A whole chapter can be read at  http://prayfiction.weebly.com/  . This excerpt is the first few pages from the first chapter; 

Pray.

Put the hands together above the bed clothes, and pray. It is not a sin to masturbate, but it is a sign of stupidity. They rely on the old nightly ritual of prayer to stop them reaching for warmth between their legs when they are asleep and too cold to know what their hands do by instinct, which is to scratch and curl. Pointless routine is a well known trainer of the subconscious, they think.

Their feet are soaked in athlete's foot. The skin in between the toes splits and bleeds, protesting at unaccustomed exercise as the newly formed adolescents add their efforts in the fields. The infection turns and squirms at the top of the thigh, and grows in proportion to fit a fairy mushroom circle of ring worm. It is a fungal flight of fantasy. The hands reach between the toes, then between the thighs. The ring worm slips around the creases of the pubes, emerging with broken bacterial wings and sloping, limping, its pattern of circles.

And breathe in and breathe out the microscopic shit from the air of butterflies, wasp, and horse flies. They are defecating and ovulating as they flitter in between the greenery. The air is full of them. They hover above, unseen by the naked eye; miles of daddy long legs, beetles, and mosquitoes, breeding and pissing. The bacteria off them nest in the lungs as if the alveoli were tree branches. They will grow into fur balls of phlegm and split sensitive linings.

Remember. Don't talk in the fields. Cover your faces. Talk later. Get on your knees and pray. Remember. They have parents who have gangrene, blistered open sores and those that coughed their way in to death, so they take advice seriously. They keep their hands above the bed clothes. They talk when they are inside the house, not out. Their lives are dull, and they remember with dumb senses. They train their hands to stay together away from itchy trunks and digits, and clear their throats with whispered words.

It was nineteen sixty five.

There were hazy and loose surveys that were collected together to form small facts, which pieced together their poor lives. Fifteen percent of the population of the UK owned a colour television; seventy percent owned a black and white television. Seventy percent also owned laptops, but the newspapers were already out of date. The economy was an echo of its last failure but tempted in new money. New retail owners could not understand the lack of sales. Their televisions sung in unison, with choreographed flickering pictures, illuminating the pavement outside, to advertise their availability. Everyone must buy one; they were the latest thing. They were new. The owners hadn’t yet noticed the video that controlled the telly never really changed that much.

The population stared blankly at the TV shops and returned expressionless to their homes, where they plugged in their hidden computers. The laptops were just as useless, and a repeated loop of internet pages, but it didn't seem that way. The eyes flickered over the mass of information, and then it is forgetfulness as a few words are found that they need to make them feel that all was usual. It takes a little time to realise that the words don't change, year after year.

Come into my web, said the spider to the fly. The flies were the cold and hungry people of the nineteen thirties, warmed in black wool coats and holding clear plastic umbrellas. The umbrellas are fly wings, in mid-flight. The rain veins them.

The web is shiny, delicate and inviting.

There are a million web sites to look through that never change.

The spiders collected details, for later. No one knows who made the web- who the spiders were- they are presumed as dead and dismantled buildings, shrunk yearly to fit in with a fast moving technology, until they become able to fit in to someone’s hand.

The human flies were bait as chat bots are fed their chat room banter to repeat and entice.

They are immortalised forever, in a string command.

They are the voice of temptation, as a sub routine.