Wheeling Gull Isle lyotard

its black gaze rested on the man, with the comforts of a cat within a patch of sunlight.

the man was a constant. a pretty picture. a landscape painting lovingly detailing every advertised feature of his faith. 

and it'd hate to prove him wrong.

but he was wrong.

the dog smiled; stained, blunt-toothed grin. it moved its paws trough the rising waters, to turn its body towards the preacher.

"like the only begotten son, i've risen-!" voice raspingly raised, so there was no sharpness to the exclamation. curled tail fanned for drama.

its cowled head dropped, as the face newly flush with life examined itself in the grey-blue. the following giggle like a bubbling cauldron, contents of which; molasses-thick.

"not so quick, i admit. but rise i did."

( was the face within red and raw, as a newborn's is? )