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THIS MEANS WAR! The 5th 2000ad Online Short Story Competition.

Started by Kerrin, 14 October, 2009, 04:30:24 PM

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Colin MacNeil

Quote from: emceehamster on 09 November, 2009, 03:51:42 PM
Well that was... something.

You are a very strange man, Mr Godpleton.


Ditto.  That was either brilliant... or rubbish. I can't decide. I suppose that's possibly the point.

COMMANDO FORCES

Okay I managed to finish one of the two I was farting about with tonight.

It takes place during WWII on the outskirts of Voloshovo.

'What a shitter'

Adolf and Ualtar both nearly shat themselves, as a lone figure suddenly appeared out of the dark and jumped into their machine gun pit. He was wearing a German uniform that they didn't recognise and somehow he'd managed to move across no mans land without being shot at.

"Who the FUCK are you?" commanded Ualtar.
"Relax," replied the stranger "I'm Sgt Petru, from the Romanian 22nd Specialist Infiltration Unit."
"Never heard of the fuckers." Laughed Adolf "What you doing here then, pissed somebody off."
"I'm here for tonight's big push by the Russians."
"Great" Adolf sarcastically moaned "Another body to absorb all the shit that'll be coming our way. Well Ualtar, I just might survive tonight now that our Romanian friend can take all the shrap."

"Fancy a drink Sarge?" asked Ualtar.
"No thanks, I'm here just for tonight's events, I'll have a drink later"

Ualtar looked back across at Adolf and whispered "Ignorant shit."
To which his friend gave a reassuring nod and smile.

Sgt Petru glanced sideways at Adolf and Ualtar as they both manned the MG42 in their forward position. He wondered how they would cope with the horror that awaited them this night.

At 20:01 the Russians rolling barrage passed over them, the deafening roar and earth tremors heading towards their friends in the trenches behind.
"Stay alert, they'll be coming now," Petru shouted over the noise.
They both replied with nods and continued looking towards the enemy positions.

'BBRRRRR...BBRRRRR...BBRRRRR' a fire team opened up from the right, it's red tracers screaming into the darkness and straight into the Russian bodies that strode towards their lines

"I can't see a fucking thing!" Ualtar moaned.
"Wait...wait... wait.. FIRE" roared Petru. In that instant hundreds of rounds flew into the ranks of Russians. Their screams filling the air over the sound of the German firepower.

As fast as Adolf could feed the belt into the machine gun Ualtar despatched the rounds out of the barrel. It was carnage all along their front as the small projectiles met the oncoming troops. It only lasted minutes and then it was all over. Just the sounds of the dying filled the air now.

Petru stood up and cocked his head, as if straining to hear something. He looked down at his two allies before him and shrugged his shoulders.

Adolf laid the ammo belt down and started to face Petru but before he could react, Petru thrust his open hand into his right side, forcing it's way between his ribs and ripped out his heart. Ualtor's eyes widened in terror and he reached for his dagger but it was too late. Petru's face was right next to his.
He looked right into his eyes.
"Sorry my friend" he whispered "that was one of my brother's calling me. It seems we are now on the Russians side."
With that he opened his mouth and two of his teeth seemed to lengthen........

Mike Gloady

Nice one CF.

Voting this month will be VERY difficult.  And I'm puzzled as to why this is a surprise to me.  EVERY MONTH is difficult.  It's like a literary Auntie Irma....
New in town?  Follow this link for a guide to the Greatest Threads Ever

COMMANDO FORCES

Just a quick question.

Is there a way that as I write my words they can be counted down, or up, as it's taking me ages to keep checking? Remember I can just do the basics on here and am slowly enhancing my skills.
I bet it's really easy so I am prepared to be embarrassed. Don't forget to use laymens terms as well.

Kerrin

I use open office which is a free piece of software that includes a word processor John. It has a word counter built in. If you've got Word on your computer it's the same deal. You can then transfer your finished story to your 'post reply' here. Open another tab and drag it across into quote brackets is one way of doing it.

I started off writing my stories out longhand and then typing them as a reply, as you've pointed out it's a certifiable nightmare.

COMMANDO FORCES

Thanks for that Kerrin, I shall try that on my other effort that I couldn't finish this morning, as I was to busy counting!

COMMANDO FORCES

Just thought I'd let you know that I've found that Kerrin, thanks again. Now shall I take the laptop to work and finish the story off or not. Decisions, decisions!

longmanshort


It is raining on Pwuc.

It always rains on Pwuc now.

The catsblood bubbles acid in my belly and my shivering makes my helmet tink, tink, tink against the collar of my armour.
Mud oozes into my boots and a wagon splashes the side of the checkpoint. I would stand inside, but there are more holes in the roof than there are in my boots so it's probably drier to stand out here. Lazfences fizzle as the rain hits them; it never stops now. Pwuc used to be dry as a bone, the only liquid for miles was the catsblood, but the skybursts saw to that: smoke 'em out, ruin the crops. It was just politispeak - pure pazzle. It just made it rain, and rain, and rain.
Even here, even here they hate us now. "Pwuc hoi chaluck." They spit that at us when we drive past. They used to wave little red flags, but one of those'll earn you a quarter in the pits, so they just say it now: "Pwuc hoi chaluck"... I don't even know what it means, but their eyes are full of hate so it's probably something hateful.
They stare at you. Stare at you like they're trying to will you away; tear-less eyes full of burning. It's the butt-end of nowhere but Pwuc rose up, rose up like a corpse to bite us when we weren't looking.
So now I stand here and have to watch them tramp in and then watch them tramp out, as they glare at me. No-one's allowed in the liftport after dark - last week alone a spinebomb took out fifty guardsmen. The slazer rifle guard digs into my hands and the catsblood in my belly makes me want to vomit.
A woman and her child squelch past me. Eyes burn from under hoods. The child is so very young but you can tell she'll be beautiful when she's older. But her eyes...
Big, big sad eyes. Beautiful.
I met a beautiful girl at the bar once. Eyes. Eyes full of sad, these... great oceans of aching. Like they'd seen too much, been too far.
She told me her name and I thought she said it was 'Hello'. I laughed and she told me I was a shmoo, threw catsblood on me. I never saw her again.

"Pwuc hoi chaluck!"

Even as I turn I know it was the mother, but all I really see are those big eyes. Burning out of the hood like stars. Willing me to go away. Willing me to leave them alone, leave them all alone. I don't see the grenade. I hear the shots, but those eyes don't even blink.

"Pwuc hoi chaluck!"

I met a beautiful girl at the bar once. Her eyes were sad. Not dead.

Not like the little girl.

It always rains on Pwuc now. For once, it makes those lifeless eyes look like they're crying.
+++ implementing rigid format protocols +++ meander mode engaged +++

Alski

Now that was a good read! :P

Excuse my ignorance, but which 2000AD creator are you (I'm new here).
"Cool Stuff You Will Like"

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http://cool-stuff-you-will-like.blogspot.co.uk/

Kerrin

Great story Longman'.

I've set a course for the high seas in my first tale...



"Avast! Ye scurvy, bilge drinking monkeys! Say y'prayers and prepare t'forego y'gizzards! Aaarrgh-ha-ha-haarrgh!"

"Oh, bravo sir, quite the very model of a marauding privateer. Woof"

We floated at anchor beside an islet, our dashing captain and a small shore party had taken a longboat to recover some previously secreted "booty", and the metaphysical hound Erebus and myself , Sir Isaac Newton, were making an attempt to increase my perceived saltiness. I had exchanged my London finery for the tar stained raiment of a deckhand and my stout buckled shoes for the freedom of filthy feet. Captain Dancer had taken four stout men ashore with him, leaving the poop deck to myself and Erebus for our mummery under the amused gaze of Swinging Billy.

"Y'll nae fool any bastert prancing aboot like that profaessa'. A'ways move yer front foot first. Y'ken?"

"Aha! Even, ahem, when one is proceeding backwards William? Eh, Erebus, eh?"

I waggled my eyebrows to emphasize my hilarious jape to the mechanical beast.

"Y'know, I couldnae help noticin', you've a few too many teeth fer a seadug profaessa'."

"Quite so, quite so, front foot forwards, back foot backwards, takes me back to my dancing days, eh what. Ha ha."

I performed, what to my mind, was a passable pirouette whilst brandishing my cutlass, and upon regaining my feet saw a green scaled apparition vault the rail behind my Caledonian companion. The piscean creature had the upright stance of homo sapiens but the nightmarish visage of a denizen from the pelagic deeps.

"Crivens! A fuckin' fishman!" Exclaimed Billy, and applied his head to the creatures bristling mouthparts with a resounding crunch. A spray of ichorous blood erupted as the "fishman" disappeared from whence it came, only, to my shrieking horror, to be replaced by three more.

"Repel Boarders! Repel Boarders! Up an' at 'em y'wee fuckers!"

The waters about the ship erupted to foam as a horde of the scaled monstrosities leapt aboard to be met by the crashing thunder of pistol, musket and blunderbuss. Shot expended, the rough and ready crew of the Red Wench drew their close quarter weapons and set about the watery villains. The fishmen, armed with daggers and hatchets of glinting obsidian were seemingly surprised by the ferocity of the response and were quickly driven from the decks, into a sea now stained with the blood of their brethren.

"Whit tha fuck? Y'hurt profaessa?"

Billy and Erebus stood amongst the dismembered remains of the three foe who had attempted to take the helm.

"What the hell was that about Billy?" came the voice of our valiant captain as the longboat was hoist aboard. "We heard the volley and returned as fast as our oars would take us."

"Fishmen cap'n, big scaley basterts wi boggley eyes 'n pointy teeth."

"Right, raise sail and weigh anchor, lets scarper lads before the fishy buggers come back."

Behind us the sea heaved with a mighty swell and what we had taken to be the islet rose to present a gigantic version of our erstwhile boarders crowned with a diadem of coral and kelp. From it issued a voice like the roaring of a storm.

"The next time you bury treasure in my arse Dancer, and slaughter my sprats. It will be War! War! Do you here me Dancer? WAR!"



Tee-hee-hee  ;D.

Kerrin

And that should of course be hear, not here. Some fucking spellchecker that was, tsk.

COMMANDO FORCES

Quote from: emceehamster on 10 November, 2009, 10:42:10 PM
Excuse my ignorance, but which 2000AD creator are you (I'm new here).

Click on his name and see what happens.

Kerrin

Another daft one. I've been off work for a couple of days with the dreaded lurgy and I'm afraid this is what happens.


Nice day in sector 67. Blue sky up above. The lazy whoosh and whirr of hov traffic over the dull background roar of the mega sked. A small flock of batwingers rising on the thermals over the Shapiros main processing plant (must have nose filters in). Not an H wagon or Manta to be seen, no shineys within scanning distance. Just me and Dweezil lazing in the sun. Well, lying in the sun anyway.

"Send it."

CHOOM!

"Woo-eee! Did y'see his head boy? Came apart like it was made a munce!"

Me and Dweezil were lying behind a duct head on level 252, he's the shooter, I'm the spotter. We were blowing away Macho Vacho zziz pushers over on Gary Busey block. Three so far today. The Macho Vachos were going fully futsie man. We'd spot one pushing, follow him with the scopes and wait till there were no customers or witnesses, just him and his escorts trying to look, well, macho. I give Dweezil the numbers and then BLAM, Dweezil blows them straight to resyk. The escorts shoot in all directions, and hit nothing. We got a liberated Citi-def sniper rifle which'll send a high explosive round the mile and a half to Busey block no problem my friend. Sun behind us, muzzle suppressor, no flash and those chumps didn't have a clue where we were. The warm air from the duct disguised our heat sig nicely and watching Macho Vachos running around like Simps after a synth-chilli enema was about as much fun as a Cheney block Face Shooter could have.

"Three'll do today Dweez, they're gonna get themselves one of them sniper radars from the block-def boys if we keep it up."

"Yeah, y'right boy, let's give it a while then bug out."

SPLUTCH!

Dweezil's head went away. Like a party popper made of meat, one moment he's there grinning, the next his headless body is sliding round the side of the duct and on it's way to city bottom.

"AAARRGH!"

I'm through the access hatch behind me like a rad-rat through a corpse. The shot had come from above. Above! What the.. There was nothing above us. The metal sidings on the block wall rang, banged and clanged with the impact of more rounds and a riddled path of holes walked it's way up the passageway towards me. And stopped, just short of my legs.

"Shee-it!"

I took a quick look through the nearest hole and saw the tip of a batwing disappearing round the summit of the block. Sumbitch! It was those Gruddamn wing boys. Flying Macho Vachos, in Cheney airspace!

And then I heard the sweet sound of gunfire erupting all through the block as every Face Shooter with a piece opened up on the gliders, peeking back through the hole I could see arrow straight trails reaching out towards Busey as the fellas opened up with every rocket and missile we had.

"BLOCK WAR!"

Third this week, man life doesn't get much better'n this.



Colin MacNeil

Another cracking bunch of stories there chaps. It's definately gonna be a tough choice when it comes to voting.

Kerrin

Don't forget peeps, comp ends Monday evening, 8pm (not midnight like I told you Van, but if people need an extension just pipe up and I'll sort something out).