EXCERPT
It is important to note that part of the Devil’s plan in Hell is to malform, or as a function of Hell’s design, force you to malform your body. This has been fully and completely orchestrated by the Devil. It is widely known that man has an enduring and sometimes obsessive attachment to his body. In order to successfully survive in Hell, you must endeavor to release yourself from this constraint, as it will only hinder your progress. Understand that you are dead, fully and completely. Although you will feel pain, just as you have felt it in life, the idea of self-preservation from the standpoint of your physical visage is irrelevant. Those who can release themselves from the attachment of their physical selves and embody these principles are amongst the most successful survivors in Hell.
—From “Hell: A Survival Guide”
By Delta-Delius
Montly sat perfectly still on the soft waiting room couch. Supple onyx skin stuffed with semi-hardened fat, the couch almost engulfed her. The cushions, cool and
refreshing, were comfortable against her rough, chapped thighs.
“Would you like something to drink?” asked the receptionist.
“Of course,” Montly said without thinking. Her mind was elsewhere—paging through her studies, her practice questions, and the stories she’d rehearsed in preparation for the interview.
The receptionist got up from her white, bone-on-bone carved desk while Montly watched in silence. She wore the most exquisite, sinew-netted blouse, so translucent her breasts could be seen through it. Her legs, wrapped tightly in a black-skinned skirt, looked smooth and unlabored. But her shoes fascinated Montly the most. She had never seen their equal: high, thin stilettos, pristine polished white bone on their sides, with heels of pure, whole teeth. As the receptionist walked to get Montly the water she’d offered, the teeth ground on the bone tile so loudly, she thought the floor was cracking.
Montly felt a tinge of jealousy. She wore the only garments she had: an off-white, skin overcoat with a pair of loose fitting, high-water pants held up by a braided-vein belt. Her shoes, a pair of simple, skin-folded moccasins, were old and tattered. Montly wasn’t even wearing a blouse. She felt the overcoat was enough, and besides, she didn’t have any breasts to speak of. She’d removed them long ago, far too useless for the weight they burdened her with.
The receptionist returned with a small cup made of thinly pressed keratin.
“I just want you to know,” the receptionist whispered. “Us girls here on The Sled, we’re pulling for you.”
“Thank you.” A slight wave of anxiety released itself as Montly took the cup. She drank
