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Author Topic: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD  (Read 4791 times)

Bad City Blue

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WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« on: 26 June, 2014, 11:53:54 AM »
Greetings, citizens.

If you could cast your eyes over the following excellent stories and judge which are the top 3 we would be very grateful.

The winning entry will get a 2000AD Graphic Novel, as will ONE RANDOM VOTER, courtesy of those nice chaps at Rebellion.

Thanks for reading, and thanks to all who entered. May the best Script Driod win.

Bad City Blue



The Extremists

Matt’s burden was heavy.  It always had been.

The Camp had been home since Matt was twelve.  A Sergeant with a loudhailer had informed them that the estate was to be cleared.  Terrorists had been hiding in the houses.  It was for their own safety.  Mum had said it would be like camping.  Everyone would pull together, reassured Dad, just like in the Blitz.

Matt’s burden was heavy and made it difficult to walk.

Dysentery ended Mum’s camping trip a week before Christmas.  Dad carried her to the funeral pyre by himself, the Blitz spirit nowhere to be seen.  As Matt watched the smoke drift into the sky, John comforted him.  John said that she was in a better place.

John was older, but younger than the men.  Old enough to have learned something of the world.  Old enough to have seen the fighting and the executions. To the boys of the camp, he was a natural leader.

You could leave the Camp, of course.  The Volgans didn’t care.  You could walk the eight miles to town, where the local men would spit at you and the women would hold tight their purses as they queued for rations.  John called them “collaborators”.  You could walk all the way up to the fence that surrounded the watchtower in town and hear Volg soldiers snort at each other in their guttural tongue.  Ubiquitous uniforms with fresh faced men and women behind them.  It was terrible, John said, that they did this to women.  Sending women to kill and die was cowardly.  They should be at home, with their children.

Matt’s burden was heavy and his mouth was dry.

In the summer, the Red Cross water tanks arrived half full. 

There’s not enough food and water, John said, because the world doesn’t care.  The Volgans have our oil now and as long as it keeps flowing the businessmen who run the world don’t care who starves.    They should be ashamed, John taught the boys, because the British had given the world Law and Order.  They had lifted savages out of darkness and brought God to every civilized nation on Earth.

Matt’s burden was heavy and the straps cut into his shoulders.

Whilst parents worked all day for a few pounds, or begged in the street, or drank and fought themselves into oblivion, John had gathered his flock.  The Americans wouldn’t save them, preached John.   They cared only about themselves.  They knew how the people of Britain suffered and they watched their televisions and ate their burgers and drank their coca-cola.  They live their lives of plenty.  They will not save us.  We must save ourselves.

Matt reached the watchtower fence and breathed for the first time since his journey began.  The bomb John had built had finally been delivered and his own life given purpose. He pressed hard on the trigger button and his burden was lifted.




JJ lay in the grave and hoped not to die.

Two guards approached, moving with the languid pace of a routine patrol. On the one hand, that was good; a bored patrol meant no alarm, so JJ's theft had gone undetected. On the other, they would pass just a few feet from JJ’s position.

He was spread on top of today's bodies, piled high in the latrine outside the farm. When the guards passed, JJ's eyes would be level with their boot heels.

There was little starlight, and the Commandant wasn’t going to waste power illuminating the grave. Even so, JJ knew he wouldn't pass for a corpse if given anything more a cursory glance; his clothes were old and ill-fitting, but not prisoner’s rags, and he hadn't been worked to skeletal thinness.

JJ hoped the guards were the quiet type; the ones who avoided contact with their victims.

Have a conscience, he silently urged. Do your job. Follow orders. A patrol, then back to your billet for a vodka to keep nightmares at bay.

If the approaching guards were of the other type, the ones who liked to play with the dead, then JJ was lost. There was nothing he could do if one decided it might be fun to kick the head of the dead man, and JJ knew he would flinch if one wanted to pee on some dead Brits.

Then a more pressing matter skittered into view. A bloated rat, whiskers trembling, scampered across the nearby corpses and stopped beside JJ. Chirping contentedly, it tore at a dead woman's cheek. Then, abruptly, it lifted its head and stared at JJ.

JJ bared his teeth in as threatening a manner as he could manage. The rat was nonplussed. JJ realized that here, as in so many other places, normal rules had been suspended by the war. He was no threat; he was warmer food.

Sensing weakness, the rat sank greedy teeth into JJ's thumb.

The guards were now beside him. They couldn’t help but notice if JJ moved. He bit down hard on his tongue, hoping the pain there might supersede the sudden pulsing throb in his finger and forced himself to be still.

The rat chewed on JJ’s skin for a moment. Then, finding live flesh not to its liking, it leapt down the throat of a nearby child.

A guard, startled by the movement, swung his weapon around. The ominous barrel stared at JJ, an evil eye ready to spit fire.

Before the trigger was pulled, however, the guard’s companion muttered a curse and pulled at his friend’s arm. “There are a dozen rats for every prisoner. We can’t kill them all.”

The first guard nodded, and the two men stamped away from the grave.

JJ waited until they passed the corner of the farm, then grabbed his satchel from where it was buried and sprinted into the nearby woods.

He'd stolen enough food for a few days. But he'd be back soon enough.



Sweet and Sour

Takeaway , that's all she went out for. Sweet and sour chicken with noodles, our favourite, but she never came back. They took her away from me.

When the Volgans invaded we thought it wouldn't affect us. We figured they would just take over London and wouldn't bother with us out in the sticks. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss we thought, but then tanks rolled up the high street and there were Volg patrols on every street corner. Still we expected life to just carry on, even when they started posting their lists of rules:
Identification papers to be carried at all times, no graffiti, no anti-Volgan protests of any kind, no public displays of emotion, and a curfew at 9pm every night.

People started to disappear and there were rumours of camps for what they called reprogramming and resettlement. The chip shop closed down when they took the Gohils. Their son Barry used to give me extra chips, I think he fancied me. But still we thought if we kept our heads down this would all blow over and life would go on.

Then I got my craving for Chinese food. We knew that Alan's stayed open right up until curfew. She said she'd be there and back in no time but a patrol picked her up and I never saw her again. I stayed up all night waiting and in the morning there was a knock at the door. It was a guy I knew from college.

"Pack a bag and come with me. Be quick about it, love, you've been denounced."

We saw the Volgans marching down our street as we fled into the hills. I don't blame her for telling them about us, anyone would talk in one of their torture cells. I blame myself for burying my head in the sand, for sleeping while the enemy stole our freedom. Well I'm awake now and it's not my head I intend to bury.

My life used to be poetry books and cello practice, now it's pipe bombs and shotgun shells. We used to have flowers by our bed, and tea and toast every morning. There was sweet and sour for special occasions and chips every Friday. Now I make explosives from flour and fertiliser, and we boil half-rotten potatoes over open fires.

We're always outnumbered, always outgunned. Our victories are few and come at a price, but there's a change coming. A savage force of resistance is sweeping up from the south. More people join us every day. I used to be a student, I had to be taught how to use a gun. Now I teach others how to fight.

The love of my life is buried in an unmarked pit, but the day of my vengeance is coming. That's right, you Volgan scum. Vengeance is coming for you, and just like my favourite food it's going to be hot and oh so sweet.



Across the Channel

Lucky’s breath gasped around the stumps of his remaining teeth.

“Unlucky ya Volg scum, I’m still sitting here, taking your best….and ain’t cracking for you or that Frenchie”.

His bravado since capture and imprisonment in the converted Normandy barracks was strong but beginning to wane, he knew deep down that his will would only hold out for so long.

The Volg brute that had been playing havoc with his face and torso with scalpels, metal bars and fists grabbed his sweat soaked hair and pushed his head back until Lucky grimaced with the strain on his neck, eclipsing momentarily the pain from the cuts and bruises that littered his body. The Volg’s eyes narrowed with a sadist’s glee, happy that the high command had authorized the torture rather than execution, the usual Volg method of dealing with enemy combatants.

An exhalation of cigarette smoke caught the captured Lucky’s eye and the third man in the room strode forward slowly into the light cast by the single blood speckled lightbulb.

“Listen, we know you came onto French soil to co-ordinate supply lines from Spain. My Volg ‘friend’ here and his unpleasant methods are needed to persuade you to inform us of this network.”

Lucky’s bloody glob of spit landed on the French man’s boot, accompanied by a low chuckle.

“No, you listen mate, we both know these filth will eye up your country next…..”

His words hung in the air as the two men looked at each other before the Volg’s fist smashed against Luckys jaw, sending blood and teeth flying against the concrete floor. The assaulter was breathing heavy by the time he finished a fury of punches and kicks against the weakening form of the Resistance fighter. There was no let up as a bucket of water was doused over Lucky’s head followed by the shrieking pain of electricity as the Volg roughly jabbed his exposed skin with car battery electrodes.

The Frenchman glanced away at the barbarity of the interrogation and it seemed an age before the gasps of pain gave away to the croaking of a broken man willing to reveal everything to make the agony stop.

“Please….no more….”

The Volg shattered his silence eager to hear what he worked several hours towards.

“Tell me now Britisher….”

The words were cut off by a gunshot as brain matter and blood sprayed and mingled with Luckys own as he looked, confused and desperate, at the French man holding his sidearm over the body of the now dead Volg torturer.

“I hold no love for these Volgs and believe what you said earlier, about France being next.”

Lucky sagged into his seat, exhausted yet relieved.

”Your Resistance network information is not revealed but I’m afraid that for the good of my country, I must make it seem like I am helping these animals. France will have time to fortify and prepare before they try to invade.”

“No, wait….!”

A second shot rang out in the empty room.



How I Learned To Love The Bomb

The Bomb scared me all my life. I'm old enough to remember the first big bomb scare. Duck and cover. Cuban Missile Crisis '62. The world held its breath. Even here we had our drills. We thought if we hid under our desks when we saw the flash we would be ok. I was never ok. Even when it was over I kept holding my breath. All through the cold war of the 70's and 80's it hung over me. If london was bombed we would see the flash in Cranfield. I would dread every news bulletin. My husband John laughed at me but as the tensions built up and built up I thought to myself; any day now. Any day they'll drop the big one. If it didn't happen today, then maybe tomorrow.

But Instead of bombing us they invaded us.

They occupied us. Shot Shirley Brown on the steps. Nowhere in England escaped. On TV we watched them march through the big cities, saw all the propaganda, heard the stories about the resistance. But at least they didn't drop the big one on us, I convinced myself. At least we weren't going to die in a flash of fire and radiation. Surely some day the diplomacy would work, or the resistance would drive them out, or they would just get tired and go home. Every day they didn’t, but I thought; well maybe tomorrow.

Then they came here.

The Volgan's had 'intelligence' that Cranfield was being used by the resistance. That the locals were hiding known terrorists. The soldiers went house to house, tearing them apart and finding nothing. They came to our house and John screamed at them.

'Dirty Volgs!' he cried. 'This is our home! Leave us alone! Fuck off out of our country and leave us be!'

I had been married to him for 40 years and I had never heard that man swear. It was the sight of our little house being upended that did it. One of the soldiers told him to shut up and John spat in his face. He lifted his gun and shot him dead on the spot. In front of my own eyes they killed my poor sweet John. Two other soldiers grabbed me and held me down but I'd seen it. And it was then, right then and there that I stopped being afraid of The Bomb. I wanted the Americans to push the button. To drop the big one and blow up this whole godforsaken country. To put us out of our misery because the cancer had spread too far now after all the years. I wanted the Americans to see that robots were not going to help. That the resistance, valiant as they were, were not enough. That there was only one option left. Now every morning I get up and hope to see a mushroom cloud rise on the horizon. To see London burn and all the invaders, the 'Dirty Volgs', burn with it. But every day it doesn't happen. Every day I'm disappointed. But you never know. Maybe tomorrow.

Bad City Blue

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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #1 on: 26 June, 2014, 11:56:47 AM »

Innocence Lost

   Amy was 9,  she  crawled from under the table ,her ears still ringing from the loud bang. The flash had been as bright as any thunderstorm she'd watched but now there was only darkness as her classroom filled with smoke. She looked around feebly calling for her classmates and Miss Sutton but no one called back.

   She stood, her legs shaking and could just make out her friends laid on the floor or over discarded furniture and she saw Miss Sutton's leg from under the ceiling that had collapsed on her. She felt like she should cry but couldn't, vomiting instead.

   She walked out through the hole that had been her school's wall and stumbled into the street and became aware of the horror around her, people lay in the street pools of red around them, some people looked like they were in bits she didn't look at them too long. She new she had to get home the village was only a short walk from her parents farm but now it seemed it would take forever. Hiding behind cars or the remains of buildings she carefully tried to hide from the men with guns ,they spoke with funny accents some were laughing. Two kicked a door open of a house ,she didn't know who's and burst in, she could hear a scream then shots,then nothing...

  Her heart racing she ran into the main high street ,if you could call it that the butcher's shop was on fire his meat scattered all over the floor she could smell it cooking in the heat but it didn't make her hungry . Then she saw Julie her friend Tina's  mum trying to run with little Sammy,he was only just one but could walk and everything ,Amy liked him he was funny. Suddenly she was bought back from her thoughts as more loud bangs rang out Julie fell down as the tank came round the corner, it's machine gun mowing down anyone it saw like one of those daleks her dad liked on telly. The tank carried on just running over Sammy's pram the plaintive cry cut short mercifully . Amy screamed. How could they kill babies? Then she saw the tank stop had it heard her? She had to run and did as fast as her legs would carry her behind her she glimpsed a man in the top of the tank shouting and pointing ....towards her.

  The door wasn't locked but no one seemed to be in she went in to the kitchen and froze ,one of  her dad's shotguns was on the table and a bit of paper with mum's writing on it " gone for Amy" she couldn't find dad and suddenly in the safest place she ever  knew she began to cry. The tears stung her eyes and felt hot on her face as she locked the doors, she pulled the shotgun round on the table so it pointed to the doorway and waited . The shouts outside and the sound of men kicking her door seemed to get louder ,then she heard the front door break the shouting in that funny accent got closer ,Amy closed her eyes and let her finger tighten on the trigger.




I was on a school trip when it happened.  Our kid had moaned to mum- why didn't he get to go to Spain to see some old paintings?  When you stop gobbing off at your teachers and copping fags then maybe I'll do double shifts and hop-picking at the weekends to pay for your ticket, she'd said.  Besides, Mr Wood says he's gifted.  Our kid called us a swot, but I don't think he really minded.

So it was a few years in a kids' home over there before I was repatriated through Plymouth.  It wasn't too hard to get to the edge of the Exclusion Zone; the yellows never paid me much mind.  A few days' hitching up to Cheltenham and a couple more walking from there and I got to the house.  Mum and dad were under the kitchen table.  There was white paint flaking off the windows.  I never found our kid.

I ended up in a DP camp.  I was sick for a while.  That's where Dev recognised me- he was on some resistance business there.  His dad had owned the shop down the way from us.  He took me with him- said we had to stick together.  I'm not much of a fighter- Terry and Pete and even our kid always looked out for me.  But the cell know I'll do whatever I can.

I asked the cell medic to tell me about what had happened to mum and dad.  He took his glasses off and closed his eyes for a long time before he told me.  Acute Radiation Syndrome.  Constant diarrhoea and vomiting. The worst headache you can imagine.  A fever like you're on fire.

The Chief talked to me yesterday.  Said there was something she needed me to do.  That I didn't have to, but I'd be helping.  She told me what it was.  I said okay.  But not regulars, I said.  Nobody like Terry or Pete.  They'd been in the army.  They must have been at Salisbury.

That made her second angry.  You soft twat, how'd you think we're going to shift these cunts unless we keep sending little Ivan home in bits?

The Chief told him to shut up. Alright son.  These are Republic Commissariat. Hard bastards. Fresh from murdering civvies in Chechnya.  Nobody's going to miss them.  See Dev about it, and make sure you talk to the Prof before you go.

So it's the professor's dictaphone I'm talking into now.  He said it was important that people like me are remembered.  Just say whatever you like, and leave the tape in the van.  I better stop now though.  The driver's stopped blasting out Quadrophenia, and it won't be long before I get out to walk the last bit.

Remember, right up to the gates.  The bastards are working our lads to death in there, and you're going to help us get them out.

Right up to the gates.  Keep your eyes down.  Press down hard.





Held in her arms,his mum would dance around... one-two... round and round... four and three...the polka; that she did so well

Tears rolled from Eddie's cheeks soaking his green bib. The sound of  Smetana's Polka Opus 7  swamped his ears, so loud it caused the surgical scaffolding which encased his skull to resonate. More tears scurried down his wretched face. His gaze was fixed, his eyelids glued open, staring at the screen before him. He watched the familiar figure of a man who brutally violates the body of a Volg invader. The pornographic video revealed the attacker thrusting his stiff member brutally in and out of every orifice of the screaming Volg. 
The Volg victim was face down; nailed to a huge wooden plank. Every now and then the man thumped his chubby fist down on the Volg's back. With each thump and a slobbering sneer tightened his slack mouth.

 Eddie had been witnessing this disgusting drama for 10 uninterrupted days with his, much loved Smetana Polka, pounding in his ears. His bodily functions were cared for  by an elderly human technician who knew how to tweak and bruise a defenceless victim. Each day when  he polished the plaque which read 'BLASPHEMER' above Eddie's head , he flicked some thick spit into Eddie's unblinking eyes.

Two weeks previously Eddie and his pals Joe and Dave had staggered out of the Panchos bar on Main Street. Elaborate plans of revenge on Volgs had been hatched indoors. News of the invasion by the Volg's was fresh in their young ears and flooded their minds.  Later that same evening, fuelled by illegal substances provided by their flatmate Alan, their passion for rebellion redoubled. The invaders were to be resisited with force. Controlled by the Volgs, all of the nation's television stations were showing the art and culture of the Volgs. To Eddie this was unremitting propaganda.
The pals, the conspirators, rolled about in laughter at the strange alien culture. Of particular interest were the gods worshiped by the invaders: an image of a large monkey-like creature with the head of a stag beatle, a statue of a six-legged animal, and more significantly a representation of a Volg nailed to a large piece  of wood; the victim of some cruel barbarism. This god was the one most venerated by all Volgs.

.When the little band of humans, Eddie, Dave and Joe captured their Volg they had not realised that the alley where they chose to abuse their victim was bristling with security cameras. The penetration by Eddie of this Volg in an appalling parody of some sacred life event of one of the invaders' gods was viewed by countless millions of Volgs and humans alike. To the invaders it justified the torture and mutilation of thousands of Britons.

  Worse than having to watch the video endlessly, was the playing without interruption of Smetana. As his last teardrop trickled onto his chest , Eddie croaked..."Mummy, no more Smetana...no more Polka..."


Bad City Blue

The Battling Bulldogs

Johnson! Take point!”

“Yes, Sarge!” shouted Corporal Dean Johnson, efficiently positioning himself in front of Sergeant Davis, his eyes peeled for Volgan troops.

Sergeant Davis moved back to talk with Private Hawkins, the youngest member of the Battling Bulldogs. He could see the lad was in poor shape after taking a piece of shrapnel to the thigh.

“How's it going, Hawkins?” he asked, adding “You look like you're still bleeding pretty badly.”

“I'll be fine, Sarge,” Hawkins said through a pained grimace. “Looks worse than it is, sir. Don't slow down on my account – if we miss this convoy we won't get a second chance at General Volstagg.”

“I'm well aware of that,” said the Sergeant, “but if you'd rather wait here I'm sure we can pick you up on the way back to HQ. There was nothing in his demeanour that suggested he thought failure in the mission was an option.

“Just get back up there and I'll be right behind you,” said Hawkins, hastily adding “Sarge,” at a look from the missions commanding officer.

Sergeant Davis moved back and relieved Johnson on point, leading the Bulldogs towards a stretch of road with plenty of camouflage options, lined as it was with bushes and trees. There were seven of them in the platoon, all that could be spared, even on such an important mission. General Volstagg was responsible for the torture and death of hundreds of their comrades, and his death would be as much a boost to the British as it would be a blow to the Volgs.

Hawkins sucked in a breath as he felt the shrapnel wound throb once more, fresh blood pushing against the makeshift bandage. Gone were the days of plentiful medical supplies and a torn shirt had been forced into action. He knew it was unlikely he would make it back, but was determined that his last breath would leave him whilst dealing a blow to the enemy. Damn the war, he thought. Damn the war, and damn the Volgs for their greed and ruthlessness.

Ahead, the Sarge dropped to the ground, almost alarmingly so. Almost straight after, Johnson did the same, but this time Hawkins saw the spray of blood as a sniper's bullet took his life from him. All around him, his mates were dropping, and the last thing he ever saw was a camouflaged Volgan, emerging from a bush pointing a pistol towards him, squeezing the trigger with a grimace...


Gravnov idly poked the body with his booted foot.

“Ach, Hans. Look at this lot, they can't be more than thirteen at the most. I know they are resistance, but I don't like having to kill children.”

“Get used to it, comrade,” answered Hans. “That's the thing about war – you can tell who is losing because their soldiers get younger and younger.”




‘Egg!’ Gary exclaimed ‘The missus always gives me egg in me roll. What does she think I am, a bleeding chicken?’ Stefan didn’t bother to point out that chickens don’t eat eggs, Gary would only have started an argument, and anyway he was popular and Stefan couldn’t compete with popularity. Instead he hunched over his keyboard - body almost motionless and his mind overworked – as he tried to hack into the Volgan food supply chain administration network so that he could disturb their rationing process. It was all his idea.
‘Vore ist Hull’ he muttered under his breath. Stefan hated war, he hated it almost as much as the floods Fifteen years back, but no one really mentioned those anymore, and anyway, war was better than having to learn Volgan: Stefan hated languages even more than war as he was terrible at them. If it wasn’t for the language barrier he would probably have joined the Volgans - they had a greater depth of culture, great dance music and better uniforms.  Before the invasion he had travelled widely with his school friend Arthur and found the Volgans to be a charming and charismatic people. But now . . .

Gary had been put in charge of the Chichester resistance movement. It seemed that some great overseer had a thing for burly working-class leaders, which he concluded was probably due to an underlying metropolitan apologist guilt fantasy. Stefan, with his superior computer and literacy skills, had been sidelined while egg-eating wife-beating Gary had been appointed their leader. El Douche. This vexed Stefan, if it was not for his natural lack of charm and fear of confrontation he would organise a coup. Instead he just resorted to spitting in Gary’s ‘brew’ whenever the opportunity arose.

‘Ows it goin mate’ Gary’s hot breath caused the hairs on Stefan’s neck to stand and swoon. ‘N-not bad, mate’ he responded meekly, the use of ‘mate’ out of place and forced, ‘I think I may have found a backdoor to their network already’.

‘Good on yer’ Gary placed his large hand on Stefan’s shoulder for a lingering moment. Sweaty and heavy fat fingers with dirt under the nails. Stefan’s mind revolved: who knows how many Volgans they had throttled - those fat hot fingers pressed into throats as eyes closed. Gary’s straining red face bearing down upon them their last sight, and their last feeling his hot breath against their mouths. Throttling some lithe educated Volgan and then using the same hands to caress some brainless tart he had met in a pub somewhere. It was disgusting. If Arthur was still alive he would agree - but he had died at the start of the invasion from septicaemia (caused by an infected toenail). They left his poor body in an abandoned urinal in Morden. There is now some corner of a London pisser that is Forever England.

Stefan’s hands trembled; he had actually hit a brick wall an hour ago with the hacking and had just been randomly opening and closing windows since then. The Volgan IT security was too good, he could not understand it. ‘They probably had whole teams of University educated Volgan experts working on it’, he thought, ‘they do 8 years at University too those Volgans . . .’

Stefan stood erect: ‘Fancy another ‘brew’ Gary’.



Petre’s Story
“’ere Mister, show us yer gun.”
Petre turned at the insistent tug at his sleeve.  The small group of children gathered around him, eyes wide in awe at the semi-automatic he cradled in the crook of his arm.  They had worked their way closer and closer to him over the past few weeks – local children, their wild laughter reverberating through the mostly deserted streets – making this checkpoint one of the most pleasant to work at.
He handed them chocolate to share between them, the sweet milky kind that these English seemed to like so much, and they nursed it lovingly, determined that it should last forever.  They watched him wide-eyed and squealed excitedly as he hoisted his gun and pointed it in their direction.
“Your hands! Put them up!” he growled with a smile.
They scattered in all directions and Petre chortled  at their delighted little faces.  He turned back towards the guard hut and walked past the pushbikes propped-up against the guardrail.
“We need to win their hearts and minds,” he thought to himself.  “The children are the key.  They understand all the good that is in the Volgan heart, they can see that we are only here to help.  They know that we want to make things better.”
He did not understand the ferocity of these English, the violence of their Resistance Movement, their insistence on freedom from Volg control.  His country had brought so much to this tiny, angry island; a stability and security it had never known; order of an unprecedented kind; Volgan art and Literature, ballet never before seen in this insignificant part of Europe.  What was wrong with these people?
He recalled his own childhood.  The grinding poverty and how it had all changed when the Volgs came.  The ruthless way they had rooted out corruption in the government, the way they had provided education and food and housing for him and his family, the way they had done all they could for his people in order to strengthen the Empire and give equal protection to all.  They had brought joy to his heart and the light of liberation to his country.  As soon as he was old enough he had enlisted.  He wanted to give his life to the Empire that had given him life.  His heart swelled with pride at the memory at his father’s tears on the day of his Passing Out Parade and that smile lingered as he refocused on the job at hand.
The large black staff-car, the kind only used by the highest-ranking bureaucrats, glided serenely to a standstill and Petre snapped to attention.  The driver’s window slid down.  A hand emerged from the darkness and presented him with documents.  Petre looked through them quickly and efficiently.  His heart hammered against his ribs and he swallowed dryly.  He glanced at the photo-ID papers and checked them against the occupants of the vehicle.
“These are all in order,” he said.
He handed the papers back.  The window slid noiselessly up, the driver did not acknowledge Petre’s  fine work.  The children’s laughter had stopped.  The barrier lifted.  As the car moved forward flames erupted from the stack of pushbikes.  The blast of heat threw Petre back.   The staff car was engulfed by fire and all Petre saw was the impassive, chocolate smeared faces of the small group of children.


that's yer lot - get reading then get voting!

Bad City Blue

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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #2 on: 26 June, 2014, 12:03:36 PM »
Also can someone stick this. ta. :D


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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #3 on: 26 June, 2014, 12:31:33 PM »
HippyNumber1 - Petre's story
Mozilla - Innocence Lost
JP Maybe - ARS (fnarr)

Good luck folks, may the best 500 words win!

Eamonn Clarke

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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #4 on: 26 June, 2014, 02:33:03 PM »
1. Judgerufian Across the channel
2. Hippy number 1 Petre's story
3. jP Maybe Ars

Not many laughs this month but good stuff all round.


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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #6 on: 27 June, 2014, 03:37:19 PM »
Greetings. My votes are as follows:

1) Skullmo - Resistance.
2) Da760Da - Revenge.
3) JABISH - How I Learned To Love The Bomb.
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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #7 on: 27 June, 2014, 04:14:34 PM »
Here are my votes chaps:

1) Hippynumber1
2) Skullmo
3) Bad City Blues


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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #8 on: 29 June, 2014, 09:44:05 PM »
1. petre's story
2. revenge
3. across the channel

“We keep on being told that religion, whatever its imperfections, at least instills morality. On every side, there is conclusive evidence that the contrary is the case and that faith causes people to be more mean, more selfish, and perhaps above all, more stupid.” ― Christopher Hitchens


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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #9 on: 29 June, 2014, 10:27:34 PM »
Great quality writing, thanks all who entered.

1. Farmboy
2. Resistence
3. Petre's story

Fiddling while Rome burns

"is being made a brain in a jar a lot more comen than I think it is." - Cyberleader2000


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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #10 on: 30 June, 2014, 01:40:23 AM »
1. Enigmatic dr x
2. Bad city blue
3. Judgeruffian

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My opinion is not to be trusted: I think Last Action Hero is AWESOME. And What Women Want.


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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #11 on: 30 June, 2014, 08:49:37 PM »
1: Hippynumber1: Lovely craft. Nice to see things from the Volgs’ point of view, who never seemed to say much beyond “Aiee!” or “Aieeee!” or “Aieeeee!” Nice writing, sir!

2: TEMPUNAUT – an interesting twist on the “white man’s burden”. Bold choice to make the protagonist a racist, delusional fellow.

3. Skullmo: a welcome touch of light humour among the entries. Forever England, indeed :)

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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #12 on: 09 July, 2014, 11:25:01 AM »
1 - Temponaut

2 - Mozilla

3 - Jabish


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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #13 on: 09 July, 2014, 11:56:41 AM »
1 - Bad City Blue
2 - Hippy No 1
3 - Farmboy

And if Honourable Mentions apply then Judge Rufian & Tempanaut!


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Re: WIN A 2000AD GN - June Short Story VOTING THREAD
« Reply #14 on: 09 July, 2014, 12:26:08 PM »
Petre's story
Innocence Lost