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The Devil’s Face

The Devil’s Face

Marie has been learning how to shit on the devil’s face. It is a slow process. First of all, one has to take into consideration the setting. In order for the devil to get a hard-on, he must be surrounded at eight points.

To the north, above the Devil’s head, a soul writhing in eternal agony. On his right hand, a man with infinite bowels being disembowled, infinitely. At his feet, a vain woman looks into a mirror where boils rise continuously to the surface of her face. To his left, a quiet old man masturbates. To the northeast and southeast, solemn demons. Northwest and southwest, fallen angels snivel. It is difficult, he explains, after millennia of existence, to get off.

Marie finds it hard to move her bowels properly under the circumstances. She is constipated, seized up, she anticipates the look of disgust on the face of the masturbating man; the angels in their chains rattle in a most distracting manner, and the castor oil has not yet kicked in. She bears down, she changes her position to a squat, she balances herself on the shoulders of one angel and one demon. The devil looks at her with the familiar look of a man about to come, who needs just one more, just one more thing.

Marie has been taking 25 mg of hydoxyzine, an anti-anxiety medication, to deal with her difficulties shitting on the Devil’s face. She feels it a personal failure; she has never failed to fulfill a man sexually. She doesn’t think to blame it on the fact that he has never been a man.

She blames herself but also the fetish and moreover the look on the devil’s face, possessive and mocking under his thin beard as if daring her anus to discharge. The next time the situation is arranged, the dias well-lit, the tortured man mocking her with his ropes and ropes of loosened bowel, she mounts the devil, then turns to face his horny corny feet. He grunts, he is displeased. She turns to look at the masturbating man, she leers; he blushes and she notices his penis has literally been worn down to a ragged stump from the friction of his hand. His right arm is massive while the rest of him has wasted. He is ashamed and it is their mutual shame that finally moves her.

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7 Comments

  1. Annam says:

    Wow, this is intense. I particularly enjoyed the image to go with this story: the different colors as representations of emotion and sin.

  2. Lani says:

    This makes me feel rather confident about the prospect of submitting to you guys actually.

    I loved this whole story. Short and sweet and full of irreverent Palahniuk style shock.

  3. nospam says:

    I’m sorry, but this story seems to rely too much on shock value. It’s all cuss words and weird fetishes, but at the expense of the interesting idea (shared shame and sexuality) the story is trying to explore. This is the fiction equivalent of a Marilyn Manson song, and not in a good way.

  4. eric says:

    interesting. … excellent ending… (does that make me weird)

  5. I find the image almost obtrusive. The story is a nothing really. Just reveled in the contortions of language, here.

  6. sallyz says:

    whens the last time you added a story to this website? I thought this was an online magazine. Seems like you only add stories a couple times a year.

  7. Danielle says:

    i love your use of language, you create vivid images which in turn leave a vivid prose, which I, in turn, really enjoyed; though the story itself isn’t deep, it’s colourful, like the image representing it.

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