Mirror Poetry Novels & Stories

I pulled the cord and began to climb the ladder. Once I made it to the attic, I began shining the light through the room, but I still didn't see anything. Walking through, I felt something touch the bottom of my foot; it was glass. Why was there glass? I looked up to see a mirror that used to be in my room; I remember it like it was yesterday. Mom and Dad took it out when I was little because I woke up from nightmares; I was six, talking about gruesome things that a six-year-old girl shouldn't know about. I shoved that memory aside and looked back at the mirror then started to leave, but I saw something, a glimpse of something "Hello?" I breathed; my chest was beginning to hurt. I heard the

Her eyes seemed to bore into her own reflection as she spoke, "Do you think he is on to us?" The mirror seemed to ripple, like the surface of a pond, and then Mrs. Iyama's reflection responded, its voice low and menacing. "That fool didn't suspect a thing." But it was clear that this was not Mrs. Iyama speaking; her reflection had taken on a life of its own, revealing a dark, demonic presence lurking beneath the surface.

“Wait—hold on! It was you in the river too, wasn’t it?” This felt just like this, being pulled without me actually having to move my body. “Yes,” the voice replied, calm as ever. Just like that, my body stopped. My eyes widened. In front of me was… a lake. Small, still, its surface so clear it looked less like water and more like a polished mirror. The reflection was perfect, sharp enough to catch every detail of my face. I swallowed. “Is this… what they call mirror water?” My voice dropped to a whisper. I’d heard of it before, it can reflect both the past, present and future.

Not really. It was a dance. And I wrote the music. I choreographed every sinuous move. Temptation shall come wrapped in silver tongues and wicked charm. They called it a warning, I called it a mirror. Because prophecy is just a story someone was brave enough to write before it happened. And I’ve always had a taste for storytelling. Especially the well embellished ones. I move deeper into the chamber. A pool rests at the center. Ink-dark and mirror-smooth. The kind of water that remembers things. I kneel beside it and breathe out her name.

So, I am not able to see the one standing behind the mirrors of the room, but they can see me and communicate with me. Four mirror-like walls are enclosing this room: the mirror of reality, the mirror of fear, the mirror of sins and guilt and the mirror of retribution and punishment. The first mirror is the mirror of reality. That one is displaying the true self of the one imprisoned. I looked at that one and… goddamn, do I look like shit, I look like long haired butterfaced ogre, all swollen, with broken bones jutting through my lacerated skin, which was plagued with cuts and bruises. My hair is knotted, sticky, and full of blood and dust. It is matted, dirty and all over the place. I look

We exchanged a glance, a silent agreement that we were ready to face whatever awaited us. As we advanced further into the chamber, the environment shifted, morphing into a labyrinth of mirrors. Each reflection held a distorted image of ourselves as if mocking our journey and challenging our perception of reality. "Stay focused," I reminded myself, my voice steady despite the disorienting surroundings. "These mirrors are illusions meant to deceive us. We must trust our instincts and look beyond the reflections."

“They have nothing on me.” “Sure, they don't. But, Rena, how exactly do you plan to handle this?” Ada asked, worry bleeding through tone. Mirena tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “The easiest way,” she replied. She merged into traffic smoothly, eyes focused ahead. “Do you know the disadvantage of a house of mirrors?” She asked and basked in the silence that followed afterwards. A smile curved her lips.. “It shatters the moment you throw a rock at it,” she continued. “Every reflection fractures. Every illusion collapses. The beauty people admired becomes something twisted and unrecognizable.”

A row of glass vials stands sentinel on a rickety shelf—each containing a unique essence: wolfsbane, moonflower, etc. But my purpose lies beyond these trinkets. I seek the “Mirror of Truth,” a fabled artifact said to reveal the soul’s darkest depths. It is wrapped in a red cloth, hidden beneath a stack of yellowed parchments. The cloth bears stains—perhaps blood, perhaps tears. I unwind it carefully, revealing the mirror’s polished surface. Its edges are jagged, as if it has been shattered and painstakingly pieced back together. As I gaze into the mirror, my reflection wavers. The room behind me blurs, replaced by a moonlit forest. The mirror does not merely reflect; it conjures memories. I

I needed a mirror. ​The Resonance Mirror was not a piece of glass in the traditional sense. It was a localized, high-density field of inverted solar gold, suspended between four pillars of resonant copper I had salvaged from the Iron City’s old telegraph lines. In theory, the mirror would not reflect an image, but a frequency. If the Shadow Thread attempted to mimic Winnie’s voice or her light, the mirror would catch the vibration, flip it, and reveal the jagged, discordant reality underneath. It was a trap designed for a liar. It was a mathematical net for a creature that lived in the gaps between truths.

I did a good job, too, because it lay hidden there until my sophomore year when one phone call stripped those masks away, laying bare the Truth so I could see myself for what I was. *** As maybe you can imagine I avoid mirrors as much as possible. Can’t be managed all the time, obviously. I do have to shave, comb my hair and brush my teeth occasionally. There’s also the rear-view mirror in my cab, too. That’s somehow the worst. It focuses on my eyes. Everyone’s heard it by now. It’s used in countless stories, poems and movies when someone wants to sound insightful. Eyes are the windows to the soul. Cliché, but remarkably apt. I hate looking into my eyes. They’re dead and flat, which spooks m