TALES FROM THE EDGE OF FOREVER
An Extraordinary Collection of Short Stories
First Edition
Published by The Nazca Plains Corporation
Las Vegas, Nevada
2010
ISBN: 978-1-91098-171-2
Ebook: 978-1-91098-172-9
Published by
The Nazca Plains Corporation ®
4640 Paradise Rd, Suite 141
Las Vegas NV 89109-8000
© 2010 by The Nazca Plains Corporation. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Printed in the United States of America.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Tales from the Edge of Forever is a work of fiction created wholly by Alexander Hammond’s imagination. All characters are fictional and any resemblance to any persons living or deceased is purely by accident. No portion of this book reflects any real person or events.
Galaxy Photo, Sergii Tsololo
Mountain Photo, Yurok Aleksandrovi
Male Photo, Helder Almeida
Art Director, Blake Stephens
DEDICATIONS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
Thanks to some very special people…
Brian, for his 25th century tech support and laconic grin
Carolina, whose intelligence and uniquely indomitable spirit continually inspires and challenges
Elita, whose generous and totally unselfish nature helped me find my feet again
Jill, who’ll never read this but who gifted me my love of reading (Thanks Mum)
Jordan, my dear friend, an outstanding writer and movie buff par excellence
Julian B, the very best friend one could ever ask for and the finest man I know
Julian P, the ever cheerful ‘man from the movies’. Stay frosty Dude!
Lena, who despite being Swedish continually offers warmth and encouragement
Laura, whose gentleness, perceptiveness and dark humour always passes muster
Michele, for critiquing me relentlessly and affectionately since our schooldays…and whose support is never less than 110%
Pam, for her undying effervescent enthusiasm, great sleeve notes and cheeky smile
Philippe, who notwithstanding he’s a bloody Frenchman always believed in me. Merci!
Jan Arzooman, my brutal and no nonsense editor!
Sheraz, test reader, valued friend and SF fan par excellence
TALES FROM THE EDGE OF FOREVER
An Extraordinary Collection of Short Stories
First Edition
Alexander Hammond
CONTENTS
THE END OF THE WORLD
ARTISTIC LICENCE
MY SPECIAL GUEST TONIGHT
DEITY
SCIENCE FICTION
CHANCE MEETING
A WORK OF QUALITY
THE HOTEL AT THE EDGE OF FOREVER
TOP SECRET
THE MAN WHO THOUGHT HELL WAS A BREEZE
THE HITCHER
ALIENS
WARRIOR
THE TRUTH GAME
PROOF
AMBITION
THE FUTURE
AN ASTRONAUTS DREAM
A GLIMPSE
ABRACADABRA
THE PROGRAM
CONSEQUENCES
THE BUTTON
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE END OF THE WORLD
The night was warm though not unbearably so. It was for nights like these that the lone figure walking along the beach had travelled so far. A balmy ambiance pervaded and with the sun long gone, the walker was content to note that the sand still held some of the Caribbean sun’s fierce heat.
A full moon was high in the sky casting an unreal light across the beach. In the sea phosphorescence could be seen glistening enticingly just beyond the shore. The decision to walk back to the hotel was surely a good one. The baked fish at the restaurant had been more than satisfactory and the wine passable. Maybe the second brandy hadn’t been such a good idea but after all, it was a vacation.
A shooting star flashed past overhead. The walker made a fervent wish with the merest hint of sadness. Amanda, with her stunning African features, was beyond reach as apparently were all women that the walker truly desired and that was that. One day, Sam thought ruefully, maybe tolerance would emerge and prejudice vanish. Perhaps I should have wished for that instead the walker mused. This reverie was interrupted by the flash of someone ahead lighting a cigarette.
The smoker was clearly visible in the moonlight. A woman in an adventurous bikini sat cross-legged, staring out to sea. She seemed to sense she was not alone and looked round. “Hi Sam,” she said. Startled, Sam walked over to her. When the two strangers were only a meter apart the girl held up her hand and breathed, “Don’t ask; just enjoy the view.”
Sam made to speak again when the girl put her finger to her lips and patted the sand next to her. Rather awkwardly Sam sat and stared out to sea. After a few seconds the urge to speak was almost unbearable. As if sensing this the girl said, “Silence is a deep well in which all things can be found. You must reach into it and take that which you need.”
It appeared that this was both a conversation opener and closer at the same time. Evidently enjoying Sam’s awkwardness she said brightly, “I’m here to watch the end of the world.”
“Tonight?” Sam offered.
“Most definitely,” the girl confirmed.
As the girl looked round to venture these comments her face was fully disclosed in the light of the full moon. She was beautiful. There was something Oriental about her but there was so much else in the mix. Her hair was long, black and straight and reached to her waist. She had unusually wide almond shaped eyes. Her exquisitely shaped cheekbones accentuated finely defined features that were as sublime as Sam had ever seen. Her skin was flawless and the dramatic curves of her physique completed the perfect picture.
“Aren’t you afraid?” Sam asked.
“Of what?” the girl replied.
“The end of the world?”
“Of course not,” she replied, with a light laugh.
Beguiled, Sam pressed on. “Why have you chosen to watch it from here?”
“Because here is where it’s going to happen,” was the enigmatic reply.
They both stared out at the sea in silence for several minutes before Sam plucked up the courage to speak again.
“What makes you think that the world is going to end?”
The girl laughed. “For something to begin something has to end. It’s the truth of all things. Summer must end for autumn to begin. A flower must die to produce seeds for a new plant. Beginnings are endings. Endings are beginnings.”
The brandy and this stranger’s beauty were having a profound effect. Desperately trying to keep up with the eclectic thought process Sam continued, “So if this world ends, what’s going to come after it?”
The girl stared back and murmured so quietly it was almost impossible to hear, “It is not of this world I am speaking.”
Sam could smell her perfume now, heady, musky. She seemed to be everywhere.
“This is the moment that your world ends,” the girl almost whispered, “And your new one begins.”
As they embraced Sam felt as never before. The deliciousness of the girl’s femininity descended like a blissful mist as her long nailed fingers began their sensual exploration. Within moments the girl skilfully liberated Sam’s skirt from her tanned legs and started on the buttons of her flimsy blouse.
- The End -
ARTISTIC LICENCE
Being an immort
al pan dimensional being, the entity didn’t understand his creativity knew no boundaries; indeed he wouldn’t have understood the concept of limitation even if you’d sat him down and tried to explain it to him. Besides, even sitting him down would have been a problem because, being pan dimensional, he didn’t have physical form. Additionally, he certainly wouldn’t have understood the concept of sitting. It would also have been difficult to talk to him about his views on the benefits and possible drawbacks of immortality because, like all his kind, having always been immortal, he knew nothing else. He had always ‘been’ and would have been totally unable to conceive otherwise.
Existing pan dimensionally was a tremendous advantage in his line of work, though he wasn’t aware of the true scope this gave him. Unlike most of his kind he was an artist. He was rare in his choice of interest. Most of those he knew were philosophers and deep thinkers who conjugated for infinity on the true nature and meaning of existence. They metaphorically wrung their hands in frustration as they grandly genuflected on the limitless possibilities, which, as they had no frame of reference, was a pretty pointless endeavour. They ruminated fiercely amongst each other on the reasons that they were that which they were. Despite an eternity of debate they were bereft of answers. Evidently they were all that was, and no matter how potentially enlightened the exchanges between them became they were unable to see beyond this.
The artist preferred creativity. Though the concept of beauty was one that he could not have grasped, his creations gave him, and sometimes others, pleasure. Occasionally, when he’d allowed himself to go with his feelings, he’d create something that would give him pause for thought. He recognised this on the odd occasion when it happened. He recognized what he’d created made him feel ‘different’. It was a hit or miss affair but when he struck gold it stood out. Thus his philosopher friends encouraged him. They all relished the altered state that one of his ‘special works’ could engender.
He unveiled his latest work with some trepidation. As far as he was concerned there was something special, something relevant about it; though relevant to what he couldn’t even begin to conceive. His peer group studied his creation intently. It was interesting, it was complex and adventurous, yet there was balance. It had been thought through logically but it reached out in a way that gave them a frisson of excitement. They looked intently at the complex lattices weaving in and out of each other in a harmonious pattern, a pattern that incredibly embraced both logic and chaos simultaneously. The form of the highly organised possibilities and probabilities were based on random elements that gave it its uniqueness and yet it had a rigid structure that held together. It was as the work was studied more closely its impact and implications began to make themselves apparent. Whichever way they looked at it, it worked. It was dichotomy expressed as art. A unique achievement.
“You know, this is a breakthrough; there are possibilities here.”
Gratified at the response to his endeavours the artist basked in their appreciation.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m going to call it ‘time.’”
- The End -
MY SPECIAL GUEST TONIGHT
“Open that mother fucking safe or I’ll blow your mother fucking brains all over this nice carpet!” shrieked the masked gunman as he pressed his gun into the temple of a portly middle-aged female bank clerk. Evidently he’d picked the wrong person to intimidate “Fuck you, asshole!” she screamed and brought her handbag up in a swift and surprisingly powerful arc, clipping the gunman smartly round the head. Falling back stunned, the man inadvertently fired his weapon. The bullet hit the ceiling and ricocheted though one of the bank’s windows straight into the head of an elderly man driving cautiously down the small town’s main street. His head exploded like an overripe tomato and he fell forward onto the steering wheel. The car careered out of control for a hundred metres then veered dramatically left into a graveyard, ploughed through a crowd of mourners and ended up, hood downward, in a newly dug grave, much to the astonishment of a priest who was about to conduct the burial.
The applause was rapturous. The lights went up in the studio and still the audience laughed and applauded. The chat show’s suave and experienced presenter smiled a thin smile and addressed the camera. “And that, ladies and gentleman, was a sneak preview from Killing Kids for Cash, the latest work from that enfant terrible of new wave Hollywood, Tarquin Querrin. It’s his follow up to the massively successful Lets Torture the Bitch, which the New Yorker memorably described as ‘A triumph of nihilist deconstruction. Sexual politics with a switchblade, real blood and dark humour. Refreshingly brutal.’ I don’t know what it means Ladies and Gentlemen, but here he is, the hero of the hour, to tell us all about it.”
Tarquin grinned at his interviewer. Christian DeVille had the biggest chat show on the planet and was not to be underestimated. Christian’s reputation as a keen intellect and a merciless interrogator did not faze him. He was basking in the glow of success. Four hit movies in a row. The studio would back him whatever he said as the big bucks he’d created rolled into their back accounts like a tidal wave. He was untouchable. His words and thoughts were valuable and meaningful. Had he not won two Oscars in row? Did not the biggest stars in the business fawn before him to read his profanity littered, pop culture dialogue? The word ‘genius’ had been used on a few occasions. He wouldn’t dispute that. He knew what sold and relished his notoriety.
Christian started to move things along. “I must tell you, Ladies and Gentlemen, Tarquin nearly didn’t make it here tonight. He had a car accident on the way to the studio but being the trooper he is he insisted on coming. Are you sure you’re OK Tarquin?”
“Just fine Christian,” he laughed back. “Just a slight ringing in my ears.” Rapturous applause again exploded throughout the studio.
“Ask not for whom the bells toll Tarquin,” observed Deville dryly, then he started. “Why do you like violence so much?” The question came out like a whiplash.
Surprised by the interviewer’s tone but unfazed, Tarquin relaxed into his well-worn patter. “In a world numbed into boredom, violence is the new intellect; it cleanses and focuses the psyche. And, let’s face it. It can be funny. For example, remember the scene in Slaughter High where the cheerleader stabs the principal in the crotch with his own letter opener? It’s got everything. The realisation of teenage angst, a young girl emerges into true womanhood by a positive act of showing a mature man that she’s not to be oppressed, and her comment ‘That’s for my grades,’ is genuinely funny.”
The audience clapped in unbridled enthusiasm as they recalled the now famous scene, a scene made even more memorable because the cheerleader was played by an actress previously famous for her ‘good girl’ roles. She’d done everything to get the part and the credibility that it would give her as a serious actress. Tarquin mentioned this fact to Christian who responded, “Why does that scene make her a serious actress?”
“It’s about empowerment Christian, don’t you see?” replied Tarquin cheerfully, warming to his subject. “In the movie she’s empowered by what she does and, off screen, she’s empowered by the success of what she achieved in the movie. This just shows, as I’ve always said, violence can be a positive force. It just depends on how you look at it.”
“How about from the point of view of the victim?” the interviewer replied almost absent-mindedly. For the first time in many years Tarquin realised he was confronted by someone who was not following the adoration line. He was about to speak when his interrogator asked, “Have you ever experienced real violence Tarquin?” The audience quieted eager to hear the reply. The director was aware that the studio seemed to be getting uncomfortably warm.
“Christian, it’s well documented that I never discuss my private life, my movies talk for me,” he responded with a conviction he didn’t feel. “Ah, I see,” replied the interviewer, stroking his chin thoughtfully and continuing, “So you write about violence because you know it makes you money. And as you’ve never
experienced it, you feel that it can be funny?”
Uncomfortable with the line in questioning but still relatively unruffled, Tarquin responded. “I didn’t create violence. Violence is all around us. I merely reflect society and put a humorous twist on it. I’m a mirror if you like, and I give people what they want, that’s why they go to see my movies.”
“Ahh,” murmured Christian. “You deny that your work influences people?”
“Absolutely,” Tarquin responded.
Looking through his notes Christian continued. “It says here that you have said, on the record, that you were influenced by A Clockwork Orange, The Wild Bunch, Dirty Harry, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Deliverance…shall I go on?’’
“Yes but that was creatively,” Tarquin responded.
Christian pressed his point. “Your creativity is expressed through the scripts you write, but does it concern you that those who cannot write scripts may manifest these influences in other ways?” The audience was now totally silent.
Tarquin tried to marshal his thoughts. God, it was hot in this studio. “Look, if people get the message that violence is acceptable from these movies then that’s not my fault.” he blustered.
“So you accept the fact that your work can have an affect on others?” snapped Christian. “But you’ll gladly take the money no matter how much damage you cause.” The last comment was a statement.
The auteur made to reply but it was a difficult question to answer, difficult because Deville had got him cornered and he had started to feel decidedly unwell. His head started to pound. The accident must have affected him more than he imagined, “I…I…you know, it’s awfully hot in this studio Christian.”
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