Write or wrong? International Writing Course 2025

Teacher: Miguel Ángel Garrido 

The following short stories were created during Write or Wrong?, a two-day exploration of how human creativity and artificial intelligence can meaningfully collaborate in the writing process. Over the course of the workshop, students experimented with ChatGPT as a creative partner—using it to overcome writer’s block, generate ideas, refine style, and expand narrative possibilities.

These works reflect the spirit of the course: curiosity, play, and a willingness to treat AI not as a replacement for imagination but as a catalyst for it. What follows is a showcase of voices discovering new creative territory, one prompt at a time.

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The desire of Nature, Sonia Heliott

The trail was empty. All she could see was her own footprints into the mud. Her bottle, full, was moving into waves as she walked, the charm, a precious gift from an old friend, beating against the metal. On a hike? Probably. That emptiness seemed precious or better said, fragile. The corpse of a deer was eaten by worms, entirely, making this animal appeared alive. The maggots moved, curling the flesh. The sun looking upon and the wind sharing the dead smell, the parfum of the grass disappearing. The flies flew around like predators waiting for their preys. But this one was already dead.

The silence of the forest was deep as an abyss. The sound of voices or the cracking of the unfortunate dead leaves under the paws of wild animals were not to be found. Not to her adventurous ears. The sun was warm through the trees. Quite warm. Some drops from the last rain fell into her cheeks, like a kiss. When was the last time somebody laid their lips on her pale skin?

She laid down, in between rocks and the greens. The mosses felt like a cushion, a weight equivalent to heaven if clouds were the beds. The rocks were hard but balmy, like a hand on a shoulder. Her hand went through the mosses, deeply into it, until she could not go further. She whispered. The wind sighed.

How long was she lying there? It did not matter; the light of the sun was still caressing her legs up to her waist. The time seemed longer or maybe shorter. Her body left the ground and the forest grunted. Her hands left the mosses, ripping it from the joy she felt.

As her footprint continued to mark the trail, the path was nowhere to be seen. Was she lost while exploring the silence of the forest? Probably. The river was still on her side, going down deeper between the trees. She could feel the water, the coldness of the wet. She wanted to feel it. Her clothes on the mosses, her body in the water. The stream was touching every part of what she was made of, from her boiling skin into the inside of her flesh. She sighed. The water continued to please her.

She crawled out of the river as the stream pulled her more into its touch. Her body fell into the moss, like her hand before. Roots started to curl around her: from her waist, they found a way to her chest, wrapping everything inch of round skin. Her voice was heard. The forest quivered. The roots became stronger, her skin turned red. The sunlight kept heating the forest.

Her body pushed deeper as the roots pulled her into the moss. How much time had passed since her body was touched that way? She could not remember. A last moan of her voice was heard, sensual, calling for more. The wind of the forest whispered again, the roots continued to caress as flowers bloomed around. She disappeared as the veins and the skin of the forest ate her into their flesh.