The Loony: a novella of epic proportions

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The firmament’s like an ass shivering. A mechanical storm erupts from the oracle of the Cape as the anointed supplicate themselves to the fiery belches of a foreign god. The steel phallus of the deity levitates slowly, rising in a spectral haze of cooked air.

There has never been a true miracle. The sun has never waved as it passed in its burning chariot, the statues have never cried animated tears, the mother of god has never spoken to children in an isolated European glade. There is no way to express a miracle. But they knew they were seeing one.

Inside the vessel of god, which was oscillating like an enormous dildo and lifting itself into the virginal recesses of the sky, they were bolted to his innards. They were isolated from his divine skin by sanitation suits and caressed him gently with trembling fingers. They were going to his home, the first of humanity invited for supper and, perhaps, a cocktail. They were weeping, pissing, screaming, dreaming. They could not see the worshippers bowing to the infernal power as the vehicle lifted itself away from their terrestrial lives.

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