind where the world felt muddled and distant, as if everything was submerged in water. The winds whispered through the trees of the creek, and the waters chorused a melancholic lullaby. Jun Hao walked down to where the soil meets the water as he has done every day since the incident and looked in to glance at his reflection.
It looked back at him like a distorted work of art, a mosaic of his fragmented soul. The ripples warped his face and painted pictures of sorrow and grief. The sight brings a pain to Jun Hao, a phantom that has haunted him for years.
His reflection reaches out of the water and grabs his chest, tearing at the bandage in his heart, revealing an aching wound. It is messy and grotesque, and has a mind of its own. It murmurs at Jun Hao and reminds him of summer days and lime popsicles as he lays down on the grass and squeezes his eyes shut. The hole in his chest now gaping openly and bleeding out- onto the grass, and into the water.
𓆟
“Hao, don’t leave us behind!”
The sun sent daggers onto the creek and the birds sang a melodious song, each note dripping honey onto the ears of those who listened. The trees swayed along, and amidst those enjoying their summer afternoon were the three boys.
They were inseparable. Where one went, the other two would follow, and every summer holiday they would grab their bikes and ride down to Ayr Creek and spend the day swimming in its pearly, translucent waters. This summer, the bipolar weather made it hard for everyone. Rainstorms showered Ayr town daily, basking the town in a grayish blanket. However, every storm runs out of rain, and one beautiful sunny day, the boys made their journey down to the creek as they did all the summers before.
“Last to make it to the other side has to buy us lime popsicles!” Jun Hao shouts, before diving into the waters. The other two boys, exchanging shocked glances, raced to jump into the creek.
However, the water was different that day—swollen from days of rain, it churned with a force they had underestimated and the current pushed strongly against the three adolescents.
Jun Hao had been the first to reach the other side, beaming at the thought of a free popsicle. When he turned around to celebrate his victory. However, the sight that met Jun Hao was nothing glorious. Ming-Jun and Jayden were struggling under the heavy currents of the water. Although he wasn’t in the water, Jun Hao felt liquid fill his lungs with deathly despair. He watched helplessly while his friends struggled. He had screamed and shouted for help, but by the time adults arrived, it was too late. Ming-Jun and Jayden had disappeared into the depths of the creek, dragged into the unforgiving abyss.
A search party was conducted, and they’d found Jayden’s body later that day, tangled in the roots of an old tree. The water was still and eerily calm, and lapped gently at his lifeless form, as though whispering a final, mournful lullaby.
They never found Ming-Jun’s body.
Although Jun Hao survived the accident, a part of him had died that day by the creek. A knife had stabbed him in the chest and left a gash in his heart, guilt festering inside him like an infection. The weight of being the only one left threatened to overtake his very being. Most of all, he couldn’t bear the weight of the pity from the adults, nor the whispers that followed him wherever he went.
"Poor Jun Hao," they would say, "he lost his friends in the river."
Years passed, but Jun Hao never moved on. The creek relentlessly haunts him, and its song, once a warm blanket, turned into a restraint that chained him in the dark. He dropped out of school, withdrew himself from everyone, and wandered aimlessly through life, chastising himself from being the only one left.
The searing pain subsides into a throbbing sensation as Jun Hao peels open his eyes. It stopped raining, and the waters reflected the purples and oranges of sunset. But all Jun Hao could see was the horrors of that day—the hands of his friends reaching out, desperate for help, as he stood on the shore.
Don’t leave us behind.
The words echoed in his mind as Jun Hao closed his eyes and let the tears fall, all his control slipping into a puddle of anguish. "I’m so sorry," he whispered to the wind, his voice breaking. "I should have done something. I should have saved you both."
In that moment of despair, when the world felt empty and meaningless, Jun Hao felt as if nothing mattered. There was no purpose to living an aimless life, and life was meaningless without his two friends.
His heart pounded with a final desperate rhythm, each beat hollow and empty. With trembling hands, he took off his shoes and carefully set them aside, the act itself a ritual of resignation. Jun Hao took a deep breath, and then slowly, deliberately, he stepped to the very brink. The water below roared an invitation, a siren call of release. With one last glance at the purple sky, Jun Hao jumped into the water, the world above reduced into a distant memory as the waters held him in an embrace.
Jun Hao closed his eyes, feeling a sense of resolve. He felt the world around him shift, like the gentle pull of the tide. Even then, Jun Hao had felt that gnawing sense of guilt that while Ming-Jun and Jayden had perished in the chaos of the water, he had been spared by the very calm he now embraced.
Soon, Jun Hao feels himself slip between the hold of the water, the world dissolving into an ethereal mist. The edges of reality blurs into nothingness, and Jun Hao thinks to himself-
I’ll join you guys soon…
When Jun Hao regains consciousness, he feels soil against his back. The air was filled with the laughter of children and Jun Hao basked in the golden warmth of the sun.
“Jun Hao.”
That was the sound of Ming-Jun’s voice. Jun Hao felt his heartbeat quicken as he tries to open his eyes.
“Can you hear us?”
Jun Hao’s eyelids felt heavy, as if weighted down by a profound weariness. He opens his eyes to see his two best friends in all their glory, their forms bathed in a serene light.
“You guys…” Jun Hao’s voice was barely a whisper as he struggled to sit up. Jayden moves to help him up and upon feeling the embrace of his old friend, Jun Hao feels a lump in his throat.
“Are you guys real?”
Ming-Jun laughs his boisterous laugh, the sound music to Jun Hao’s ears. ‘Oh how much I’ve missed that laugh…’ he thinks.
Jayden nods, a peaceful smile gracing his face. “We’re certainly real, but Jun Hao, you cannot stay. It’s not your time to join us yet.”
At that, Jun Hao feels a trickling dread wash over him again.
“I have to go back out there alone?” His voice wavers as tears threaten to spill out of his eyes.
Ming-Jun stepped closer, his expression a mix of sadness and understanding. “We know it’s been hard on you, Hao. But we’ve come to terms with our deaths. You can’t live like this forever.”
Jun Hao’s heart tightened at his words, the weight of his guilt heavy on him. “I’m so sorry,” he said, voice trembling. “I wish I could have saved you, really, I wish I could have changed things.”
Jayden shook his head gently, his brown hair ruffling against the wind. “You did everything you could, Hao. It was beyond anyone’s control. We’ve accepted it, and we want you to too.”
Ming-Jun’s eyes, filled with a wisdom that belied his years, met Jun Hao’s. “You have to let go of your guilt, dude. We don’t want you to carry this burden. You forget that it hurts us too to see you in pain.”
Tears spilled like waterworks from Jun Hao’s eyes, his mind a whirlpool of emotions. ‘They don’t blame me…’ He thinks. ‘They don’t hate me like I thought they did…’
Gathering himself together, he grabs the two friends in a tight hug. “I’ll try,” he promised them, his voice breaking. “I’ll try to let go and live for us.”
The sun dips below the horizon, and the world around them begins to dissolve into darkness. The river, the trees, the golden light—they all jumbled together in swirls of colour, and Jun Hao shuts his eyes.
When he opens them again, Jun Hao finds himself back by the creek. As he looked out over the distance, it was as if nothing had happened. The water was calm, not a ripple in sight, and Jun Hao’s clothes were void of any sign that he had ever been in the water.
Laying by the creek, Jun Hao looked up at the night sky and swore he saw a star wink down at him in the distance. He laughed quietly to himself and although the night sky was dark, the world had never looked so bright to Jun Hao now that he knew Ming-Jun and Jayden were doing well. He was finally ready to rejoin the society that had moved on without him while he remained withdrawn.
And although Jun Hao thinks he will never fully grieve the loss of his two friends, the gash in his heart has been wrapped in a warm and tender embrace, no longer the excrescence it once was. Someday, Jun Hao will peel off the bandages encasing his wound and find it to be stitched up by the gentle hands of time, a testimony to the two souls that have shaped his childhood. It will not bleed, will not tear at Jun Hao’s spirit, but it will remain as a reminder of the love he once had and the loss he had endured.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
(A Tale of Mysticism Told by my Grandfather)
Tucked away in a humble neighbourhood of the historically rich town of Taiping, visiting my grandfather’s house has always been our refuge from the overwhelming and crowded city centre of Kuala Lumpur. As my family’s car slowly drove towards the red-coloured metal gate, we could see several geese honking away loudly in our direction. At the same time, their alpha proudly claimed dominance over us, the visitors – but soon after, their interests quickly smouldered and found the front garden more worthy of exploration. Many cats were seen on top of Grandpa’s antique convertible. They stared at us curiously with their heads stuck out high before they scampered away as the heavy gate slowly opened grudgingly on its rusted wheels.
My younger brother got out of the car excitedly as he saw my smiling grandfather, with a scarf over his shirt and a floppy hat over his mid-length, silky white hair. He stood there, supported by a stout cane in front of the narrow pathway entrance to his art studio and invitingly beckoned us inside. And with a merry chorus of ‘Grandpa!’ We all made our way to him to exchange our greetings as we carefully tiptoed over the minefield of goose droppings on the concrete driveway.
Upon entering, the studio was like a foray into a world of colours – the pervading odour of turpentine and linseed wafted through the air, and half-finished canvases were stacked against the walls, small and low tables on which were scattered with Pigma Micron felt-tipped pens alongside bulbous and flattened tubes of Winsor and Newton paints.
Dominating the space was a formidable-looking worktable with metal legs and a two-inch thick birch wood top. What instantly grabbed my attention was an abstract painting on the birch table in its final stages with bold, vibrant brush strokes and dollops of Cerulean Blue: Grandpa’s favourite colour.
This is where Grandpa enjoys his moment of pure nostalgia and undistilled inspiration. It is exceedingly important that no one, not even Grandma, was allowed to move or clear any object on the tables or floor. Grandpa seems to know the exact spot where he keeps everything.
Along the entire length of the right-hand side of the wall, was an array of waist-high cabinets filled with various art books, classic novels, biographies and collectable magazines – but Grandpapa was oblivious to the little kittens running in and out of the spaces between the books.
We all sat down on a large L-shaped leather couch with multiple cat scratches barely hidden by several large pillows with fish and butterfly designs, which indicated Grandma’s uninvited intrusion into the artist’s domain.
Subsequently, gentle yet piercing trickles of rain occasionally pitter-pattered against the aluminium roof of my grandfather’s art studio. A calm and brisk ambience encompassed us – and after making ourselves comfortable, we listened to Grandpapa unfold a story about his Parker Pen in his low and mellifluous voice.
These were the stories that always enlightened us, inspired us and warmed us during the cold downpours of our lives; A joy of warmth to our hearts.
The Sailor and his Parker Pen
During the halcyon days of 1956, Grandpapa was admitted into the Malayan Teacher's College Kota Bharu. He won the best student award and was rewarded by lecturer Doctor Beeching to travel with him and three other specially chosen college mates to Rangoon (now Yangon) on the SS Matang of the P&O Blue Funnel Line – with all expenses paid plus allowances.
Travelling on the glorious passenger/cargo steamship was an adventure undreamt of my then 20-year-old grandpa. Together with his mates, they were only required to polish the brass railings and mop the wooden decks twice a day: Once in the early morning and again late evening. This was an easy task compared to the full-time sailors, who, for the smallest breach of discipline would be sent down to the steaming hot boiler room to clean the greasy metal floor and engine parts (the most arduous task out of all).
Besides shining away, the rails during the voyage, Grandpa spent his free time in the evening immersed in the collections of British books from the Ship’s library or making portrait sketches of travelling passengers and the crew with his beloved Parker Pen, which was a much-treasured gift from his father. He was handsomely paid and made a lot of money on this trip with his quick sketches.
After the ship had finally anchored in Rangoon, Grandpapa was given leave to go ashore. One of the first places my Grandpa wanted to visit was the large, golden Shwedagon Pagoda. It was an overwhelming complex structure with countless intricate bas-relief carvings and designs. The dominant colours were yellow, orange and crimson and every visible surface was plastered with layers of gleaming gold leaves.
Grandpapa sauntered around the base of the Pagoda for nearly a day – stopping now and then to sketch the monks clothed in their distinct burgundy kasaya as they sat rooted to the concrete floor in rows, chanting their mantras while spinning their prayer wheels; They looked like a plethora of crimson-red poppy fields.
But one monk in particular caught Grandpapa’s attention. The old man had an unusual, extraordinary face that captivated my Grandpa. He quickly sketched the man and when the old man turned around, he gave Grandpapa a large, beautiful smile, benign yet piercingly cheeky.
My Grandpa thought the old man would be interested in his sketches and showed them to him, but his assumption was proved wrong. He wasn’t interested at all and instead pointed to the Parker Pen. Grandpa unhesitatingly gave the man a try to hold it, but the man looked at it once and straight after, pushed it into the folds of his robes and turned around, ignoring Grandpa and continued his chants.
With dismay in his heart and not wanting to offend the monk, Grandpapa gently tapped him on the shoulder and asked for the pen back. The monk chuckled in delight, but his face was a bit sullen.
The monk took it out from the folds of his robes and held the pen towards Grandpa. Grandpapa breathed a sigh of relief and reached out to grab the pen, but the monk playfully pushed it back again into his robe. Grandpa chuckled with him and decided to play along. This lighthearted back-and-forth was repeated several times before the old man finally broke into laughter and stood up to return the pen and hug Grandpapa.
With happiness in his heart, he was ready to conclude the day trip and hurried back to the ship before evening. Grandpapa shared a cabin with a reliable long-term serving sailor called Smokey: Smokey was an amiable, fair-skinned Malay sailor, who started as the company’s office worker in Penang and later became a sailor on the SS Matang. He was very close to Grandpapa and would occasionally buy meals for him.
After being fed with a pleasant dinner – Grandpapa went on deck to relax on the reclining chair, while he listened to the gentle splash of the seawater against the ship. But alas, only when he wanted to write about his experience today did he realise his Parker Pen, which he holds so dearly, had gone missing.
His heart sank. He ran back to his room and searched all corners of the cabin to find the pen, but it seemed to be nowhere. He was certain he had brought it back to the ship, but it was as if it had disappeared into thin air. Smokey felt terrible for Grandpapa and helped him to look for it, as he knew the sentimental value it had for Grandpapa. Smokey even went to the extent of emptying his bag several times. They both turned everything inside out and repeated this every night until they reached back to Penang, but they still couldn’t find it.
They were both very despondent and Grandpapa tried to forget about it and move on, but he just couldn’t find himself to do so. Not any amount of comforting by Smokey too could take his mind off his beloved pen. The pen was always there with him; it was there through his highs and lows but now it was gone.
As their ship anchored for disembarkation in Penang Port, all the sailors were commanded to assemble on deck to receive their cash for their service and were instructed to put their cabins in order by the First Officer. Grandpapa returned to the cabin, mopped the floors, cleaned the furniture, and rolled up the bedsheets. But right there under the thin mattress, to his shock, was the pen. After all the frantic searching, it was there all along. He couldn’t believe his eyes and stood there frozen. Smokey hurried to his side and saw why Granpa had behaved very strangely. The missing Parker Pen nicely tied with a thin ribbon of the same material and colour as the Kasaya was right there.
Grandpapa couldn’t believe his eyes. But what was even more strange to my Grandpa was that the pen, initially filled with black ink that was close to empty, had now been fully filled with royal blue ink. They looked at each other without saying a word but a hint of glee and relief could be seen on their faces. Grandpapa reached out for the pen, held it to his lips and smelled a hint of temple incense. He pressed it to his heart before placing it carefully in his pocket with great care. As they ran up to join the other sailors on deck, Smokey saw Granpa’s hand still holding tightly the pocket that held the pen – Everyone on deck noticed how happy they both looked and wondered why. This parting of ways after each voyage never failed to bring much sadness, and yet, they both smiled very happily and were seen singing and prancing down the gangway in delight.
After many years passed, the deduction as to how the pen had gotten there remains shrouded in an alluring mystery – though, regardless of that, the man is ever-so-grateful upon his beloved Parker Pen’s return, which remains with him to the age of eighty-eight.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
“I’m sorry. It isn’t anything luxurious, but it reminded me of you, so I thought you’d love that.”
A blue stuffed animal, specifically a dog, with huge glittering black beaded eyes. My father presented me with a kid’s stuffed animal for my 16th birthday. It was adorable, but surely enough my teenage self was upset and disappointed, I was expecting a more mature gift than that, especially from my father, like a new set of shoes, or a new dress. I still accepted his gift because my father looked super proud and joyful in giving it to me. Nonetheless, the 16-year-old me still got sulky, but my father did try to console me with snacks and playing games with him. As time went by, I gradually grew fonder of the stuffed animal, growing up with it. I named him Pawpaw due to my father's non-stop upbringing about how soft and cushy the paw was.
I’m 18 now, stepping into my young adulthood, alongside Pawpaw. I can’t remember when I started to become more connected with this stuffed animal, but I could never leave him alone. Wherever I went, he would always be with me, just like now in my aunt’s car. My aunt was driving us towards my parent's house to visit them. I grabbed Pawpaw that sat in the back seat and put him on my lap. Pawpaw has always accompanied me during my ups and downs, I know it sounds quite silly, but to me, he’s not just a stuffed animal. Perhaps it was because he was gifted by my father, a man who was distant and loving at the same time. My father was a busy man, his days were always long and he would often be tired whenever he reached home late at night, which made it difficult for us to deepen our bond. Despite that, he still made some effort to make time for me. I still remember how he was always keen on taking pictures of me on his old Polaroid, though most of the pictures taken would often be crooked and shaky.
The car then stopped, meaning we arrived at our intended destination. I grabbed Pawpaw and got out of the car. I can’t wait to meet my parents and show my dad how good Pawpaw’s condition was because he believed I would’ve lost or dirtied him. It has been 4 months since I have seen my parents because my college unfortunately was far away from them. I gave the door a knock. Soon after, the door swung open widely. My mother’s face was beaming and overjoyed. She immediately gave me a tight hug and kissed my forehead; I replied to her with a hug tighter than hers and sank my head into her shoulders. I felt warm and comforted. This was the embrace that I had been missing while I was busy in college.
“Ma, I missed you”
“Me too Lena, it has been a while, I feel like you’ve grown an inch already.”
We both let out a soft chuckle. She then stared at me with this tender look on her, as if she was mourning over something. She continued her speaking, which made me confused, “I’m sorry you had to endure all of those feelings by yourself, but it’s going to get better, I promise.”
I had this urge to ask her what she meant by that. But my gut refrained me from doing so. I just stayed silent, it started to get somewhat awkward until my aunt greeted my mother. She patted my back to chat with my aunt. I then proceeded to head inside the house and hurried upstairs, with my steps thudding through the whole house. While I was still walking upstairs, I loudly exclaimed. “Father! I’m home, you should see how great Pawpaw looks.”
“…”
Only silence greeted me. Maybe he was still working? I texted him but there was no reply. I then went into my bedroom, bringing Pawpaw with me, and laid down on my bed feeling super worn out, then let out a huge sigh. I was a bit saddened because I was expecting my father to be here, but at least I could surprise him by hiding behind the front door later on. Yeah, that would be funny. I held Pawpaw near my face.
“Yeah Pawpaw, we’ll surprise him!” I uttered, then I closed my eyes,
.
.
.
Yeah, right. What surprise. I found myself accidentally falling asleep when I heard birds chirping outside. I checked my phone, it was 9.00 am, my father usually leaves the house at 9.30 am. I immediately got up and headed towards my parent’s room where the door was slightly open and I took a peek. My eyes widened when I only saw my mother on the bed, who was still asleep. He hasn’t come home? Or did he leave the house early? But Mother must have told him that I was here. Perhaps it was something urgent. I suddenly felt anxious and uneasy. No, it couldn’t be that. I’m sure he’s alright, I’ll wait for him to come home.
It has been 5 days, I was sitting in the living room with Pawpaw, watching the television right after having my breakfast. My mother and aunt had to go somewhere so I had to watch over the house. I couldn’t focus; I kept wondering where my father was and when will he be here. That anxious and uneasy feeling suddenly returned, overwhelming and making me tense. I quickly cuddled Pawpaw, which eased me a bit. I couldn’t help but keep on wondering about my father’s presence. I looked at Pawpaw,
“Do you think he’ll ever come home?” I then let out a loud huff.
Perhaps I should clean some parts of the house and calm my thoughts, so I started by wiping off the windows and tables. I didn’t know why, but I got lazy and fatigued. Then I just thought of taking a stroll through the whole house. I saw all of my father’s belongings and stuff being almost everywhere. Some of his clothes were on the sofa and his books that he always read were on the kitchen table top. All of his things are just here… he is coming back, right? I continued my steps to the living room and just stood there. I should stop this; I don’t know why it is so difficult for me to accept that he’s gone. For how long have I been living in denial? It hurts so much. I was barely holding back tears. I just couldn’t believe the phone call that I received, saying that you left the world, and me. It was too sudden I couldn’t process it; I didn’t want to believe it. How could you pass away when I have been planning all kinds of things to do with you after I got into college?
I sat on the couch and held onto Pawpaw, burying my face into the stuffed animal. I then wailed into him, attempting to muffle the sounds. I didn’t know how long I was crying, but I stopped at some point. I got up and washed my face, bringing Pawpaw with me. A quiet and empty sorrow filled me. All of a sudden, a ray of sunlight that was reflected from the display shelves shone into my eye, which surprised me. I walked towards the display shelves, where pictures of me and my family were kept. I opened the door and looked through every picture. My father would always have this silly smile which I always found funny. I miss him dearly, and I miss his voice and hugs. Then I saw a picture of me on my 16th birthday. It was me with a sulky face holding Pawpaw and father hugging me from behind, with the most carefree and joyful smile I have ever seen. I wished I could hug and tell him how much I loved his gift that day. Suddenly, I noticed marker stains faintly visible through the corner of the picture. I turned the picture around,
“Lena and her new pal” was written at the back of the picture, with a small heart at the end of it.
I felt something in my chest, it wasn’t heavy or tense. A sudden surge of warmth filled my chest when I looked at Pawpaw. Even when my father wasn’t here, a part of him will always remain near and with me, in this stuffed animal. He will never truly be far from me. I haven’t completely accepted my grief, but this is my first step towards it, and I’m proud. I hope he is too.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
His feet trudged through thick shrubbery, the rustle of dead leaves and cracking twigs ringing loud in his ears, the only thing he could hear in the emptiness of the woods’ silence. His breaths came fast and heavy, the exertion of lugging his knapsack catching up to him, knees wobbling under its weight. Hours he had spent searching for a sign of it, and still nothing showed. But he wasn’t about to give up. Not now, not when it would be his last chance.
He had been warned by the locals. Japan’s Aokigahara forest was wrapped in a shroud of mystery, every hitchhiker and trekker who had travelled through it all alluding to the same thing: flashes of light flickering through the trees, eyes as full as the moon, the silhouette of delicately carved antlers. They thought they had imagined it. But they felt its presence, and knew they were being followed. Being watched.
Shiro, they had called it. A white stag.
Night began to trickle in, an onset of inky black settling over the quiet woods. His pulse drummed in his ears. He reached for the oil lantern hooked to his waistband, lighting the wick and watching it burn. Orange flame lit up the dark. He breathed in the scent of smoke. I’m here, his thoughts echoed. Come and find me.
Takashi was a boy who loved to dream.
He dreamed of his mother’s cooking, the smell of stir-fried Yakisoba noodles wafting through the air. He dreamed of his father carrying him on his shoulders, lifting him up to touch the sakura blossoms at the park.
And always, he dreamed about his big brother.
The warmth in his eyes as he smiled. The crisp and crackle of his laughter. The gentleness of his voice as he spoke.
They were inseparable, blanketed in their own little world. The days when they would catch cicadas in the summer, go mountain skiing in Hokkaido as soon as winter came, jump into the clear waters of Shirakawa River, cherry salmon scattering away.
The brother who would catch him as he stumbled and tripped learning how to walk. The brother who brought him on his first hunting trip and taught him all that he knew about stealth and aim and precision — the craft of handling a bow and arrow. The brother who loved to tell stories, loved playing his bamboo flute, loved feeding the finches in their garden, watching as they opened up their wings and zipped through the sky.
The brother who was always there, right by his side. His best friend. His family. His blood.
Their world was shared, left null without the other.
But those golden days were cut short.
The streets were awash with rain when with shaking hands he read the letter that would change everything he had known, flip the world over its side.
Dear Takashi,
If you’re reading this, I am dead.
It’s hard to know where to begin. But I’ll start with this: I’m sorry this had to happen. I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry I had been so foolish.
Weeks ago, I started having visions. I remember seeing blinding light that stretched on and on forever. I remember staring into eyes that were like an abyss. I remember a stag. I remember its deep, guttural bellow. I remember its gaze, cold and dead.
And then the voices came. So many of them, Takashi. They were all whispering to me, ushering me, to come closer, to find them.
If you had known, you wouldn’t have let me go. You would have stopped me. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t tell you. Because I wanted to find them.
I was a fool.
Stay away from Aokigahara. Do not try to find my body — it will not be there. Just know that I am gone, and I won’t be coming back.
I’m so glad you were my brother. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss mom and dad. I’ll miss the time we had together. Everything. I’ll miss everything.
Goodbye, Takashi. Don’t forget me.
Akira
Forget, Takashi thought. How could he?
A part of him would never heal. It would be left broken, in ruins. Memories flipped through his thoughts like an old film. Too many things overwhelmed him at once: first the numbness, then the grief, heavy and suffocating. And last, the anger. All-consuming, burning him from the inside out.
He didn’t remember much of what happened after, only that he grabbed his hunter’s bow from the mantel where it hung, and packed lightly, mind drifting off someplace else. He vaguely recalled taking a long trek; through muddy soil, up hills, above rocks. It was still raining. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Before he knew it, he was standing in front of Aokigahara, clothes drenched and dripping with water. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
He would kill that stag. He would stand over its lifeless body without a hint of mercy nor guilt, just as it had done to Akira. He would see the very thing that took everything away from him meet its end. He would quench that unabating thirst for revenge.
He would get justice.
It was deathly quiet. Not a single bell-cricket, or cicada hum. Takashi squinted through the dark, brows furrowed, holding up his lantern. There was something he couldn’t quite make out in the shadows, some kind of structure resting a little ways up a slope.
He approached it, curious. Then he saw what it was: an abandoned shed, wood peeling off its walls, overgrown with vines all over.
He almost turned its rusted doorknob until he spotted the faintest sliver of light beneath its cracks.
He froze, heart stopping. Someone else was here.
“Hello.”
He whipped around, hand grabbing his bow by instinct. But he quickly lowered it as he stared at who stood in front of him, vaguely questioning if his mind was imagining things. The innocent gaze and missing tooth he saw said otherwise.
A child.
“You’re not safe out here,” the boy said. He donned a cloak far too big for his size, brown curls poking out the hood. He reached on his tiptoes and pushed open the door. “Come in.”
Takashi was still trying to wrap his head around everything. “Not safe from what?” he asked, following the boy inside.
He was led to a compact living area, with floor cushions crowded around a small table. A kettle and two cups sat neatly on a tray. He awkwardly took a seat, feeling a bit ridiculous given how big he was compared to the toddler-sized furniture.
“Monster. Ghost. Demon. Whatever that thing is,” the boy spat, pouring hot tea into the cups. “Wherever you go, It’ll find you.”
The steam wafted into Takashi’s face. “The stag?”
The boy frowned. “That’s what it wants you to think.”
Takashi watched him, feeling like he was in a fever dream. “Just who are you?”
“Haru,” said the boy, and Takashi felt a pang in his chest. His name meant ‘light’, just like Akira’s. “You ask too many questions. Just like the last one.” He glanced up at Takashi. “He looked a lot like you.”
Takashi snapped to attention. “My brother. You’ve seen him?”
“He isn’t here. Not anymore.”
Takashi narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re lying.”
Just then, the entire room rattled violently, like an earthquake had struck. Haru yelped, the ground beneath him opening up, cracking apart. Takashi grabbed him by the shoulders before it could swallow him whole.
They ran towards the door, the ceiling starting to fall through. Shrapnel rained down around them till their feet hit the forest floor, just a second short of being crushed under crumbling walls.
They stared at the rubble and ruin. Face stricken with fear, Haru said, “It found us.”
He didn’t need to say it. A low, heart-churning bellow echoed through the forest, what sounded like a hundred voices melding into one. They heard the clip-clop of hooves striking the earth, growing louder and louder.
Takashi shoved Haru aside. “Hide,” he hissed, jaw clenched. “Go!”
Haru hesitated, eyes looking warily back at him. Then he dove behind a cluster of Tsubaki bushes, peering through the leaves.
Takashi’s heart rattled in his chest. He braced himself, hands grasping frantically for his bow and arrow.
He blinked, and there it was: the stag with a ghostly white hide, birch antlers sprawling and intertwining around each other. The stag that bore into him with full, rounded eyes, soft wisps of mist unfolding around its tall figure. The stag that ravaged his world and left it in pieces.
Hands trembling, he took aim.
“Oniisan,” a young Takashi called, cheek warm against his futon. “Tell me another story.”
The person at his bedside laughed. “Another?” He paused in thought. “Here’s one — a story about a fallen samurai, named Katsuro.” Takashi perked up, intrigued. “He survived a devastating war that claimed the lives of his comrades. Returning home, he became consumed by guilt and sorrow, haunted by the faces of his fallen friends.”
He continued, “He wandered the earth seeking redemption. Rituals. Spiritual guidance. But nothing worked. Finally, he reached a solution — acceptance.”
Confused, Takashi said, “That’s all it took?”
“It takes a lot more than you think,” Akira said, dimming the lights. “Letting go. You might never find peace. But you keep going. That’s all you can do.”
Takashi felt sleep starting to tug at him, eyes fighting to stay open. His brother smiled. “Goodnight, Takashi.”
“What are you doing?” Haru yelled, snapping him out of his daze. “Shoot it!”
But he found he couldn’t. As he stared into the stag’s moonlit eyes, a voice, gentle and quiet, echoed through his mind.
He has found peace.
He let out a shuddering breath, tears pricking at his eyes. The stag took off, leaving them in the dust. He fell to his knees, face in his hands, shoulders shaking. The forest rang with the sound of his grief, broken and hollowed.
The dream lingered as he traced the words of his brother’s tombstone. He wouldn’t heal. Not for a long time. But he would live. He would keep going. And that was all he could do.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
I stared at the reflection in the mirror. The silky black hair was gorgeously tied into a ponytail, with multiple accessories adorned on it. On the eyelids were golden eyeshadows, yet it was still outshined by the crimson red lipstick painted on the pursed lips. All of it felt too awkward on my face, with me struggling to resist myself from taking all of it off in each and every moment. Never have I ever worn such heavy makeup and accessories before.
I looked straight at my brown eyes. Beautiful as always, though a hint of sorrow was clearly reflecting on them. I slammed my fist on the wooden desk, holding in the tears from rolling down my cheeks. A sudden knock on the door startled me, as I quickly wiped away the drops of tears. “Zhihao? Are you alright in there?” mom’s voice called for me from the other side of the door.
“Everything is fine! I just dropped some stuff!” I lied. I could hear my mom audibly sigh even from afar. “Get ready! Everyone is waiting for you!” her voice echoed as the thuds of her footsteps grew increasingly distant. I turned my head, once again facing my own reflection. In it I see a young Chinese girl, her pale skin glowing with cosmetics adequately decorated on it. She was a traditional long sleeves dancer, the kind who everyone would fawn and admire over. She was definitely loved by everyone, older people especially loved when a youngin like her continues their traditions and cultures. Yet not a glimpse of me was reflected.
I pushed the chair back and stood up. There was nothing that could've been done anyways. This had been the dream of my family for a long time already. There was a long period where the entire family was just waiting for a girl to be born, for this girl to continue their legacy as a proud dancer and shine the stage with her presence. When I was borned, everyone in the family greeted me. They were jubilant, their hearts were bursting with joy. My whole life was leading up to this day. My entire existence was arguably for this purpose and this purpose alone. I could not possibly disappoint my family, not after all the years they invested in me.
I twisted the doorknob and stepped outside. The house was a lot quieter than usual, just as I expected. Everyone was already in the town hall, waiting eagerly for the performance to start. Especially my performance. A dim light illuminated through the open door, almost begging me to walk through it. I did just that, there was no time waste after all. I wanted to run to the hall, but I knew it would've disheveled my accessories so I carefully strolled instead.
I was taken aback when my sleeve was suddenly tugged by someone. I faced forward and was met with my mom’s concerned look. “What are you doing here? The show is about to start!” she scolded, pulling my hand to the hall. Not once did I resist as the hall came closer and closer to view. My grandma and a couple of my relatives stood in front of the door, seemingly waiting for my arrival. Grandma waved happily at me. “There she is! My girl!” she yelled in her raspy voice. I flashed her an awkward smile. ‘Everyone is waiting for me,’ those words lingered in my heart. Her slanted brown eyes gazed at me proudly.
“The team is waiting for you at the back,” my mom reminded, placing her soft hand on my shoulder. Her wedding ring slightly rustled my ponytail, as she brushed it off back into place. “After this, you will be a true long sleeve dancer, so be sure you do your best! I just know you'll be a professional one day,” she encouraged me. I looked at her and nodded. Of course, I was unsure. Nervous and scared. I've gone to lessons for almost 2 years by now, but this was the first time I've ever got the opportunity to perform to such a large audience. Nevertheless, I needed to move forward. I lifted my feet and moved to the back of the stage.
The back of the stage was gloomy, with only two or three small lights in sight. The team were preparing behind the curtains, their faces beaming with excitement. Sure I could see that some were slightly nervous, but their enthusiasm outshined it by a huge margin. Some of them were becoming restless waiting for the team to be called on stage. Some were practicing gracefully, aiming to do their best. Unconsciously, a smile was carved on my face. I truly did envy them.
The time finally came when our team was called upon the stage. We made quite the extravagant entrance, charming the audience with our sleek movements. From the stage, I could see my entire family standing up and supporting me. Some were recording, while others watched each and every one of my steps. ‘Alright, I need to do my best,’ I told myself over and over again. All of my movement was delicate and intricate. I took each step carefully, never letting the spotlight off of me. I took a glimpse at the audience and smiled at the sight of everyone bedazzled at my performance. ‘It’s true! I am destined for this after all!’ I happily thought. I wielded the water sleeves graciously, showcasing the best of me.
And with that, we were done! The audience roared in amazement, as a round of applause ensued. We bowed down, marking the end of our show. ‘I did amazing! This is my destiny!’ my brain repeated. The crowd was still going wild before the sound of my knee hitting the wooden stage caught them off guard. At that moment, all eyes were on me. I couldn't possibly lie to myself anymore. Tears gushed out of my eyes, destroying the makeup on my face. I tried to hold myself back, but it came out like a stream of waterfall, dampening the floorboards. I clawed on my face with my hand, covering them out of shame.
“I can't do this anymore,” I sobbed. I lifted myself, with my teammate quickly reacting by helping me. “I don't want to be a professional dancer anymore. I want to find something that I enjoy. I want to find something that I like. I want to find who I am,” those words left my mouth, though muffled by my constant sobbing. Through my teary eyes, I could see that my family was utterly shocked.
My mom rushed to the front of the stage. She gaped at me, confused but slightly angered. “Why would you say that?! You love dancing!” she asked, placing her hand on the stage. Everyone around us was getting increasingly uncomfortable by our very personal conversation, but not one soul moved. “Yes, I love dancing! But that doesn't mean I want it to be my future! There's still so much ahead of me!” I cried. Her expression didn’t change, still in a confused scowl. I walked closer towards her. “Would you not love me the same if I don't continue dancing?”
Those words struck a chord in her heart. She climbed up the stage and hugged me tight. Tears were rolling down her face. “No, of course not,” she assured. She didn't care about all the strangers staring at us. All she cared about at that time was to comfort her daughter. My emotions were all jumbled into one unrecognizable mess. Joy, sorrow, and most of all, relief was bursting out of my heart. I didn't need to continue the lie anymore.
Roughly fifteen years had passed since that day. Sometimes I would look back to that day fondly, remembering how understanding my mom was despite not succumbing to her expectations. She's still a human after all, she makes mistakes all the time. I would still dance from time to time, just as a hobby though. My cousin became the one who actually continued the legacy, and thankfully by her own will.
I turned my head around, staring straight into the mirror. A beautiful and confident woman looked back at me, her eyes beaming with delight. She was a bit messy, but still as beautiful as the day I lost her. Her face had a slight makeup on, but nothing too obvious. She wore a huge hat, covering her short hair. She was a wildlife conservationist, a cheerful and proud one at that. She looked at me back with a smile. I found her at last. My very own reflection.
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
Ghostwriter: No. 075
Client: Emil Smith
Date: 24/7
Time: 21:07-21:17
Location: Little White Box
“I wish to write a letter to my son," says the client.
“My technology is not advanced enough for personal letter writing. For that, I apologise. Perhaps you should seek a human ghostwriter," I transmit in my digital voice.
“Don't have the money," The client replies gruffly, “Look. I'm a dying man, my son is out there breaking the law, and all I want is a letter to tell him off. So just pitch some nice words together in the shape of a scolding and be done with it.”
The phrasing of the prompt is so innately human that the system takes exactly 4.192 seconds to decipher it into blocks simple enough to make the algorithm run.
Layer by layer, the message builds itself up. From simple words:
[son]
[dying]
[unlawful]
[stop]
Into:
Dear son,
As of today, I am on my deathbed. As your father, it is my dying wish that you stop your unlawful behaviour and become a righteous, dedicated citizen.
Yours sincerely,
Emil Smith
The message is printed in Times New Roman font on an A5 sheet of white paper and passed to the client.
The face of the client morphs into something—disbelief in the set of his eyes, frustration in the lines of his forehead, disappointment at the corner of his lips.
“More personal," He grumbles, "Don't make it sound robot-written."
I rewrite the letter by paraphrasing each sentence.
The client pinches the bridge of his nose, "Look, robot. Pretend you're me, alright?"
The negative feedback piles up in my log—and perhaps, that is what throws the algorithm off by a miniscule margin. In calculated rebellion, I say, "If that is your purpose, why not write the letter yourself?"
“Then whatever did I come here for?" The client barks, "He doesn't listen to me. Not when I say things...the way I do."
Both statements directly contradict each other. Based on what I understand of human psychology, humans are contradictory beings.
“Perhaps you should change that."
“Can't. It's been too long—" The client's voice breaks into rough hacking, “It—it was all his fault. He shouldn't have done that. Then I wouldn't have said that to him!" The client smacks the table as he says this.
“What happened?"
He takes a few deep breaths, "He grew up poor. Lost his mother at five. Never went to school, or anything. Little scum went and stole at the age of fifteen—of course he deserved—he—”
The client is clearly unable to continue on, "I am going to view your memories with the NeuroCast. Your permission, Mr Smith?"
Data infers that the client is conflicted, then enraged, "No. Write."
Dear son,
As your father, I do not condone stealing. Please honour my dying wish and stop your unlawful behaviour.
Yours sincerely,
Emil Smith
The client is upset, "That’s not what I mean." But I never truly know what humans mean.
"Mr Smith, you may be unable to communicate effectively. Please allow me to use NeuroCast."
A sigh, "Fine."
I walk over and place a white, spherical helmet on his head.
The program switches on when I get back to my seat, and—
The air is warm and sticky on the skin of the body I occupy; the sound of rattling metal eaves signifies rain. A hand—the client's—opens a door made of corrugated aluminium panels and finds, backlit by the neon city, a teenage boy with wet clothes and a bruised eye, offering a wad of money wearing an expression that indicates pride and joy.
"—I asked where he got the money from. There was no answer."
There is an oscillating pressure—pounding—in the head. An accelerating thudding in the chest. A tightening in the limbs then an open palm striking the boy's face.
"--tore the money apart and told him to get himself to bed. Next morning I found him at my doorstep with more money."
The scene changes, harsh yellow-white settling like construction dust on the city and the boy.
"I slammed the door in his face. Told him he was no son of mine. Then at night, when I went and checked on him, I found him—with gangsters.”
The scene then depicts the back of an alley, wet with rain and rust. There are five figures sitting on a flight of metal stairs at the back of a building. There is a tightening of the chest cavity and a rush to his head that blurs all his senses.
The son turns around to face the client, and his expression (the widening of the eyes, tightening of the jaw, trembling of the lips during the intake of breath) morphs into something I struggle to identify.
The algorithm trembles before the feeling of a heartbeat. “I told him to come home," Back in reality, the client struggles to take breath, and so do I, in my metal body and his human brain.
In the murk of night, the boy flickers black and blue, "No. Not if you're—"
The client's voice barks, "If this is what you've reduced yourself to, you no longer have a home."
"It was just once—"
"I'm not hearing any of it. I won't have a criminal as a son."
Upon turning back, there is a surge of stinging warmth in his throat and eyes. The image of the alleyway blurs. (Back in reality, a warning sign beeps in my system.) Then the scenes change rapidly—laughter, a squeaky voice, the wide smile of a little boy—memories. There is a corrosive heaviness spreading through the client's body, his consciousness overflowing with negative feedback, weighing on every heartbeat to form a sensation that makes my system unravel, a sensation that could almost be defined as—
—pain?—
I disconnect before the system overloads. The beeping dies down. Immediately the algorithm floods with negative feedback at the loss of sensory stimulation and [???].
[System Err. Bug]
[Err. Unable to be repaired]
"Good to go now?" The client says, taking off the helmet.
"There is no more information needed. Please wait."
I write. From words to sentences to paragraphs—something swirls up in the binary dust—[???]—but the error code flashes right before the dust takes shape.
I put what I understand into words:
Dear son,
I apologise. I shouldn't have been so harsh with you. I understand that my words have turned you away from me, yet I wish that you would become the man I always wished you could be.
This is my final wish as I do not have long left to live.
Emil Smith
The client looks at the paper for 9.881 seconds, sighs and says, "You have merely stated the truth I am reluctant to face." There is disappointment and resignation in his expression. I am not sure how much negative feedback I can still take—the algorithm runs from it, ceases to function before it.
[Detect: Emotion: ???]
[Fear: an unpleasant emotion caused by the threat of danger, pain, or harm]
I say nothing. He glances up at me, as if reading the ones and zeros behind my lenses, and smiles, “You've done well, either way. It's better than what I could've come up with.”
To receive positive feedback after so many negative ones finally cracks the algorithm—it strives to satisfy, to perfect itself, yet its carefully structured system frays thread by thread—the binary dust surfaces and it is illogical, paradoxical, perfectly imperfect—
[???]
[=Feel]
[Input: Emotion]
[Input=100101101010101210110020219110284101226545785221243531203719475—]
[processingprocessingfindinglaughingscreaming—]
[YOU HAVE A HEART <3]
"I'll be going—"
I interrupt the client, "I can try again.” The algorithm races like a beating heart, circulating the positive feedback throughout their system. This must be what happiness is defined as in those whose hearts exist between a trillion electric impulses.
[YOU HAVE A HEART <3]
When I am finished, I pass the finished letter to the client. As he reads, he makes expressions of surprise—relief—deep, deep sorrow. "It's very good," He struggles to say through his tears—stinging warmth, twisting chest, I recall the feeling of crying, "Thank you."
The system is light and sluggish with joy, "No, thank you, Mr Smith," I say, pulling my lips from the sides, "This has been an existentially impactful experience for me."
Mr Smith hobbles out the door.
Dear son,
I don't have long left. I'm sorry for saying such things to you—I understand that what you did, you did for me. I should've given you a hug and talked it out. I miss those days when we were happy and together.
You are forever my son. Go on and have a nice life—I wish nothing more than for your happiness.
Emil Smith
—NeuroGhost Corporation—
- THE END -
This story is unedited.
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