Medvedev Dmitriy: http://www.proza.ru/2013/08/14/976
Archangel Michael read apathetically through letters from Earth, sorting them according to idea content.
“Give me money; I’ll tithe to Your temple…” He read random lines from a long addressing in a low voice. “I’ll give you a dictionary, so you’ll know what ‘tithe’ means and how to pay back your credit. To the beggars!”
And with those words the sheet of paper went to a huge box marked as ‘Request Department’.
“Tell me, what we are living for…” He took the nearest message, and without reading it through tossed it to the box decorated with glued-on question marks.
“Thank you, Lord… you’re welcome!” And the letter went to a pile of gratitudes. “Forgive me my sins… forgiven!”
Another line of letters, barely touching the hand of the Archangel, filled the matching capacities.
“Dear God, adopt me…” Michael muttered tiredly through another line. “To the beggars!”
“Dearest colleague, allow me to congratulate you… spam the lamer!” And the crumpled sheet went to a huge trash can.
“Our Father in Heaven, if you wish to increase your blessed spirit, send this letter to a hundred…” He started reading the next message, but sent it after the previous one without finishing.
“Don’t stop, make it rock… what?” The Archangel actually rose in his seat from surprised. “How did that get here? Oh, well, to the request department.”
“Tell me, God, does Your spirit possess any brains…” Michael’s hand reached to complains, but after a short thought lowered it into the question category.
“Praise the Almighty… to the kiss-ups.” The sorting one already made his mind, but then his gaze fell upon few lines below, with a request for health. “Fine, to the ailing.”
“Creator, sober up and remake this world… Don’t disappoint me this time, or you’ll make a powerful enemy… See you soon.” Michael covered his face tiredly. “Where are you folks come from?”
And another letter flies to the trash. When the work was done with, the Archangel dragged himself tiredly across the cloud and sat down on the edge, with his feet dangling above the Holy Land.
“How’s it hanging, Mick?” The gentle Divine Voice spoke behind his back. “Was there anything for Me today?”
The other just shook his head sadly:
“Nothing that matters. Just the usual: praises, requests, confessions, gratitude, complains and even threats…
But then he remembered something, stood up and pulled a notebook page from his pocket, on which only two lines in black ink stood out, written in uneven childish scrawl:
“Sweet God, how are you doing, how is your health, are you happy? Maybe I can help you with something?” The Lord read out loud, clasped the letter in his hand and winked to the Archangel. “Thanks, Mick. I’ll go and write and answer.”