Archive politics | Scorched

God, on ice

“I demand the right of reply!” a voice booms from outside my study window, setting the pane aquiver in its frame.

I stumble backwards, toppling the chair which prostrates itself, one wheel spinning absently. The cat bloats like of a puffer fish, moaning angrily.

Peering at us from beyond the glass is an eye the size of a Palates ball. God blinks. Eyelashes, stout as thatching reed, thwack against the pane.

“I see you’ve been fraternising with the enemy,” rumbles the disembodied voice.