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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 withering 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