9781910981729

by Alexander Hammond

  The vast alien fleet appeared from nowhere just beyond the rings of Saturn. In a few short moments, in an explosion of stellar magnitude, their weapons blasted the Earth to oblivion. Pausing momentarily to confirm that no life forms existed elsewhere in the Solar System, they moved swiftly on to continue their conquest of the galaxy.

  - The End -

  CHANCE MEETING

  It hadn’t been the best of days. His boss had been a nightmare. He’d lost his cell phone yet again and now it was raining. As ever, the citizens of Manhattan showed their worst side as the deluge soaked him; the competition to find a cab only one step away from anarchy. He gave up the struggle and stepped into a Starbucks. The sudden change in temperature immediately fogged his glasses. He cursed himself for not picking up his new contact lens prescription. If that SOB of a boss of his hadn’t buried him with work he’d have had time to do it. He cursed himself again that he didn’t have the courage to stand up to him. Not that it would have made any difference. He’d probably get fired if he did and good jobs were a rare commodity in this town. Not that he had what he considered to be a good job but it paid well. A good job, as far as he was concerned, was one where you enjoyed what you were doing. Mick Jagger, now he had a good job. He was sure that George Clooney enjoyed getting out of bed most days, and he doubted that Tiger Woods ever had problems with the boss.

  Not that he envied their lives, at least not too much. But he knew that they wouldn’t have envied his. He wasn’t actually poor and he was successful in his way but that was about the sum of it. Thirty beckoned in three weeks and this wasn’t how he thought it would turn out. He reached for a tissue and wiped his glasses. As he replaced them he made for the counter and placed his order.

  Nursing his tall latte, he walked to the last free table. As he sat down he looked at the other occupants of the establishment. He accidentally made eye contact with a woman at the table opposite. As he was about to smile she looked away, disinterested. Was it not ever thus in this city?

  Frustration rose up in him. He had so much to offer. He was so much more than a number cruncher. He wrote poetry. Good poetry too. Not that his opinions were shared by New York literary agents. He was pretty proficient on the piano too. He wrote songs, ballads full of meaning and emotion. He spent hours refining his lyrical prose to reflect his thoughts. Not that anyone other than him had heard them of course. His offerings had been returned unopened by the music companies, with sharp notes informing him that they didn’t listen to unsolicited material. He was kind, compassionate and sensitive but no one seemed to care. Oh, he’d had dates since he moved to the city but the rapaciousness of New York women just steamrollered his sensibilities. The ones he found interesting discarded him like used tissues, actually, most of them discarded him like used tissues, sometimes in mid date.

  Not that he was unattractive. He modestly considered himself to be not less than average looking. He was in shape, still had his hair and was in possession of all his faculties. And, when given the opportunity, he was a good lay, but it rarely got to that stage. He was a considerate and imaginative lover. It wasn’t ego. He knew this to be true of him. Why other people couldn’t see his redeeming features was a mystery. Happiness appeared to be so easily achievable for others. It seemed that others had something that he did not but he was too intelligent to think this was really the case. He was a nice guy but he wasn’t a wimp. Notwithstanding this it seemed his life was in the ultimate rut. Nothing he did or said seemed to make a difference to the way his life developed. As he considered these thoughts for the millionth time he was once again at a loss for answers. Could it be that none of his talents were enjoyable or worth anything unless he shared them with others? Did they actually mean anything if they were never expressed? It seemed he had all the gifts necessary for happiness. All the basics were there. It was as if he was poised on the launch pad, waiting for ignition.

  The rocket’s fuse was irrevocably lit by the woman who interrupted his thoughts. Asking him if he could share his table, she sat down before he could reply and launched into a tirade of abuse regarding the city he now called home. Her colourful language forced a smile to his lips as her invective brushed a number of his own touch points. She tore open her sugar sachets with venom and fixed him with a stare. “So what’s your story?” She’d snapped, with a hint of a smile.

  And that’s when it happened, when his life changed.

  She was a little older than him, probably the just the wrong side of thirty-five but very striking with it. Not traditionally beautiful, but blessed with such an excess of character he hardly noticed. On that first day she had interrogated him so rigorously he found himself laughing out loud at the onslaught. As he’d laughed, she’d laughed with him, seemingly realising the reaction her insensitivity had caused but enjoying it nevertheless. He had never known anyone like her.

  As the afternoon passed to evening she sucked information out of him as if feeding on it. He was bewitched. Here at last was someone who seemed to be appreciating all that he had to offer. In apparent return for her enjoyment of him she offered scintillating humour, outrageous observations and an insightful intellect. She seemed very wise. Within two hours of meeting her he had looked inside himself and was embarrassed at the conclusion. He liked everything about her.

  It was the little things: the way she reached out and touched his hand to make a point; the way she said ‘Bullshit’ when he got ahead of himself; her genuine consideration of his opinions, and her painstakingly honest assessment of his views. In return, he was no fawning recipient. He challenged her sweeping generalisations and probed her as deeply as she did him, luxuriating in her robust responses.

  Later, at his apartment, (no one was more stunned than he) he winced as she pronounced his first stumbling song as ‘sentimental horseshit.’ It took a good deal of persuasion to get him to perform a second, which also didn’t meet with much approval. The third hit the spot. Her mood softened. “Now that’s what I was expecting,” she said quietly. That they’d made love that night surprised him. That his ministrations were so obviously and so utterly appreciated delighted him. He’d never seen anyone so comprehensively satisfied. In turn she was urgent and creative, shocking and thrilling him with equal measure with her outrageous sensuality.

  The next five days were a blur. In between falling totally and deeply in love he attended meetings with music and literary agents arranged through her connections. His poetry was received with embarrassing enthusiasm and music companies seemed to be queuing up for his songs. Every moment he spent with her was a revelation, every night a voyage of discovery. Life was suddenly good and he was pleased to see that she revelled in every moment with him.

  The woman smiled at her counsellor. “Yes, it was everything you promised. It was well worth the money.”

  “You’ll be doing it again?” enquired the counsellor.

  “You betcha,” confirmed the woman. “It’s just wonderful to feel so needed.”

  The counsellor looked across the pristine uncluttered surface of her desk. She tapped rapidly on a touch sensitive screen in front of her and studied the data carefully then offered, “You put most of this together yourself didn’t you? Well done. Most of our first timers take advantage of our consulting services to help construct a play scenario. Are you sure you want out now?”

  The woman laughed. “I’m not made of cash you know.”

  Smiling, the counsellor fixed her with a steady gaze. “Are you going to tell him? We always recommend that you don’t. Sometimes the guilt can have an adverse effect. It’s best to let us handle matters.”

  The woman thought for a moment. “Yes, it’s probably best that way,” she murmured.

  “Don’t worry,” said the counsellor, standing up and walking over to her. “It’s company policy.” She started to remove the electrodes from the woman’s shaven head. “We always dispose of our client’s sentient creations humanely.”

  - The End -

  A WORK OF QUALIT
Y

  The editor looked at his watch with relish. Seven minutes to go. Seven minutes before he had to put up with that vile little man for the last time. That man whose very presence offended his sensibilities so deeply he felt the need to shower after their encounters.

  He was going to cut him from the list and he was going to enjoy doing it. He’d not graduated a first in the classics at Oxford in order to read the wretched outpourings of a prurient scribbler. Writing was, after all, the great pursuit. It was an elegant and creative endeavour undertaken by conscientious and eclectic thinkers. People who wove their stories with skill and precision, artistes who played with language as a composer conducted an orchestra. Not that he wrote himself of course. He was an editor. His effete mind and intellectual snobbery persuaded him that he was able to critique that which he was unprepared to attempt himself. After all, he consoled himself, someone had to be the guardian at the gate. Someone had to ensure quality and high standards. And of course he did understood high standards. His lecturers had taught him well. He understood their exacting assessments and now their standards were his. He could accept no less.

  Sadly, employment within the world of publishing was not the foregone conclusion he’d anticipated. After graduation he was astonished to have had to undergo the embarrassment of protracted interviews by individuals who were inferior to him in every way. And, they talked relentlessly about commercialism and profit which he felt was simply bad manners. Finally it took a quiet word from one of his former masters to a college old boy to ease his way into his chosen profession.

  Four years in, he was relishing his environment. He savoured the ritual humiliation he was able to pour onto the new manuscripts that arrived on his desk. He took extreme pleasure in delivering his withering critiques to aspiring novelists and basked in the glow of his own importance as they thanked him for it. Yes, life was good. And now he was about to dispose of his most irritating author. He rubbed his hands in anticipation.

  The man he was about to see wasn’t exactly enamoured with the editor either. A seemingly modest and inoffensive character, he earned a living doing what he enjoyed most: writing horror novels. That alone was enough to pique the editor’s ire. As far as the editor was concerned, it wasn’t a genre, it was only a step away from children’s comics and unworthy of his attention. When he’d ascended to his lofty position he was stunned to note that this author was still on their list. The reason he was became apparent from studying the records. The man’s books sold just enough to turn a modest profit. Under the gentle tutelage and guidance of his predecessor the man had been just able to make the grade. Of course when he’d taken over his first task had been to undermine the writer relentlessly. He heaped scorn on his stories and attacked his grammar like a rapid dog. He studiously ignored phone calls and steadfastly subjugated the poor man to re write after re write. The resultant manuscripts were so poor they never had a chance. Even the man’s most ardent fans drifted away.

  His last book had bombed. The contract said that they had to at least consider one more. Certainly the editor mused, he’d consider it and then reject it out of hand. Problem solved. With the wretched man out of the way he could concentrate on more substantial works. He eagerly anticipated creating a withering torrent of invective when he gave his assessment of the soon to be delivered final manuscript.

  The meeting was shorter than he’d expected. The man shuffled into his office reeking of cigarette smoke and slapped his new manuscript down on the table with a resounding thump. “You’re not a very nice man,” he said to the editor. “This is my last book for you. It’s a work of quality; I wrote it especially with you in mind.” Before the editor had time to laugh the man had gone, closing the door softly behind him.

  Sitting down at home that evening in his favourite Chesterfield, he felt deep regret that he hadn’t been able to execute the coup de grace himself. He felt somehow robbed. He vigorously stoked his fire and with a sniff of regret he lit a thin cheroot, took a sip from a large balloon of brandy and picked up the manuscript as if it were a used tissue.

  Consoling himself this was the last time he’d have to endure the mans infantile and childish endeavours, he opened the manuscript with a heavy heart and started reading.

  By the time he’d reached the end of page three, he felt his heart begin to race as his eyes scanned the horrific description being outlined in front of him. By the time he’d reached page ten his forehead was shiny with perspiration. He wasn’t just shocked, he was revolted. The next two paragraphs were enough. He dropped the manuscript and ran to the bathroom, where he vomited. As he knelt before the toilet he felt rocked by the depravity he’d forced himself to read. When he eventually cleaned himself up he quickly poured himself another brandy. Christ, he had a legal obligation to read and critique this awful document. He steeled himself, sat down and again started reading. As he turned each page slowly wave upon wave of horrified fascination assailed his senses. He wanted to stop reading but he couldn’t. There was something about the structure of the work that demanded he keep reading and yet the awfulness of the descriptions he was absorbing hit him like a sledgehammer. As his revulsion grew so did the dread, the dread of turning to the next page, the dread of reading yet another scenario laced with such primordial evil it made his flesh crawl.

  By the time he’d read half of the book he’d also finished off the brandy. With a shaking hand he lit his last cigar. He had to see it through. He rubbed his eyes trying to focus on the words before him. As they cleared he felt panic rise up inside as he turned to a new page. Each paragraph tore at his veneer of civilisation and challenged his ability to endure the prose in front of him. His concentration was total. He’d long since stopped going to the bathroom to throw up, it took him away from the book. He retched where he sat, hardly noticing the smell. He already realised, in the small part of his mind that was trying to hold onto realty, that he would be changed forever as a result of this document. The dread grew within him as he continued to turn the pages. He now stopped reading frequently to look behind him in the now darkened room. His clothes were soaked with sweat. He made to retch again but he was empty. The awfulness of the next few paragraphs threatened to overcome him. He burst into floods of uncontrollable tears at the depths of this naked obscenity. He stood up, shouting in outrage and fear. He looked fretfully around the room again then, sobbing with terror, he returned to the manuscript.

  The horror storywriter looked at the new editor and thanked him for his time. He was a kindly scholarly type who knew how to stimulate talent. He was delighted the man had bravely decided to keep him on after his last few failures. Such a refreshing change after the previous incumbent’s unexpected suicide. The writer was almost disappointed that the remains of his last manuscript had been found in the burning embers of the man’s fire. Such a waste…and the only copy.

  - The End -

  THE HOTEL AT THE EDGE OF FOREVER

  At the sound of high heels on marble the bored bellhop looked up quickly. The rapidity of his response rewarded him with an uninterrupted view of the new guest as she made her entrance. Twenty years spent assessing the nuances of those he unctuously served enabled him to judge that this woman was not a big tipper but definitely a class act. Normally such an assessment would have made him lose interest immediately but he kept on looking. He had to. Her deportment demanded it.

  The woman strode confidently towards the check-in desk. The look she gave the receptionist was designed to establish superiority in terms of femininity, beauty, unavailability and wealth. The receptionist, a striking woman in her own right, was immediately intimidated. The new guest noted this with no satisfaction; it was simply the way things were. It was the way they had always been.

  She snapped her black Amex card onto the counter, completed the signing in paperwork with deft brevity, turned heel and made her way to the elevator clasping a modestly sized Louis Vuitton overnight bag. The bellhop, who scurried over to her was halted in his tracks by her with
ering gaze and scuttled back to the concierge’s desk like a nervous dog. ‘Men,’ she thought. ‘Cowards or bullies’. She had no time for the former and she loathed the latter but was well able to use either if the need arose.

  The suite was smaller than those in the cities she normally frequented. Nonetheless, she mused, it would do for the purpose at hand. She opened the door to the balcony and walked out into the blustery late evening. An uninterrupted view of the beach revealed an angry sea and an iron-grey sky. A few seagulls braved the elements and soared over the white tipped waves in search of food.

  She surveyed the bleak scene without the slightest hint of emotion, then returned to the suite. As she entered she caught sight of herself in a full-length mirror and gazed approvingly at the refection. At thirty-six she had a figure that would have been the envy of women half her age…and normally was. Her clothes, studiously understated, reflected one of Giorgio Armani’s more inspired days, and the application of her make up would have challenged the most professional of artists. She turned away bored, the brief uplift of seeing her reflection now lost.

  She picked up a hotel brochure lying on a low table next to an extravagant bowl of fruit. She was briefly annoyed that she couldn’t quite read the name of the town in which the hotel was located. That she couldn’t identify the town was not the cause of her annoyance, it was the fact that she presumably needed an eye test and was perhaps less perfect than she desired. She picked up the phone.

  The receptionist’s bright tone answered. The woman enquired the name of the town. When the receptionist responded the woman couldn’t quite make it out. Upon asking again she had the same difficulty. Not wishing to appear anything less than in control, the woman snapped a curt “Thank you,” and replaced the receiver. She still found it strange that she didn’t see the name of the town on her way in. She consoled herself it had been a long drive.