• The Stocktake

    16th Dec 2025
    Rachel, Short Story, Uncategorized
    The Stocktake

    No one remembered when the shop had first opened, yet each December it drew the same mix of hope and trepidation from all who passed its glass-stained, scarlet doors.

    I was halfway through my coffee when the bell rang. Once, sharp and expectant. I knew it was for me. I sighed, abandoned my coffee like it had personally disappointed me, and crossed the street. There were no sales or opening hours advertised on the windows. Only one line:

    RUE’S YEAR-END STOCKTAKE: ENTRY REQUIRED.

    Required felt personal. The moment I stepped inside, the shop woke up.

    Shelves slid sideways to make room for me. Labels fluttered like butterflies, landing wherever they pleased. Somewhere overhead, a clock ticked, impatiently. The air smelled like dust, lavender, and a candle that had been discontinued years ago for no good reason.

    “Hello!” I said, because it felt rude not to.

    The shop grumbled back.

    Every shelf held things I almost recognised: a scarf I lost at a party, a lamp with no bulb, and stacks of letters I never sent because I couldn’t find the right words. As I walked, the shelves hunched closer, eager.

    A bell dinged sharply, and three tags dropped from the ceiling, hovering midair.

    TAKE ONE.
    THROW ONE.
    LEAVE ONE.

    I laughed. The shop did not.

    TAKE ONE

    A small guitar keychain slid off a shelf and landed at my feet.

    When I picked it up, a memory flooded in: a late-night drive, windows down, volume too loud. A fleeting connection with a stranger over shared music. Absolute joy.

    The keychain was warm in my palm. Peaceful.

    “Yeah, you’re coming with me.”

    The shelves exhaled in satisfaction.

    THROW ONE

    A cracked wine glass shook violently until I took it down. I remembered drinking from it during moments that felt too big to control, forcing myself to believe it would ease the pain.

    The shop wheeled a small bin onto the floor.

    I hesitated. The bell rang. Louder.

    I dropped it.

    The glass shattered on impact, the sound sharp and final. The shop celebrated, lights blazing brighter than before.

    LEAVE ONE

    This one hurt.

    A leather-bound notebook waited on a table that hadn’t been there before. Its pages held pieces of friendships I could no longer step into, moments that belonged to another time. A weary smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

    I closed it gently and placed it back on the table. The shop stilled. No ticking. No bells. Just quiet respect.

    “Thank you,” I whispered, unsure whether I meant the shop or the notebook.

    The exit appeared where the scarlet doors had been all along. Outside, the air felt clearer. Lighter. I checked my pocket. The keychain was still there. Behind me, the shop dimmed its lights. It would see me next December.

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  • The Painful Gift of November: A Reflection

    9th Nov 2025
    Rachel, Short Story, Uncategorized
    The Painful Gift of November: A Reflection

    The month of November brings with it painful memories, haunting birthdays, and my mother’s death anniversary, reminders that never cease to rest. Year after year, the pain leaks through. Sometimes it is as sharp as the day it was first felt; other times, it is dull, barely noticeable. But this year? It still lingers, of course. However, a sense of gratitude has washed over me. Perhaps it was a moment shared with a stranger on a late-night drive that left me feeling achingly human. And so, I felt compelled to write this self-reflection on the importance of feeling deeply and honestly through suffering and how that strengthens your faith in Jesus.

    If you ever knew the past versions of me, firstly…I’m sorry.

    Secondly, you’d know how much she held the belief that having feelings was something to be scoffed at. Maybe she was afraid of her own depth, of what she might uncover if she dared to look beneath the surface. Or perhaps she thought there was strength in suppression. That logic was easier than vulnerability, and so she became a “head over heart” person.
    But here’s the irony, being a “logical” person is often driven by emotion. The mere act of holding on to reason can come from fear; the fear of facing something we can’t control. So, we suppress the emotion, convince ourselves we’re being rational, when in truth, it’s an emotional whirlpool of things we refuse to process.

    Because if we gave into the depth, the messiness and vulnerabilities, we’d be exposed. And that’s a repulsive feeling. But also, a very freeing and humbling one.
    The capacity to feel so much and so deeply is a blessing, not a weakness, as I once believed. To have suffered and known pain in my life, has stretched my heart in ways that have grown empathy and compassion within me. These are not easy experiences to sift through; in fact, they’re often painful and greatly discouraging at times. Yet, they’re honest.  

    And what a great place to be. In the honesty of it all. Because when we allow ourselves to feel deeply, we also learn to live truthfully. To give up the façade and let the mask slip to the ground. No performance, no conflict of “doing what’s right” when it comes at the cost of integrity. Only peace.

    So how do suffering, feeling deeply, and living truthfully connect with my faith in Jesus?
    I’ll tell you. In learning my own heart’s capacity to feel deeply, I’ve come to see that it holds a mirror to God’s own heart, a God who weeps, delights, rejoices, and loves infinitely more than I ever could. And because of that, He is a God I can depend on; a God in whose presence I am safe.

    What a privilege it is to be open and honest with a God who is steady when I am not.

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  • Through the Amber Lens:

    28th Oct 2025
    Rachel, Short Story, Uncategorized
    Through the Amber Lens:

    Do you notice
    the way the light reaches his eyes?

    The crow’s feet that come alive
    when his cheeks lift higher,
    as he slowly smiles.

    Or the way
    he lights up as he
    passionately speaks?
    That fire glowing within,
    seeps through him,
    colouring the atmosphere
    with hues of amber and gold.

    He leaves things
    in better shape than when he found them.
    Seeks to listen
    without the urgency to reply.
    Quietly doing good
    without expectation.
    No conditions,
    No reward.
    Only a “just because.”

    And yet,
    your eyes deceive you,
    and your heart
    consistently lies.

    A recovery
    all frightening,
    and new.

    But give it time.
    You’ll see him
    the same way
    we all do.

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  • By the Batphone:

    16th Oct 2025
    Rachel, Short Story, Uncategorized
    By the Batphone:

    The call rang out, filling the empty corridors of Wayne Manor. The building that once stood tall in all its grandeur: stained glass windows and ornate arched ceilings, covered in brilliant lights, was now a shell of its own shadow. Though still a spectacular sight, neglect leaked through the pillars, spreading into the gardens, magnificently decayed.

    And where is the elusive Bruce Wayne? Gotham’s favourite playboy socialite who loved making his presence known? He’s wandering the vacant halls of his own home. Even the gargoyles perched on his roof, stoic and silent, refused to acknowledge his presence. But he doesn’t seem to notice. With a glass of hooch in one hand and his black silk robe dragging along the floor, he stumbled through each room. The further he walked, the more the hallways seemed to shift.

    As he descended the staircase, the light from the panoramic windows seeped through. He slowly tilted his head back, closing his eyes just to feel the sun on his face. A moment full of clarity, but as fleeting as the warmth itself.

    Carelessly, he made his way to the library and seated himself by the dusty bookshelves. He knew every single one of the books there, the conversations and stories they carried. He reminisced the joys of the different worlds he had once immersed himself in for hours, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

    Then he heard it again. Another call, another rejection.

    If you need him now, don’t count on it. But soon enough, he’ll be by the Batphone.


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  • Ceremonial Watering at Dawn:

    6th Oct 2025
    Rachel, Short Story, Uncategorized
    Ceremonial Watering at Dawn:

    Each morning you water the fake plants
    like rain might forget the difference
    between plastic and petals.

    I suppose that’s what you do.
    Darling, it’s all you’ve ever known.

    Pouring into soil that can’t hold it.
    And as the droplets slide off the leaves,
    how could you not notice the futility?

    There’s a certain ease in your habits,
    though shallow they may be.
    Disillusioned? Heavily.
    But how could you bring yourself
    to acknowledge they’re not real?
    For if you do that,
    you’ll have to confront what’s stopped growing.

    So, you go back to what’s broken, comfortable.
    Keep nurturing because it feels right.
    Keep up the ceremonial watering, darling.
    Water it more.

    Though you should know,
    you haven’t stopped loving,
    you’ve just run out of real things to love.

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  • The Mirror’s Image

    23rd Sep 2025
    Rachel, Short Story, Uncategorized
    The Mirror’s Image

    The mirror is a vault of things I try to erase.
    Each flashback a fissure, a crack in my grace.
    I wander through museums of aching regret,
    admiring my shame in each framed silhouette.

    I was the villain in every story I wrote,
    composed every chapter and signed every note.
    Didn’t need enemies, I played them all,
    one by one, I felt each of them fall.

    Whispered harsh truths no friend ever dared,
    wore my guilt like a coat, custom-stitched in despair.
    Built a castle from wreckage, with walls laced in hate.
    Furnished with failures I learned to curate.

    In the dark of night I broke like cheap glass,
    sitting in silence with questions I would always bypass.
    Instead of the usual self-inflicted sting,
    A soft voice whispered, “you’re under my wing.”

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  • No. 1 Party Anthem:

    19th Sep 2025
    Rachel, Short Story, Uncategorized
    No. 1 Party Anthem:

    INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

    The camera pans across her cluttered vanity: a half-finished glass of water, dirty makeup brushes, unopened skincare still in its packaging.

    The shot shifts. She reaches for her earphones, pressing them snug against her ears. Settling on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, she taps shuffle on Spotify.

    Alex Turner’s lazy “One, two…” drifts in, the drums following.

    CLOSE-UP: She rolls her eyes instantly, scoffing with laughter.

    CUT TO WIDE SHOT:
    “Call off the search for your soul or put it on hold again”

    Her eyes widen. A sly smile spreads across her face. She jumps up, swaying to the soft beat, hair loose, spinning across the carpet. Socks slipping; arms flailing about with zero coordination. The bedroom is her stage, the mirror her audience. She’s not graceful. Far from it. But she’s free.

    CHORUS HITS:
    “Come on, come on, come on. Number one party anthem”

    She belts it out, stupidly off-key, holding her hairbrush like a mic, eyes shut tight, letting the music take over. The camera whirls around her, edges of the room blurring, a spotlight centring her in her own chaotic performance.

    BRIDGE:
    “The look of love, the rush of blood.”

    She dives dramatically onto her bed, hair a knotted mess, screaming into the sheets. The camera hovers above, zooming in on her flushed face as she wrings the bridge for all it’s worth, straining for the notes she knows she can’t hit.

    The song winds down. The lamp flickers softly. Silence returns, except for her breathless laughter echoing into the walls.

    Because of course that was the first song to play. The one that always finds her, wherever she is.

    FADE OUT.

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  • Before the Altar of Excess:

    11th Sep 2025
    Rachel, Short Story, Uncategorized
    Before the Altar of Excess:

    Are we slaves to our desires?
    Kneeling before the altar of excess.

    We pour out liquor like water,
    drinking until that is all
    that runs through us.

    Altering our vision,
    twisting reality
    to our needs.

    Our bodies blur together,
    heat spilling,
    hands everywhere.

    We trade
    every ounce of pain
    for fleeting pleasure.

    We burn too freely,
    touch too easily,
    promising each other eternity
    knowing it will vanish
    with the dawn.

    It doesn’t feel right,
    but we can’t tell what’s wrong.

    So we keep going.
    Further,
    faster,
    until nothing is left.

    And yet,
    in that silence after,
    we remain thirsty.

    Endlessly unfulfilled,
    dragged to our knees,
    again.

    What are we but lost?

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  • A Carnival of “What Ifs”:

    1st Sep 2025
    Rachel, Short Story, Uncategorized
    A Carnival of “What Ifs”:

    The smell of coffee fills every inch of my space, mingling with the golden glow of the lamp. The floorboards creak beneath my steps, and I feel the tightness in my chest. It’s 3 a.m., and I still haven’t slept a wink. My eyelids are heavy; my body exhausted in every way.

    I still myself, closing my eyes and taking a slow, deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling. I repeat this six more times, but the familiar sinking feeling lingers, relentlessly taunting me through the night. If only my mind could find rest, some sense of peace. If only I could make sense of all the things that keep going wrong, maybe then I could close my eyes. Instead, my mind is awake, loud, a carnival of “what ifs.” A carousel spinning on guilt? Fear? Chance? Or maybe all three.

    It’s sensory overload at this hour. Every ride lights up at once, flashing with false urgency, a call to action I don’t need. Then begins the choir of anxious voices, offering to be the carnival’s bashful music. My fingers tap my desk to the rhythm of my thoughts, twitching to the music blaring in my head.

    “Shut up,” I murmur, hands pressed against my face.

    I reluctantly glance at the clock, an entire hour has collapsed. With a staggering breath and quivering lips, I sit at my desk. My chest rises and falls in a fixed pattern as I try to steady my breathing. This night wasn’t supposed to go this way. I just had some work to finish and then planned to unwind with an episode of Seinfeld. I can’t even pinpoint the moment I spiralled into this madness. But I did. Little by little, indulging every thought that crossed my mind, playing out every scenario that could, would, or might never even occur.

    A laugh catches in my throat, “how stupid is this?”

    I slowly stand, letting the blood rush down to my legs, and make my way outside to feel the crisp night air. No jacket, no shoes, I need the reset of the cold breeze. As soon as it hits my face, I loosen. I unclench my jaw; my shoulders drop, and my eyes widen as I gaze at the stars. They flicker in a soothing beat, winking at me from the dark half of the blue. The freshness of the air continues to fill my lungs, and I realise that all I wanted to do tonight was control the wind. But I can only feel it; let it ruffle my hair, whisper past my ears, and remind me that there are things out of my control.

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  • Sweetness to the Soul:

    26th Aug 2025
    Rachel, Short Story, Uncategorized
    Sweetness to the Soul:

    Pleasant words drip slowly
    like honey,
    settling on the tongue of the heart.

    The taste remains sweet,
    soothing even the harshest of aches.

    They melt instantly,
    yet are not quick to leave.
    They linger for a lifetime,
    sticking to corners of memory.

    Seeping through cracks of doubt
    and turning empty spaces
    into honeycombs.
    Full of clarity,
    full of life,
    and stability.

    When hands do nothing,
    and gestures falter,
    a gentle whisper
    restores,
    nourishes,
    and heals.

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