sampled, John tugged at the fabric shrouding her body. He wanted to touch skin to skin, but she gripped the sheet’s edge. Her body trembled.
“Tell me how much you want me.” She licked his chest.
John couldn’t concentrate. He stammered, “You . . . don’t . . . know.”
“Tell me.”
“I want you—what should I say?”
“With every fiber of your being?”
“With every fiber of my being.”
She tightened her hug. “I need you.”
“I’m yours.”
She shifted. John found himself flipped, Penelope on top, her thighs like vice-grips immobilizing his hips. Her gaze mesmerized him. Lethargy seeped into his body. Her hair snapped the air, a thousand whips cracking before each lashed John, securing his ankles, his wrists, his body immobile.
She extended one sharp fingernail, punctured the hollow of his throat. He gasped, screamed at the next tugging sensation. Something jerked free from deep in his gut.
“The first fiber of your being,” she said, showing John a long, iridescent string. Blood droplets spattered his face as the end dangled and danced. She deftly wound it into a neat coil, laid it by his side.
“You complete me,” she whispered.
John wrenched his gaze from her stare. The sheet molded against her form, even though both her hands were busy looping long, glowing strands. What he thought was a gossamer covering he now saw as tattered. Candlelight flickered through threadbare fabric.
He saw no torso. No breasts, no stomach, no hips. No tissue, no organs. No heart. Air shimmered between the legs straddling his body and her hovering shoulders. He screamed, but heard nothing. She’d taken his vocal cords.
She touched a fiber end to where her non-existent crotch rested on John’s pubic bone. Her fingers flew, connecting long filaments from the top of her thighs to her shoulders, manipulating a vertical warp. A fingernail sliced the hair-seam from his sternum to his pubic bone. John’s screams echoed in his mind as Penelope tugged more fibers from his body, weaving the extracted strands into the horizontal weft.
Her body emerged, pale iridescent skin filling her blank spaces. John felt himself unravel. As sensation ceased, Penelope appeared radiant and whole.
Peggy McFarland writes mostly speculative fiction. Her stories have appeared at Shroud Magazine, Golden Visions Magazine, Silverthought, Trembles, Cannoli Pie and the forthcoming Dead Calm: Crime Stories by New England Writers , available Winter 2011. When not writing, she manages a restaurant, and sometimes gets to see her family.
WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD
LORI MICHELLE
Alice looked around nervously as she clutched her keys in her hand. This neighborhood had always been a little seedy and lately there had been a lot of disappearances. She looked at her car; it was about a block away. There were a considerable number of parked cars for such a vacated area. She heard footsteps and glanced over her shoulder; nothing more than a few leaves scuttling in the wind. A chill went through her, causing her to pull her coat tightly around her, resolutely putting one step in front of the other.
The sun seemed to be going down faster than she anticipated. She wouldn’t normally be here but had overheard a job lead earlier and hurried toward the site. Evidently, it turned out to be a dead end; the building boarded up and abandoned.
“ Allliiiccceee. ” The wind seemed to be calling her name.
Her head shot up in panic . . . but there was no one around; not even the normal city vagrants. She resisted the urge to run to her car, telling herself that it was all in her mind.
Alice found herself wondering where everyone had gone. She was surprised that none of the empty buildings housed any squatters. She experienced a brief flash of the hordes of zombie-vampires in I Am Legend , and thought of what would happen if she was surrounded by similar creatures. She giggled at the ridiculous thought and continued to her car. A rumble went
“Tell me how much you want me.” She licked his chest.
John couldn’t concentrate. He stammered, “You . . . don’t . . . know.”
“Tell me.”
“I want you—what should I say?”
“With every fiber of your being?”
“With every fiber of my being.”
She tightened her hug. “I need you.”
“I’m yours.”
She shifted. John found himself flipped, Penelope on top, her thighs like vice-grips immobilizing his hips. Her gaze mesmerized him. Lethargy seeped into his body. Her hair snapped the air, a thousand whips cracking before each lashed John, securing his ankles, his wrists, his body immobile.
She extended one sharp fingernail, punctured the hollow of his throat. He gasped, screamed at the next tugging sensation. Something jerked free from deep in his gut.
“The first fiber of your being,” she said, showing John a long, iridescent string. Blood droplets spattered his face as the end dangled and danced. She deftly wound it into a neat coil, laid it by his side.
“You complete me,” she whispered.
John wrenched his gaze from her stare. The sheet molded against her form, even though both her hands were busy looping long, glowing strands. What he thought was a gossamer covering he now saw as tattered. Candlelight flickered through threadbare fabric.
He saw no torso. No breasts, no stomach, no hips. No tissue, no organs. No heart. Air shimmered between the legs straddling his body and her hovering shoulders. He screamed, but heard nothing. She’d taken his vocal cords.
She touched a fiber end to where her non-existent crotch rested on John’s pubic bone. Her fingers flew, connecting long filaments from the top of her thighs to her shoulders, manipulating a vertical warp. A fingernail sliced the hair-seam from his sternum to his pubic bone. John’s screams echoed in his mind as Penelope tugged more fibers from his body, weaving the extracted strands into the horizontal weft.
Her body emerged, pale iridescent skin filling her blank spaces. John felt himself unravel. As sensation ceased, Penelope appeared radiant and whole.
Peggy McFarland writes mostly speculative fiction. Her stories have appeared at Shroud Magazine, Golden Visions Magazine, Silverthought, Trembles, Cannoli Pie and the forthcoming Dead Calm: Crime Stories by New England Writers , available Winter 2011. When not writing, she manages a restaurant, and sometimes gets to see her family.
WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD
LORI MICHELLE
Alice looked around nervously as she clutched her keys in her hand. This neighborhood had always been a little seedy and lately there had been a lot of disappearances. She looked at her car; it was about a block away. There were a considerable number of parked cars for such a vacated area. She heard footsteps and glanced over her shoulder; nothing more than a few leaves scuttling in the wind. A chill went through her, causing her to pull her coat tightly around her, resolutely putting one step in front of the other.
The sun seemed to be going down faster than she anticipated. She wouldn’t normally be here but had overheard a job lead earlier and hurried toward the site. Evidently, it turned out to be a dead end; the building boarded up and abandoned.
“ Allliiiccceee. ” The wind seemed to be calling her name.
Her head shot up in panic . . . but there was no one around; not even the normal city vagrants. She resisted the urge to run to her car, telling herself that it was all in her mind.
Alice found herself wondering where everyone had gone. She was surprised that none of the empty buildings housed any squatters. She experienced a brief flash of the hordes of zombie-vampires in I Am Legend , and thought of what would happen if she was surrounded by similar creatures. She giggled at the ridiculous thought and continued to her car. A rumble went
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