Me and the Devil

by Sandra Kasturi

I dreamt my boyfriend was the Devil. He had floppy hair and looked suspiciously like a writer I know. Because really all writers are the Devil—these are just facts. My Devil boyfriend insisted we fly straight to Australia which of course is where the Devil lives, right in that hot red Outback. The Devil likes red places: he lives in pomegranates, rubies, the thoughts of sharks, and sometimes Mars, or that giant swirling spot on Jupiter. All reds belong to the Devil, which is why he often shows up on the inside of your mouth, ruining your teeth. That’s how you get cavities—the Devil for sure. The Devil planned our Australian trip in greatest detail, though I sensed our plane would probably crash or land somewhere unpleasant like Baltimore or the surface of the sun. I told the Devil I wasn’t having any of it, which made him cross, but in my dream you could talk back to the Devil, which you can’t do in real life. He had a contingency plan, of course (that’s the Devil for you), and invited all my friends along for the trip. They were all too happy to join in, because who doesn’t want to go to Australia? Who doesn’t want a Marmite sandwich and to see platypuses? And redbacks and death adders and Nicole Kidman—100% the Devil’s creatures.

So we flew to Australia, me and my closest friends and the Devil. Sure enough the plane went down and that was it for me—I was breaking up with the Devil. He didn’t get it. After this nice trip, plus paying for all my friends? I pointed out that he’d crashed the plane and we were all dead now, which, for me, really marks the end of any relationship. But he just stood there, the Devil, floppy-haired and grinning at me, all big teeth and a too-tight suit. Trousers showing too much ankle. No cavities though. I left in a huff, ditched my friends too. I mean, nobody wants to sit out the afterlife with girls in league with the Devil, just for a trip overseas and the promise of a Marmite sandwich and Nicole Kidman. I made it back to my bed and woke up without the Devil there which was nice. He’d left me his card on the nightstand though: 1-800-666-DEVL. (One last thing—turns out the Tasmanian Devil? It doesn’t actually belong to the Devil. Go figure. I know because I called the number to double-check.)

Sandra Kasturi is a mixed-race poet, writer, editor and book reviewer. Her work has been published in various venues, including The New Quarterly, Rattle, Prairie Fire, ARC Magazine, Taddle Creek, and 80! Memories & Reflections on Ursula K. Le Guin. Her poetry collections are: The Animal Bridegroom and Come Late to the Love of Birds. She has won the World Fantasy, British Fantasy, and HWA Awards for editing/publishing and Sunburst Award for fiction. She recently won Pulp Literature's First Page Cage Match for her novella, "Medusa Gorgon, Lady Detective." Sandra is fond of red lipstick, G&Ts, and the movie Aliens (original theatrical release only).