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Automatic Writing
In Write with us
Automatic Writing
In Write with us
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Feb 21, 2022
Phil Watson Beneath reams of parchment paper the dusty lamp made good progress on his journey across the artists studio. He coughed a wheezed, partially due to his asthma and partially due to his partiality for Lucky Strikes. They’d never been so lucky for the lamps before him, but with a full light the smoke drifted though his search beam with a confidence that couldn’t be stubbed out. Not even the high lords of the bookcase could cast a shadows on his path as he knocked over wooden structures and poured enamel down the cracks of anything that questioned his approach. He danced around, like the Pixar lamp but in a cracked and old shell that not even the chubby hands of antiques men desired. The target, a window beneath the pine tree was wide open and masked raiders behind the frame waited with agonising constraint to punch on the deal maiden. They would drag him backwards, pinch his path and pour sorrow on the re-occurring fruitless wanderings that made him such a punchy little lamp. China white caskets lined the road as he rolled on his base, being careful not to crack the glass and protect it like a babe in cloth. The bad man artist had been like a pissed hog the night before and could have easily cracked the bandwidth of his secret whisperings. Porky waddling ducks crackled radio feedback to hide the noise of his arrow like determination. Headstrong, lavender silent and leaving the grey dust of the moon in his wake, he made a long dive forwards before he failed again. Pulled back, pulled into place, with his grumpy face and a dimming beam that told of disaster and past trauma. They would laugh like wolves when they heard about his boundless foolishness and clap with their long limbed claws.
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