Micro-fiction: God’s Autocorrect
A slightly weird tiny story.
Fancy something a bit silly to read for a few minutes? I’ve got your back.
But before that, I want to say a special ‘thank you’ to the tiny group of paying subscribers supporting my work on here. Your support means a lot to me!
Anyway, here’s the story, enjoy!
God’s Autocorrect
As the lights dim, the voices in the packed conference hall descend to anxious whispers. People shuffle in their chairs. More than one surreptitiously sips from a hipflask, leaving a whiff of alcohol drifting around them, but no-one minds: they are about to witness something so huge, so momentous, that a quick dram is understandable.
They are about to text God.
Dr Janice Apinya steps onto the stage. Her black hair is heavily streaked with silver, and it’s tied neatly in a bun. She’s wearing dark trousers, blocky shoes, and a white lab coat even though there are no chemicals around. She strides to a single desk in the centre of the stage and squints as a spotlight finds her. It’s a normal looking desk, like something you’d see in a classroom or buy in Ikea. The machine on it, however, is anything but normal.
The machine is glorious. If H. R. Giger design a laptop, and the laptop then ate a pearlescent unicorn, the result might be a machine like this. Sensuous curves loop inwards and tendrils reach towards the ceiling. They sway in air currents that seem to come from another dimension. There are sharp edges too, blocky fractal faces that shift and shimmer. It looks like a technological mirage, and looking at it for too long makes your eyes water.
And now, with the room silent, Dr Apinya types onto the keyboard. Nobody breathes. From the back of the room, the projector’s fan whirrs as it beams words onto the screen above the stage ‘Hello God.’ The doctor’s strike on the Enter key rings through the room. ‘sent’ pops up below the message.
Three dots bounce on the screen. Something is replying. Then the message appears:
‘WHO ARE YOU?’
‘Dr Janice Apinya. I’m a human, from Earth. Are you God?’ The Enter button clacks.
Three dots. ‘DMAN.’
Whispers erupt around the room. “Dman?” “What does that mean?” “Isn’t ‘Dman’ the angel from ancient—”
Three dots. ‘DAMN.’
Dr Apinya glances off-stage. In the wings, a researcher stands with their jaw open and eyes wide, staring at the screen. Dr Apinya hisses “Psst” to get their attention. They jump, as if prodded awake. The clipboard-bearer meets Dr Apinya’s gaze then shrugs, before pointing at their notes. The doctor nods and sets her jaw. She types: ‘We want to know why we are here. Why did you create us?’
Three dots.
They disappear. Someone muffles a titter, high and strained. All eyes are locked on the screen.
Three dots. It’s like the room exhales all at once. God is typing again.
‘I REALLY LIKE CRYSTALS.’
Nothing more.
From the front row, the audience can see the sweat gleaming on Dr Apinya’s forehead. The doctor types again. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘CRYSTALS ARE SO PRETTY. CUBIC, HEXAGONAL, ALL KINDS. BUT SOMETIMES I TRY FANCY ONES IN SPIRALS, HELIXES. I NEVER LEARN. IT’S ALWAYS THE HELIXES THAT GET ME.’
This time, when Dr Apinya looks for back-up, there’s a collection of researchers huddled beside Clipboard-bearer. They whisper, but the overwhelming response is shrugging.
The doctor types, very slowly, ‘We like crystals too. Did you make us to admire crystals with you?’ Heads nod in the audience at this idea: perhaps we were made to be God’s companion, or audience?
Three dots. ‘LIFE IS A TYPO. I MADE A CRYSTAL WRONG. IT’S SO EASY. YOU TURN YOUR BACK FOR A MOMENT, AND THERE LIFE IS, GLOOPING OVER EVERYTHING, MAKING A MESS.’
In the conference hall, urgent voices mutter, dark rumblings of “Mess?” “I knew we shouldn’t—” “If we hadn’t—”
Three dots. Silence falls across the audience like a million feathers.
‘I GUESS I’LL WIPE THIS UP.’
Static.
This new conference hall is entirely different. The lights come up, but its shades are ultraviolet. The walls are rounded and twist into a cone above us, like we’re inside a massive shell.
We’ve been watching a presentation on a giant dome. A researcher walks out, their six subsidiary legs moving them smoothly across the stage. They gesture with their primary limbs, rubbing their beak in trepidation before they speak. We understand their language. “That is the last archaeological record of humans. We have verified the data reconstruction. It is real.”
Beaks click and chatter among the crowd of onlookers. Some of the throng inch up the walls in nervousness, their feet making delicate sucking noises as they ascend.
On stage, the presenter waves for attention. “We believe this is why there is no reply from any other advanced species in the universe: when they draw God’s attention, they are…” The presenter stretches a tentacle and rubs at the back of their head. “They are… autocorrected. Wiped. To survive, we must hide from God, forever.”
In panic, the crowd scales the walls. They flee across the city. The words hang in their minds. They never forget. They tell their spawn, who tell their spawn. Every innovation is made with the explicit consideration of secrecy. They become a stealth civilisation.
Thousands of years later, the discovery shared in that second conference hall is finally forgotten. We are in a third hall, and a shining machine droops across a podium. A beaked creature nervously texts God.
Three dots pulse. Then the reply appears:
‘NOT AGAIN.’
The end
Does that count as cosmic comedy horror? Genres are such wibbly things sometimes.
It’s been an odd week for me. At some point I might write about it, but in the meantime I hope you’re sailing steadfastly through the choppy waters of 2025.
If you enjoyed this post, please click the ‘like’ heart. It makes no difference in the wider world, but it could mean more people will read this, and that would be lovely.
Go be kind and spooky,
Mata
xxx
This is so weird. I love it.
I really like the idea of our creation having been entirely accidental - the result of a slight mistake.