Automatic Story #47

In the beginning of the story a mother and her two children are walking across a moor. We can tell from the scene that they are most likely refuges from some catastrophe and from the moor we can tell that this is most likely England. They are dressed in ragged clothing befitting of the period narrative. They are framed by a cloudless steel gray sky, it is not raining but has been recently and the dewy grasses of the moor have soaked the dress and petticoat of the mother. The children are blank eyed and expressionless. Seen from a respectable distance, one that lingers right at the edge of humanity.

Later on, after the rats have slunk back in from the bowers to begin reclaiming their stake, the mother will pass into a deserted city. She will clutch her children close to her and shield their eyes from the rumble and viscera. She will pass into the blank black eye of a crow and through the door there into something beyond. The children wont know it, but they will be reinvented as ghosts, as shadows flitting in between the threads of the veil. The mother will rock them and curse god for not having invented the love story.

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poem

I am the smallest mouse scratching at the ecclesiastical door. Everywhere there is rain and I’m pretty sure the church itself is compiled of corpses, each one more holy than the next. There is a preacher in the bell tower forecasting the hour of our return. “Hallelujah hallelujah, the bells toll, All is bliss all is bliss.” The layman lies like a dog, curled up around his rotten master. The air is filled with cries for vengeance, with cries for recompense; but Oh the stench, the stench.