The Spirit and The Body

by Nora M. Mulligan

She was dreaming an overenthusiastic puppy was slobbering all over her face and neck. In her sleep, she reached out to push the creature away, but when her hand touched flesh, she woke up with a jolt.

Without thinking, she switched on the bedside light and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. She turned to see a naked man sitting up beside her in her bed. She blinked to make sure she wasn’t still dreaming. He looked too good, like a living recreation of an alpha male on the cover of a romance novel, broad chested, muscular arms, dark hair flowing to his neckline, chiseled features and eyes that were literally smoldering. Wisps of steam rose from his body. He smiled at her, lips curving to reveal perfect teeth.

She punched him on the jaw, a good solid hit that should have knocked him down at least. Bizarrely, however, her fist flashed right through him, and she had to catch herself to keep from falling off the bed.

“Is that any way to respond to your most ardent lover?” he purred at her, still smiling. His voice was low and musical, with a trace of some accent, possibly French, possibly Italian. “Are you one of those feisty women who wishes to prove her independence by showing off her physical strength?”

“I’m one of those women who doesn’t like waking up to find some strange male creature in her bed, slobbering all over her,” she replied. “What the hell are you? And don’t give me this ardent lover crap. You’re not human, that’s obvious, so tell me what you are before I throw you out.”

He pouted, his perfect eyebrows rising and his eyes getting larger and more pathetic. The steam increased slightly. “You can’t want to get rid of me, not when your alternative is sleeping all alone, without even the hope of a lover who will bring you the greatest pleasure a woman can experience.”

“Wanna bet?” she said. “Get out now before I call the police.”

“Call the police?” His voice lost a touch of its musicality and got a bit sharp. “You would really call the police on a supernatural lover who has appeared out of your dreams to give you everything you’ve ever wanted in bed?”

“Is that what you do for a living?” she asked, looking him up and down. “You appear in women’s beds and what? Make out?”

“I’m an incubus!” He sat up straighter so she could better admire his model-worthy physique. “I’ve been giving pleasure to women since before you were even conceived!”

“Your technique needs work,” she said, shaking her head. “Lots of work.”

“You mean you weren’t turned on? Even a little?”

“Not at all.”

He poured himself closer to her, his face close to hers, and then he leaned in and began kissing her neck. At least, she supposed that’s what he thought he was doing. It felt as if he were drooling all over her neck and ear. She shoved him away.

“Hey! That’s some of my best stuff!” he cried. “How can you resist that?”

“Easily. Look, I don’t know what your thing is, why you chose me, but it’s definitely not working, so goodbye, good luck finding someone else who’ll be more receptive. Try a virgin, someone who doesn’t know what’s what.”

He blinked at her. “But I thought you were a virgin. You weren’t—I didn’t—” He stopped himself. “I’m sent here to seduce you. I’m not leaving here until I’ve made you deliriously happy with sex. Come on, give me some help here. What do you want from me? I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?”

“Yes! Picture what you want, what would bring you the greatest pleasure, and I’ll do that.”

It occurred to her that she wasn’t going to get rid of him any other way. And it was worth a try, at least. She closed her eyes and concentrated, creating the perfect lover in every detail.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw that the incubus hadn’t been lying. With a smile, she reached over and drew the beautiful woman closer to her, entwining her hands in the other’s hair and kissing her lightly on the lips.

The incubus pulled back, eyes wide. “Wait a minute. Are you saying— ”

“You made a serious miscalculation,” she said, “but it’s okay now. Here, let me show you how to really give a woman pleasure.”

And she did.

◊ ◊ ◊

Nora M. Mulligan
Nora M. Mulligan is a librarian and former lawyer who lives in New York with her husband and two cats.  She’s been published online and in print in a variety of places.

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Rolling the Dice

by George Morse

“Hello?… Hello?… Is this the health insurance company?”

“Yep… William Robert Health Insurance of Las Vegas, Nevada.”

“Uh… I have a question about coverage.”

“Sure. Fire away!”

“My wife and I live in New York, but we took a chance on your company. We bought your Low-Cost, High Value Plan.”

“Good thing the new health care law let you shop around and buy an outta-state plan. No more payin’ for coverage you didn’t need.”

“Yeah, we’re on a tight budget, and those new tax credits don’t help much. Your company had the lowest premiums. How long have you been in business, anyway?”

“Company’s been around a few years. Small-potatoes operation. Funny story, though—I won it last year in a poker game… Called that sucker’s bluff!… Then, I changed the company name, got it goin’, and with the new laws, it’s turned out to be a real gold—I mean, it’s been a real pleasure to serve the public. So what’s your problem?”

“Well…my wife hasn’t been feeling so good lately.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Our primary doctor said it was a problem with her colon. He sent her for some tests.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. They said it’s colon cancer. She needs surgery, chemo, and radiation.”

“Lemme guess. Expensive?”

“Seventy-five thousand.”

“Whoo-ee! That’ll bust the old bank account!”

“For sure. The hospital checked our policy and found that nothing is covered. Some kind of exclusion.”

“What’s your name, buddy?”

“Dave Johnson.”

“Wife’s name?”

“Michelle. Michelle Johnson.”

“Spell that?”

“J-O-H-N-S-O-N.”

“Hang on a sec. … Never good at spellin’… Bambi?… Bambi honey?… Look in that pile of file folders, will ya? … Yes, darlin’, I’ll take my ‘goddam alligator boots’ off the desk… Now, Bambi, don’t go callin’ me Billy Bob! I’m on the phone here! Come on, sweet cheeks, see if you can find a Michelle—”

“Johnson! Michelle Johnson from New York.”

“Catch that, honeybunch? It’s Johnson! … Hey, she found it! Sometimes, we have a little trouble with the ol’ filin’ system.”

“So, what’s the problem with our coverage?”

“Lemme have a look-see. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh, there! I see it. According to her application, Ol’ Michelle has been takin’ over-the counter antacids.”

“Yeah. Tums, Rolaids, stuff like that. She thought it was a stomach problem.”

“How long has she been takin’ those?”

“A few months, maybe.”

“Well, there you go. Gotta be the same problem. She shoulda gone to the doc right away. Ya gotta nip these things in the bud. Ya don’t, they fester. That’s why it’s an exclusion. It’s in your contract, page one-eleven.”

“Jesus! Is there some kind of appeal?”

“Your contract requires binding arbitration.”

“How long will THAT take?”

“A year. Maybe two.”

“WHAT? The doc said she’ll DIE if she doesn’t get surgery soon.”

“Sorry to hear that ol’ buddy. Look on the bright side, though. You’ve got a little time. Why don’t you and the wife come out to Vegas for one last fling? We can get you a great room, maybe comp you a dinner or two. Oh, and we can find you some sweet deals on airfare, too. What do you say?”

“Are you NUTS?”

“Hey buddy, just thinking about your wife here. Tryin’ to give her a good time before she—“

“DIES?”

“We prefer to say ‘cashes in her chips’.”

◊ ◊ ◊

George Morse
George Morse lives in Hamburg, New York

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Honeymoon

by Terry Rainey

Monday, September 3, 1944, New York, hot, muggy (91 degrees in the shade!). Yankee Stadium, the Bronx, war bonds signs, the dazzling scoreboard, the large green expanse of the playing field. Green, a deeper green than any place she’d seen in Nova Scotia. An electric green, with a hint of dark power to it, a sensual, dazzling overload.

Her life had been Canada, poor but putting a good face on, her father‘s passing in 1934 hardening the family, relegating them to vocations given over to suffering and sacrifice. But she had been the lucky one, the reader, the smiler, the perpetual optimist, despite life’s daily crushing reminders of cold, of small deprivations, more Lent than Christmas.

But, amidst daily prayers for a brighter life, she had caught the eye of an American soldier, stationed, in of all places, Halifax. A chance meeting at a bus stop, he looking sharp in his uniform, she modest but still a bit of flirt in her friendly. Just less than a year of courtship, what with the war going on and then marriage, and her sudden dance to the United States, and the honeymoon in New York.

And here she was, Yankee Stadium. There’d been no baseball in her life; her only frame of reference was hockey. The hockey rink, its coziness, focused light and heat, animated her, warmed her. This large field felt like America, wide open spaces, rolling lawns, expansive estates. Her Canada spirit felt constricted, limited, as she witnessed the garishness of New York, the loudness, the cursing just too audible, the low murmur of the crowd a bit unsettling.

The game itself, versus the Indians, was a complete mystery. There seemed no rhyme or reason to why the two teams switched sides every so often. She’d expected that the Yankees would be American through and through and that the Indians somehow represented the tribes. It didn’t seem so from their appearance, as far away as they were. The stadium and the game itself, to her eyes, seemed so American, with its bellowing, its raucousness, its enormity.

Her musings on America gave way to a bit of a headache. She mentioned it to him a few times, to no discernible effect. He explained the nuances of the game, forgetting that she didn’t have even an idea of the whole spectacle. The heat seemed to worsen as the crowd pulsed to the rhythm of the game, and stifled her initial thrill. Her clothes clung wetly to her body, a body she was just now discovering.

Thoughts drifting back to the hotel room in Midtown, she asked a few questions, trying to avoid the ones he would think stupid. She figured out innings. Nine. Outs. Three per half inning. 27 outs per team. 27 she could count. 27, the end of heat, a release back to the streets of the city, the lights of Broadway, and the dresses in the windows.

Her spirits rose after the Indians’ 27th out, as the crowd rose and stretched in congratulations and good cheer in the aisles. But he remained, rooted in the seat, his eyes on the emptying field. She pulled playfully on his arm, “Time to go!”

He calmly and looked up at her. “Sweetie… It’s a doubleheader.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Terry Rainey
Terry Rainey had lived his entire life in the Washington, DC, area, until 2016, when he moved to Clinton, New York. In D.C., he worked in the U.S. Senate for five years and then had a 25-year career in trade association management. For the past ten years, he taught high school English and Creative Writing in Alexandria, Virginia. His literary influences are many and include Raymond Carver, Herbert Warren Wind, Mary Oliver, Billy Collins, Sharon Olds, and David Sedaris. Terry had a monthly column in Alexandria, Sunny Side Up. He now writes a weekly humor piece for the Waterville Times. He loves upstate New York, especially his writer friends in the Whitesboro Writers Group.

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Still Here

by Rick McQuiston

Luke watched the leaf skirt over the smooth, snow-covered landscape. It hardly left an impression in the snow, simply moving along in sporadic movements to the wind’s desires. In a few seconds it would be out of sight completely, leaving no trace that it had ever been there at all.

Not much different than me, Luke thought with a bitter aftertaste. That’s all I’ve become: a dried out leaf blowing across the snow.

Barren trees stood at attention in the distance. Their empty branches seemed to yearn for the leafy decorations that once were attached to them. However, now they were empty, like childless mothers who passed their days reaching out in vain attempts to find their lost memories.

Luke took a sip of his coffee. The caramel-colored liquid did little to lift his spirits though, and he knew it. He was fighting a losing battle, and the final solution waited for him at the finish line.

Overhead, he caught a glimpse of movement. Something soared through the clear, cold sky, darting this way and that, revealing itself only through the sparse branches of the trees.

“They’re still here,” a monotone voice said.

It startled Luke so much he almost fell over.

The owner of the voice, a short, graying man who seemed to appear out of nowhere, stood behind Luke. He was pointing a long, crooked finger to the sky, but was staring at the ground.

“Excuse me?” Luke said.

“They’re still here,” the man repeated. “The invaders, or aliens, or whatever you want to call them. They’re still here.”

Luke felt annoyed at the man for disturbing his solitude, but he couldn’t deny what he was saying. They were still here, on Earth, spreading their spores into the wind, waiting for them to germinate in whatever vehicle they used.

Vehicle. If only mankind knew what that vehicle was then maybe there’d be a chance. Luke felt confident that scientists somewhere could develop a weapon against the invaders if they only knew how they spread their seeds.

The man glanced at the cup of coffee in Luke’s hand and smiled. “Don’t suppose you got any more that?” he asked through half-rotted teeth.

“No, I don’t,” Luke replied. His attention swung back to the sky. “Has anyone ever seen them?”

The man followed Luke’s gaze. “I’ve heard people say they’re 20 feet tall and covered in black fur, and others swear they’re no bigger than a dog and as bald as can be.”

Luke sighed and tossed the cooling remains of his coffee into the snow. “So nobody has seen them.” A pang of doubt began to fester in his gut. “They might not even exist, or be part of some elaborate conspiracy.”

“No, they’re still here, you can be sure of it.”

“But if nobody has seen them then how…”

“You can’t see the air,” the man retorted, “but it’s still there.”

“But we can feel it, it’s what we breathe, we can feel the effects it has, not to mention the wind. We can feel wind.” Luke felt foolish for even getting involved in a debate with the man.

The man rubbed his stubbled chin. “I see your point, but I can feel them. I think you can as well. Don’t lie yourself, you know you can.”

Luke was at a loss. He couldn’t deny what the man was saying. It was true, he could feel the invader’s presence. They were everywhere. They were a part of life. “So,” he continued, “how do you think they spread their seeds?”

The man thought for moment, and then replied: “I think I know.”

The man smiled, revealing his rotted teeth. “A while back, when this mess started, I came across something in my backyard. At first I thought it was a cat, but when I approached it, I saw it was actually a squirrel.”

“A squirrel?”

“Yes, and it was as dead as a doorknob. I think it’d been hit by a car. Most of its head was gone.”

Luke wanted to get away from the man, but needed to hear him out. If he did know how the invaders spread their seeds then maybe he could help defeat them.

Overhead, the sky began to darken. A cool breeze blew in from the north, further tightening winter’s grip on the land.

“I did the humane thing and buried the little critter, but when I turned away from the grave, I heard something.”

“What? What did you hear?”

“The sound of digging. I swung back around just in time to see the squirrel, what was left of it, crawl away into the brush. A trail of dirt and bloody fur were all that remained of it.”

Luke was not only doubtful, but annoyed. “So what does a dead squirrel have to do with…” He paused, a lump forming in his throat. “Do you mean they’re able to use dead animals to spread their seeds?” He really didn’t want an answer to his question.

The man reached out and grabbed Luke by the throat. His grip felt like iron.

It was then that Luke noticed something about the man he hadn’t before, a small, insignificant, but terribly disturbing thing: the man didn’t blink.

And when the man tilted his head forward, far enough for Luke to see the gaping hole in his skull, he began to laugh.

“I told you they’re still here,” he croaked. “And yes, they do use the dead to spread their seeds.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Rick McQuiston
Rick McQuiston is a forty-nine year old father of two who loves anything horror-related. He’s had nearly 400 publications so far, and written five novels, ten anthologies, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors. He is also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School. He is currently working on his sixth novel.

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Knight to f6

by Daniel Stride

I have stood here a thousand times, and shall stand here a thousand times again. One day it will end. The final confrontation, when gods and giants clash, when all is set ablaze and sinks beneath the Sea. But remaining battles are more plentiful than sand-grains upon the shore. The world will not end today.

I ready my axe. If fortune smiles, I shall pile foes in great heaps around me, ere I fall clutching a blood-slick blade with defiance writ upon my lips.

The moments tick onwards, and the rabble march forth to slaughter.

Across the battlefield, an old foe from the new faith smiles and waves. A clever man. Too clever, these Bishops.

I turn to the figure behind. ”Such is immortality.”

The cleric frowns. With his pointed hat and fragile face, he too is a clever man.

“Immortal life, as our saviour promises.”

”I do not follow your saviour, yet here I am.”

”One cannot know the ways of the one who moves us.”

Our peasants are butchered, our defences broken. Our mighty Queen lies dead, slain in single combat.

I grin at the survivors. Shoulders stooped, they are resigned to defeat. But I see only the short road to glory. Such is Valhalla.

The foe-Bishop rushes towards me, his bloodied cape billowing in his wake. I grip my axe-haft. It will be a good death, defending my King.

”Avenge me,” I mutter.

Our clever man rests his hand upon my shoulder. ”I shall.”

As shall I, for him, in battles yet to come.

I have time to smile, ere the blade comes down, sending me into dreamless slumber.

It is the end. For now.

When the gods call me forth, I shall fight once more.

◊ ◊ ◊

Daniel Stride
Daniel Stride has a life-long love of literature in general, and speculative fiction in particular. He writes both short stories and poetry; his first novel, Wise Phuul, was published in November 2016 with a small UK press. Daniel lives in Dunedin, New Zealand. https://phuulishfellow.wordpress.com

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Night Visitor

by Nora M. Mulligan

She was dreaming an overenthusiastic puppy was slobbering all over her face and neck. In her sleep, she reached out to push the creature away, but when her hand touched flesh, she woke up with a jolt.

Without thinking, she switched on the bedside light and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. She turned to see a naked man sitting up beside her in her bed. She blinked to make sure she wasn’t still dreaming. He looked too good, like a living recreation of an alpha male on the cover of a romance novel, broad chested, muscular arms, dark hair flowing to his neckline, chiseled features and eyes that were literally smoldering. Wisps of steam rose from his body. He smiled at her, lips curving to reveal perfect teeth.

She punched him on the jaw, a good solid hit that should have knocked him down at least. Bizarrely, however, her fist flashed right through him, and she had to catch herself to keep from falling off the bed.

“Is that any way to respond to your most ardent lover?” he purred at her, still smiling. His voice was low and musical, with a trace of some accent, possibly French, possibly Italian. “Are you one of those feisty women who wishes to prove her independence by showing off her physical strength?”

“I’m one of those women who doesn’t like waking up to find some strange male creature in her bed, slobbering all over her,” she replied. “What the hell are you? And don’t give me this ardent lover crap. You’re not human, that’s obvious, so tell me what you are before I throw you out.”

He pouted, his perfect eyebrows rising and his eyes getting larger and more pathetic. The steam increased slightly. “You can’t want to get rid of me, not when your alternative is sleeping all alone, without even the hope of a lover who will bring you the greatest pleasure a woman can experience.”

“Wanna bet?” she said. “Get out now before I call the police.”

“Call the police?” His voice lost a touch of its musicality and got a bit sharp. “You would really call the police on a supernatural lover who has appeared out of your dreams to give you everything you’ve ever wanted in bed?”

“Is that what you do for a living?” she asked, looking him up and down. “You appear in women’s beds and what? Make out?”

“I’m an incubus!” He sat up straighter so she could better admire his model-worthy physique. “I’ve been giving pleasure to women since before you were even conceived!”

“Your technique needs work,” she said, shaking her head. “Lots of work.”

“You mean you weren’t turned on? Even a little?”

“Not at all.”

He poured himself closer to her, his face close to hers, and then he leaned in and began kissing her neck. At least, she supposed that’s what he thought he was doing. It felt as if he were drooling all over her neck and ear. She shoved him away.

“Hey! That’s some of my best stuff!” he cried. “How can you resist that?”

“Easily. Look, I don’t know what your thing is, why you chose me, but it’s definitely not working, so goodbye, good luck finding someone else who’ll be more receptive. Try a virgin, someone who doesn’t know what’s what.”

He blinked at her. “But I thought you were a virgin. You weren’t—I didn’t—” He stopped himself. “I’m sent here to seduce you. I’m not leaving here until I’ve made you deliriously happy with sex. Come on, give me some help here. What do you want from me? I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?”

“Yes! Picture what you want, what would bring you the greatest pleasure, and I’ll do that.”

It occurred to her that she wasn’t going to get rid of him any other way. And it was worth a try, at least. She closed her eyes and concentrated, creating the perfect lover in every detail.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw that the incubus hadn’t been lying. With a smile, she reached over and drew the beautiful woman closer to her, entwining her hands in the other’s hair and kissing her lightly on the lips.

The incubus pulled back, eyes wide. “Wait a minute. Are you saying— ”

“You made a serious miscalculation,” she said, “but it’s okay now. Here, let me show you how to really give a woman pleasure.”

And she did.

◊ ◊ ◊

Nora M. Mulligan
Nora M. Mulligan is a librarian and former lawyer who lives in New York with her husband and two cats.  She’s been published online and in print in a variety of places.

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