A letter

The hatch clacked open, then clacked closed, and all that had changed in my lair was that now a piece of paper sat on the mat. I glanced at it, then stared, then tried ignoring it, but nothing worked. It just sat there, on the mat, silently. It was intolerable. And inconsiderate. And intellectually baffling. Who could this letter be from? Who would dare try and contact me using such archaic means in this world of robolectrics and wormcodes, this world of temporary constellations and laseretchings on the face of the moon, this world of subliminations and allusionics, this world of bellowed yelps and aggressive wallpoundings. So many methods of communication, so little time to master them all.

(I have mastered four of them, of course, but the bellowing and pounding are beyond my gentle nature.)

After lunch I turned my attention back to the mat, and the letter that there was sat. It had not moved, nor even opened itself up to me like a flower tempting me with its pollen and nectar. It was resolute in its laziness. Just trying to imagine a society based upon such an unwelcoming method of talking made my brain hurt. By my reckoning, such a society would be the preserve of hunchbacked giants trapped in copper towers, lightning striking the tower over and over again in a fury, the hunchbacked giant safe within, laughing at nature’s weakness, but not willing to test their arrogance and venture outside and face its power. Instead a network of lightning impervious creatures would have been enslaved, made to slurk and nester their way through the undergrowth, delivering missives from one hunchbacked beast to the next, each written in a childish scrawl, their pencils held inexpertly in their massive horrific fists, all the fingers wrapped clockwise round the shaft of the pen, their thumb the other way, like an overgrown child holding a club. Their tongues would loll from their mouth as they scrawled. I expect also they would be bearded, or women. The postcreatures would wear tattered uniforms and speak a language more beautiful than anything the tower giants could ever comprehend.

After dinner, tea, and finally eveningfed the letter was still there. Worn down by a day of worrying and fretting, I reached down and picked it up from the floor, ripping the envelope open with my claw.

It appeared it was from Ted. I began to scream.