Short Stories
Automatic writing series | August 2025
These are some of the short story/prose/poem experimentations done by automatic writing. I thoroughly enjoy playing with different aspects of words, and seeing where the supposed story takes me.
The Trip
This is a story of how a little girl fell onto the pavement and her blood trickled into the little cracks. the blood solidified before the girl even managed to pull herself back up.
‘that’s strange,’ the girl thought. ‘I didn’t feel any pain,’
usually she’d be blubbering by now. but there were no blubbers in sight.
not to the left, not to the right.
instead she felt a sea.
a sea of … something distilled.
the kind of something distilled that could only be recreated fractionally in a lab.
the little girl has never been to a lab, but she’s seen the pristine conditions in her dreams.
she knows, no, she can guarantee, even, that the distillation of her something is the key to finally understanding why she moved the way she moved, why she holds her teeth the way she holds them, and why her blood trickles and not rains down every little gutter.
‘today is the day,’ she chants to herself, ‘the time is now,’
just two of her favourite clichés to get her through the days.
she walks in a zig-zag, avoiding the signs of life beneath her neat mary-janes.
she thinks of the lab. the lab shows the signs. the signs tweak in unison.
‘show me the way,’ she coos, not so much a demand, but a genuine belief in a possible reunion.
the little girl breaks out into a run. she doesn’t usually operate this way.
her body is confused.
it starts to split. splutter. swish. splinter.
a shadow of a limb. a glove of a hand-print.
the something distilled slips on the pavement!
she needs to get to the lab. and she needs to get there fast!
but the cracking of her joints and the howling in her ear-drums beat her to it.
she arrives at the lab only as fragments of her senses, melting by the minute-hand, and importantly– into the stark-white-snow of the premises.
in that moment she could not tell if she was the sea, the something, or the distilled.
she only knew she felt it.
the obsidian lack of pain
after her reunion with the pavement.