YOU 'ORRIBLE LITTLE MAN!LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT....ATTEN....SHUN!
EYES FRONT! Pin back your lug'oles, and stand by for a briefing from Major Dounreay...
QuoteFront and centre, trooper!
To celebrate me scoring a copy of "Inglorious B-----ds" for £3 from Tesco at the weekend and cos I've got an idea I'm trying to pin down, the theme for next month is: War Stories.
No restrictions other than the story must be set in the 2000AD multiverse and some sort of conflict must be going on (and I'm not talking some sort of angsty, conflict of emotions here, kiddies).
Take your pick from the many wars that have graced the pages of 2000AD or make up your own. Civil wars, cold wars, secret wars, gang wars, as long as there are two sides kicking off against each other.
I'll throw in a minor prize too, since you need to be fighting for something.
The winner can have the pick of a selection of graphic novels from House of Tharg (Any one of Strontium Dog:Early Case/Devlin Waugh/Halo Jones/Bad Company) or a box of assorted Heroclics. (Unless you live overseas, in which can you'll have to make do with the thrill of winning as I'm not shipping this stuff all over Hell and creation).
OK you grunts, move out and give em Hell.
RIGHT! You heard the hoffi-sah,
500 words or less, as close to understandable Queen's english as you miscreants can manage, and you had better have it done by
20:00 hrs Monday the 16th of November (that's 8pm for any of you effete, gusset sniffing civilians who can't tell time in a proper military fashion), OR ELSE!
Well don't stand there gawpin', like you never wrote a short story before you 'orrible little specimen, GEDONWITHIT!!
LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT....
Sally forth!
This promises to be a fun comp, can't wait til the entries start rolling in.
You know I might just try and write a story for this, seeing as I have loads of free time at work!
With the exception of coming here and reading the prog, I've not had any real sizable chunks of spare time for months and months and months (none of which I'd swap for even a second) so I've not been able to enter this OR the art compos. This month, however, I will be at least attempting to.
It's all dependent on getting a killer idea for this one (I'm quite confident I'll be able to produce at least a sub-standard doodle for the art compo but creative writing is harder for me).
So good luck to everyone and I look forward to being able to field an entry.
what a grand idea. well done (Major) Dounreay!
;D
Expendable pawn zarjazzer
Quote from: COMMANDO FORCES on 14 October, 2009, 04:53:24 PM
You know I might just try and write a story for this, seeing as I have loads of free time at work!
I thought this might be up your street Mr.Forces, what with a great subject from Dounreay in this comp, and an absolute belter from Jim in the art comp, this is shaping up to be a month to remember.
Engaging creative warp-drive --- NOW!
I've got absolutely nothing on this at this point ---- but with a 12 hr flight to Tokyo in a week or so (sans kids and missus, who are flying out ahead on saturday) I plan to put that time to good use and come up with something.
Good luck to all and let your creative juices flow!!!!
I'm chuffed the competion looks to be so popular this month and what an introduction from Kerrin. I almost jumped to attention to read it. (Mental image of Kerrin is now Windsor Davies with all the humanity beaten out of him.)
I've just been supping an ale and pondering on re-reading some Sven Hassel for a bit of research when the thought popped in "What was the eventual fate of Kurt Hellman (of Hammer Force)?"
It was only a small step from there to the closing weeks of the war, Hellman and a team of grim Volks Grenadiers fighting a losing cat and mouse battle with a crack squad of Red Guards led by a ruthless commissar, only for both to fall prey to a coven of vampires. Cue an uneasy alliance, an old Russian priest who knows of the creatures of the night and many quips along the lines of "And what advice does Comrade Stalin give for battling the undead?"
Nah, I couldn't do it in 500 words.
Anyway, what did happen to old Hellman in the end?
I believe he was demobbed, and went back to running the family mayonnaise business.
we posting em on here?
Yep, this is the place to post an entry for the comp Mogzilla. Looking forward to reading it.
I've had a few ideas for this, there's so many brilliantly created conflicts to choose from in the Tooth pantheon.
Okay, I'll start things off with:
Mummy's Little Boy
As I watch, Lester decapitates a Boonian with his laser saw. It's all I can do not to clap, he does it so well. Next to me, Nigel sits with a huge smile on his face, both thumbs up in appreciation. Mind you, he hasn't got much choice as I had him stuffed three years ago after his sky surfing accident.
Back on screen, Lester ploughs through a few more Boonain farmers with his laser saw, shouting "This one's for you, Mum" as he cuts the last one in half at the waist. The camera on his helmet is a little jerky, of course, but he stands nice and still so I can see the guts slide out of the alien's body. Such a good boy.
I really don't understand these Bonnians. Everyone knows that if Mega City offers you a trade agreement then "agreement" is the key word. They started getting fussy, so the Judges sent over boys like my Lester to teach them the folly of arguing with the Meg. We can't exist on Grot Pots alone, you know.
Lester stops to set fire to a Boonian farm hut, and I watch it go up a treat, sending black smoke spiralling into the sky. I hope he's being careful out there, because everyone knows those aliens carry all sorts of disease they could give to decent people. I mean, what if he comes back with Mork Flu or something? I know they can cure it, but I don't ever like the thought of my precious little boy getting jabbed with sharp, nasty needles.
I remember well when my Lester was born, he was such a tiny thing. The medi-droid told us he wouldn't live past 6 months then packed us on our way. Well, I wasn't having any of that, so I gave him some Flabb-On, not to mention a few other substances that we probably shouldn't tell the Judges about. It worked a treat, though, and he's now a strapping six footer currently tearing his way through a Boonian farming community.
Onscreen, Lester is thrown through the air by some kind of mortar fire, and my heart jumps to my throat. He soon stands up, though, giving a thumbs up to the helmet camera to let me know he is okay. Next thing I know he's raised his lazooka and has blown a distant gun emplacement to tiny Boonian pieces, laughing that big, infectious laugh of his.
From there on it's just the cleaning up to do, and I follow Lester as he uses his laser saw to make sure that all the enemies are dead before sharing a well deserved pot of sythi-caf with his comrades. It's so nice of him to send he this vid slug, as he knows I always miss him more on his birthday. Hopefully this will all be sorted out by next year, and I can watch him turn twelve right in front of me. Mummy's little boy...
Brilliant stuff emceehamster. A good read.
That's freakin' ace MC Hammy, what a story to kick the comp off with. Great stuff.
Done with my first draft, still a few words over the limit but hope to have it here in a couple of days! Can't wait to read some more entries - great job hamster!
nice more please
Well, here goes nothing. It isn't really based around a particular war (mild World War 1 vibes however), let alone a 2000AD multiverse war, but still, war is war isn't it?
Writing Home.
My dearest Eliza,
As I write this, I fear the worst. My life is threatened in a multitude of ways, and a thousand painful deaths await me as I sit at the forefront of a diminished army. Would you believe we're fighting over nothing more than a minor conflict of ideals? I wouldn't. Not with this bloodshed, never in a million years would such thoughts creep into my mind. Yet I still fight regardless, I am a solider, and I must do my duty.
I killed a man yesterday. I saw the look in his eyes as I came charging at him with a loaded pistol, I saw the fear and the sadness as he realised I was about to end his life. I muttered "I'm sorry" right as I pulled the trigger, and do you know what he said back? "It's okay".
My love, the horrors of war go further than mere violence and gore. At boot camp, they tried to teach us that the enemy were inhuman, vile monsters, but out here all that brainwashing starts to fade away. You start to realise we aren't so different. We're all being sent to our deaths by petty, fat old men sitting comfortably in luxury sipping their finest brandy. I hope they choke on it, dearest, I really do. I just don't want to fight anymore, I want to be away from this barren land filled with death, I want to be with you.
The major looks at me with contempt while I write this. Probably jealous that I have the ability to write, the stupid oaf. He isn't a bad man by any means, but he follows the top brass blindly. He lets their propaganda stir him into a violent frenzy fit for a Neanderthal, only for us to feel the brunt of his endless rants if we so much as quiver while we prepare to leap over the top to gain us a worthless ten feet of land.
No trees grow here you know. No grass either. In fact, all flora and fauna are seemingly extinct in this godforsaken place, everything has been bombed into a great brown mudhole. I dream of the nights we spent together under the apple tree, the quiet whistle of the wind and the rustling of the grass. All I can hear come sundown are screams, explosions, and gunfire. An orchestra of death and pain.
Darling, I write to you not to show you the horrors of war and the trials I must endure, but to express how tightly I keep my memory of you and home while the world around me collapses. It keeps me fighting. It keeps me alive.
All the best, my angel,
John.
Welcome to the board Christov. ;D
I'm sure that story could be applied to any number of tooth war scenarios, nice one. Just so as you know, you can enter more than one story, so if you come up with something else, feel free.
Aye aye sir.
Good one there Christov. Nice story. :)
Thanks very much.
Methinks I'll start a new one soon, hopefully I'll manage to keep it 2000AD related.
Hrm... a war between 'tribes' in the Cursed Earth?
Quote from: Christov on 27 October, 2009, 09:04:22 PM
Thanks very much.
Methinks I'll start a new one soon, hopefully I'll manage to keep it 2000AD related.
Hrm... a war between 'tribes' in the Cursed Earth?
Sounds good! I need to get my first story up from the "doesn't quite work" level and start key bashing. :)
Damn you Christov! I was going to write a "letter home" story for the comp. I'll just have to think of something else instead. Nice one though.
By the way, welcome to the forum.
Quote from: Zarjazzer on 27 October, 2009, 09:37:09 PM
Sounds good! I need to get my first story up from the "doesn't quite work" level and start key bashing. :)
Get typing sir! I need to absorb short stories into my brainsack for some literary enjoyment.
Quote from: Colin MacNeil on 27 October, 2009, 10:03:23 PM
Damn you Christov! I was going to write a "letter home" story for the comp. I'll just have to think of something else instead. Nice one though.
By the way, welcome to the forum.
Thanks for the welcome, sorry I beat you to it on the whole writing home thing.
Bleedin' hell, I'm a busy one tonight.
Tribal Warfare
"Eyyyyyyyyarghhhhhhhhhhhhh".
During war, you'll often hear screams. It's a solid fact. Undisputable even. Despite this, Nimrod, a young denizen of the Cursed Earth, flinched while a boggle-eyed thug of the wasteland writhed around in the dirt, kicking and screaming, clutching at the hole in it's abdomen. Nimrod cocked his revolver and took a step back, guttural noises erupting from the back of his throat as he tried to prevent the adrenaline rush from overtaking him. The revolver, affectionately nicknamed 'Tuco', was once again pointed at the tribal marked creature struggling on the dry, cracked earth. Nimrod closed his eyes and waited a moment before putting it out of it's misery.
Nimrod's tribe, or gang depending on your outlook, had been at war with a rival for six months now. They didn't fight over resources, money, land, or respect, they merely fought because they could.
What else could you do in a barren lawless land besides break the law anyway?
It started with one tribe openly insulting the other. Slander about their women, lies about their men, it was a mudslinging match at best. Then, after months and months of trading blows to their egos, the tribes finally physically clashed in a brutal brawl. Bones were broken, eyes were gouged, but yet this started to become a morbid ritual between the two. Each week, at the very end of sundown, the tribes gathered their forces and began fighting until dawn, when they would slink away to lick their wounds until the next time, each group claiming they had won, regardless of the actual outcome of the battle. Over time, the injuries received from the fighting lessened, the fights became jovial, punches were pulled and pride often remained intact. It wasn't until someone from the rival gang brought a knife to the fistfight and proceeded to stab three men to death that the battles reached their violent peak. It was a shame that somebody from Nimrod's tribe had a similar thought that night, but brought a gun instead of a knife. The man with the gun only stopped killing once he'd ran out of ammo.
It was open warfare between the both of them now. No meeting at sundown. They picked each other off whenever possible and by any means available to them.
The casualties on both sides were catastrophic. Within months both tribes had diminished to less than one hundred each. Long gone were the days of nearly one thousand people living in their respective communities. Bodies were found mutilated, raped, partially eaten, all manners of disgusting and depraved things were done to both the living and the dead, all for the sake of sending a message.
"We're stronger than you".
The means had changed, but the aim of these fights remained the same, it was about proving strength. Young men like Nimrod didn't believe in the message, but they did know that strength, above all, ruled in the Cursed Earth.
Blimey Christov another un already!? Grand stuff.
Here's mine mercilesly ripped off WH40k and Attack!
Opponent. 497 words
"Get out there, maggot!" snarled Sergeant Kramer and gave Trooper Tones a shove.
"But Sarge! The Norts!" Tones yelled as he disappeared round the broken wall.
There was a burst of gunfire and a crumpling sound.
"Guess those Norts are there boys!" grinned Kramer at the remains of his squad.
The large form of trooper Marlin whimpered looking sweaty even through his helmet mask.
"You're on point Marlin!" said Kramer smiling at the young mans panicked discomfort.
"I'll do it!"
Kramer's grin darkened as he regarded the thin form of Trooper Phelps.
"I give the orders geek." he said flatly. "You can go with your boyfriend though for lip."
Phelps and a sobbing Marlin slowly made their way to the other edge of the ruined wall behind which Kramer's squad was hiding.
Phelps was looking round making sure the coast was clear. Kramer wasn't having that.
With maximum malice he booted Marlin in the backside. Marlin shrieked and cannoned into Phelps. They both fell outside the protection of the wall.
"Get going you fuckin' prima donnas!" yelled Kramer. Several shots pinged and spanged around them.
Marlin made a move as though to return but Kramer simply pointed his gun at him.
"The enemy's out there you pussy ! Go get him!"
Shrieking insanely Marlin ran Phelps rushing out after him shouting at him to stop.
Kramer found it all highly amusing. War sorts the men from the pussies his father used to say.
The sound of gunfire became heavier, Kramer could see muzzle flashes through the dense fog from a building some way ahead.
The expendables had flushed out the enemy after all.
"Briggs you useless piece of shit!" yelled Kramer. Briggs a watery eyed Souther heavy weapons specialist snapped to attention.
"Get a missile on those frigging |Norts!"
"But Sarge our guys are still out there, they might -"
Kramer saw the Nort assault trooper ease round the corner and stab a trooper repeatedly. Others fully armed boiled from out the smoke of war.
"Oh fuck!" he yelled and squeezed the trigger his rifle on full auto.
Nort and Southers were cut down by his murderous fire.
The world disappeared into a flailing chaos of guns, bayonet s and screams. Kramer ran. Let the useless greenhorns absorb some steel.
He heard a sound like sand slithering and spun round. In the gloom he saw a shadowy form of a Nort some way distant.
He took careful aim.
"Bye bye Norty!" he said..
A stream of bullets sliced into this back.
Kramer screamed and fell down.
A shadowy form emerged. It was Phelps.
"Thank crud!" said Kramer, " I though it was the Norts! Patch me up before the god dam poisons git me."
Phelps raised his rifle.
"The Norts are just your opponents pussy boy." said Phelps. Briggs and several others were coming out of the gloom rifles raised or fingering knives. Eyes hard.
"Your enemies are all around you."
Kramer began to scream...
I can churn out pieces of writing at a rate of knots, if they are any good however, is another thing entirely.
Keep the entries coming ladies and gentlemen, I'm enjoying them too much to be deprived for much longer.
Thought I'd move away from Dredd for this one, inspired by that wonderful strip "Kingdom ".
Johnny Alpha
Hah! Them don't know when Them is well off. We sliced and diced 'em good today, made
mince of their meat like we always do.
"Johnny! Johnny Adept!" comes the cry from my pack leader, Freddy the Crew Girl. Not
usual for a female to be pack leader, I know, but she fights like three males so we
all accept. We know damned well what happen if we don't.
"You did good today Johnny," she says. She is cleaning her knife of Thems blood,
making it sharp again for more brawling soon.
"I know," I say, because I do. "What do you want, Freddy the Crew Girl?" I smell
trouble, and when it comes to trouble smelling I know my scents from my non scents.
"It's Hans," she says. No more needed: Hans Solo has been after my Alpha spot for a
long while now, thinks I getting old, thinks I getting past the pace. He is wrong,
and I will have to tell him this.
"I will deal with Hans," I say, and she grunts a positive. "Where is he?"
"Outside," she says simply. "Go get, Johnny, then come back to me."
I nod, and go to find Hans. He is outside, like she says. He is looking big as he
can, but still not big as me.
"Hans," I say. "What you want? We have war to fight, in case you not sure of this."
I say this to give him a chance to back down, to be a Good Dog.
"Want to be Alpha," snarls Hans. "You had your time, Johnny the Adept. My time now."
He rushes at me, face fulla teeth, being the big scary guy to frighten me off. Well
I don't frighten, 'specially not by young pup like Hans Solo. No weapons in
challenge scrap, so we go at it raw, all teeth and fists and claws and attitude.
Hans attitude is big, but mine bigger, mine always bigger. Around, the pack gather
and call on their favourite. Nice to hear my name louder than Hans, the pack know
the best Alpha for the job, and I think Hans knows it too. Challenged me 'cause he
thought he had to, didn't want to lose face, knows inside I am tougher than tough,
stronger than strong. His heart not in fight, really, and I bring him down in twenty
heartbeats, expose his throat and wait for surrender. He gives it, and Johnny the
Adept is Alpha and this is how things should be.
A lookout howls a warning, and we arm up. Hans Solo is by my side, eager to fight
Them as we have done so many times before. He knows I am fit to be Alpha, and as we
head towards Them I allow him to sound our battle cry:
"Get whet!"
And things are good.
Like that MC!
Very cool. Cute bit of misdirection with the title too. I wonder if Hans thinks he's "super"?
The title only came to me as I was cut and pasting the story to the board! Thought it was a nice touch. ;D
Yeah, last minute inspiration! Nice touch indeed.
Well after nights of ideas and only finishing one, as of now (Jesus this writing lark is hard) I have decided to put it up now, just in case I don't actually finish the rest and then forget to put this one up. Well I hope you like it and if anyone finds anything wrong militarily 'I will kill myself' :-[
'Mission William'
Location : 20ft above the Thames heading towards Central London
The chinook banks hard left as it enters the fog bank, surrounded by it's protective cover, 4 Apache gunships. The troopers inside go through their final checks, unaware of everything outside the confines of the hold.
The Senior Loadmaster crouches over the lip of the rear ramp, peering out into the gloom. The sound of the twin rotors thudding away above as the aircraft swings left, then right, towards the target. The long range fuel tank taking up vital space but necessary, due to the distance travelled.
The loadmaster turns around and signals with a raised fist to the troop leader, Captain Thulin-Hopper, 5 minutes to target.
All the troopers are sat in silence, deep in their own thoughts.
Suddenly the hold is filled with a red glow and everyone slowly stands up, stamping their feet, 1 minute.
Both loadmasters start to position their ropes for the assault.
Everyone is tense, waiting to get on the ground. The seconds slowly tick away as the chinook swoops up from the Thames and banks sharply to the right. The target area comes into view from the cockpit. The Apache's move into their allocated firing positions. All on board know it's merely seconds before the assault. This is the crucial part of the mission, it could all end now, luck will play it's part but not as much as rigid discipline and years of training.
The engines strain as the chinook pulls back and starts to hover, both ropes are kicked out and plummet towards the ground. Before they unravel completely the first troopers have started fast roping down, while the rest of the assault force shuffle forward, ready to grab their ropes, marked with green cyalumes masked to their tops.
Trooper Bouwel and Wolf are first on the ground, they release themselves from the ropes and wait for the next man. Scanning the area for a split second before the next trooper lands in front them. They grab the back of each man, face them towards the entry point and with a chop of their right arms indicate where to go. In less than 30 seconds the assault force is deployed and ready to gain entry.
The chinook drops both ropes and starts to climb to it's safety rv point, it banks left and disappears from sight.
Captain Thulin-Hopper checks all is correct and signals to go. The door is blown into chunks as shaped charges cut through the frame and the fighting force enter the building.
Alarms sound but it's already too late, the most difficult part of 'Mission William' is over. The actual rescue will be no problem for M Squadron and anyway, in 3 hours the first wave of the Mechanised Robot Brigades will be storming the shores of Great Britain after years of Volgan rule.
Great story John, well worth the effort. I'm sure the fellas will be pleasantly surprised by that.
Brilliant entries all round so far and it's good to see some new faces taking part. Must get my arse in gear with mine.
Great story there CF!
QuoteTrooper Bouwel
I think Stallone should play me in the movie...I make about as much sense as he does ;)
-Bouwel-
More great stories, I am pleased greatly.
I'm starting to think I should take another a crack at this, I'd love to win some free comics. Thing is, my general 2000AD-verse knowledge is starting to stall and I can't think of any notable wars to write about.
A bit of a pickle I appear to be in.
Hey guys!Just getting a chance to check the forum now for the first time in weeks - great entries to the comp all around dudes!I may not manage to get an entry in this time round as the kiddies are keeping me busy and well away from the computer! Not due back from Japan until november 7th and this comp will probably be over by then! I look forward to reading more of these too! Catch yez all later!
You've got plenty of time Van, comp ends midnight on the 16th of November.
Mercy, For a Change. (391w)
You wanna' know about mercy, Spud? I'll tell you about mercy. Mercy is stupid. You're too young to remember the Apocalypse War, but I was there. I was in it.
I survived the nukes. That was a day! There were a thousand new suns and the world was made of sunlight and thunder. Then there was only rubble and burning citiblocks and gunfire and screaming. The local Citi-Def gave me a blatter and a helmet and pushed me out with a dozen other guys. As soon as we hit the first Sov judges, half of us were killed and I ran. I ain't no hero, Spud.
I hid in the ruins while the fight for the Meg raged all around. Another of my team staggered into the same building, but I stayed put. Stayed hid. I recognised Hall, he'd enjoyed the fighting. Enjoyed the killing. Rushed at the Sovs with a smile on his face. Just like that smile you've got.
Hall sat down to dress a wound in his shoulder. I guess the rest of the blood all over him wasn't his own. Red blood. Heh. Then a Sov comes in and they're both frozen to the spot. Hall recovers first and grabs his rifle. The Sov gave up. Dropped his gun, raised his hands. Shiverin' like a pig in a blizzard, he was. Hall punched the Sov and his helmet span away into the rubble. The Sov looked about 12 years old. Hall wanted to shoot him, but he couldn't. The Sov was too young. Too scared. Too human.
Hall gave the Sov a rat-pack and told him to spug off. The young Sov didn't need telling twice. Grabbed the rat-pack and legged it, left his gun and his helmet behind but he didn't get far. One of our judges shot him through the head before he got ten yards. Hall was relieved to see the judge, happy that he'd have someone else to fight with.
The judge raised his Lawgiver. "Providing comfort and respite to the enemy in time of war," he said. "Treason. The sentence is death."
Hall didn't get time for no famous last words. So, sonny, you take my creds and shoot me if you want. But those bastard judges will get you in the end, Spud. You mark my words.
Classic stuff The legendary shark! A very good story. 8)
Nice one. :P
I've got another for you folks. Sadly, it's the only one I've written so far that I struggled to keep under the word limit, and as a result the ending I had planned got neutered into a much more cut down version. Still, I hope some of you will enjoy it. I wrote this as a result of a 'Vietnam, but in space!' style idea in my head.
Death or Glory (496 words)
With an almighty rumble and a flash of light, the heavens opened.
The first few dribbles of rain slid silently down a grizzled cheek, dampening the dried mixture of grime and blood caked over it. Herman was a Private in the 5th Infantry Unit of Earth's Colonial Marine Corp, young, inexperienced, stupid almost, but he was trained well enough to perform his duty efficiently. No more, no less.
He quietly crept through the undergrowth of this strange off-world jungle, it's exotically coloured vegetation and wildlife aesthetically pleasing, but providing poor cover for the wounded soldier. Blood continually seeped from the hollow hole in his head where his right baby blue eye should have been, the rain causing further irritation to this wound, amongst many, and the irritable itchy feeling within the socket foreshadowed an infection. Cuts, bruises, grazes, scratches, burns, Herman's body was a wreck. A product of sleep deprivation, assault, and the most grievous torture.
The rest of his unit had been slaughtered over the course of a week, their screams echoing endlessly throughout the enemy stronghold. Foreign and alien means of interrogation being used on once powerful men to reduce them to nothing more than gibbering wrecks. It had been an odd stroke of luck that Herman himself had been able to escape the glorified concentration camp before they could break him beyond repair. No longer bound by his iron bonds and freed from his cell, he escaped in the dead of night, out into the unknown to find help, shelter, or both. Armed with nothing more than his blaster and an ill-fitting pair of camouflage trousers, he ran barefoot through the endless forests and scaled the multiple cliff faces surrounding his place of imprisonment.
Another monumental rumbling shook the ground, but this was not caused by nature as it was before, no, this was caused by the instruments of war. Above the treetops and the highest canopies, great machines flew overhead, unleashing a payload of small grey cylindrical devices. Herman began to break out into a frantic run as the world around him turned to fire.
A great blaze began to spread through the jungle as a result of the bombing, not even the endless downpour of rain could extinguish the flames snaking their way onwards. Great metallic spheres dropped from the skies around Herman, slowly, they began to uncurl, revealing themselves to be automated attack drones, cold and unfeeling killing machines. A very impersonal and clinical way to wage war. The man continued to outrun both the fire and the squadron of drones, barely staying ahead of both as they raced after him..
Finally, he came to a ledge. An impossible drop lay before him, but unable to deliberate or review his circumstances before machine or nature claimed his life, he took a breath and flung himself downwards, remaining eye closed tightly and fists clenched as he prepared to enter the unknown.
In his final moments he uttered to himself, "Death or glory".
Going for the splattergun approach I see, Christov. Talk about PROLIFIC! Good too. Nice work mate, although I should loathe you for making the voting harder.
Aha, cheers.
If there is anything that could win me some free stuff and prevent me from doing what I should really be getting on with, I will most certainly be participating.
Right, here goes. I've never entered one of these before but I've been shamed by Christov and his prolific pen to at least give it a go. The following is the first prose story I've written since I left school, and is the result of a long sleepless night. Those excuses out of the way, I give you
WITH GOD ON OUR SIDE
Oh, and it's set in a universe where the most promising new direction for Rogue in years wasn't pissed aay by a new editor with a baby/bathwater approach to cancellation.
WITH GOD ON OUR SIDE
I'm not gonna live out the day. I know it, the Sarge knows it, everyone in the damn unit knows it. None of us will say it out loud though, because that would make it true and if there's one thing we're good at it's deluding ourselves.
We've had to get good at it, in the 18 months since we arrived in this place. A prime assignment, we were told. A chance to bring the word to the heathens and bathe in the Glory of Our Lord. All well and good, except the heathens aren't too happy about the idea and having the righteous fist of a vengeful God on our side doesn't seem to be doing us a whole lot of good.
So now it's long term strategy this, siege tactics that and oh by the way, did we mention that the meals are going to have to be rationed until the next supply ship gets here in a couple of weeks. Some Jihad this turned out to be.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
It had all gone so well in the beginning. These unbelievers, so shellshocked and fatigued from years of their own warfare, had put up a feeble defense. We'd steamrollered over them without a care in the world. I spent a month here before I had to raise my weapon, another week before I had to fire it. Then it all went wrong. We started getting reports of them. Blue skinned Demons rallying the unbelievers and leading them against us. Abominations in the eyes of the Lord the Colonel calls them, sent to test our faith in this our greatest hour. The Sarge says that's all bullshit, that they're just soldiers like us, only enhanced by medicine and science to run a touch quicker, shoot a touch straighter. I guess the Sarge should know, coming from this world before he found the Light, and fighting in the war that raged here. Hey, he never did tell us which zone he was from. Guess I'll ask him after this patrol. Over breakfast rations. Ha, as if any of us are gonna see breakfast. They're out there. Maybe I should ask him now.
"Hey Sarge, come on, let us in on the big secret. Whereabouts are you fr-"
*************************************************************************************
"Did you see that? Did you? His head went all kablooey, did you see Mommy?"
"Yes sweetheart, I'm very proud of you"
"Oh, come on. He took out one kid who didn't have his head in the game. If I hadn't been here to take out the rest of the squad you'd be dead meat now."
"Shut up Gunnar. Eightball did really well."
"But he only..."
"Venus said to shut up, Gunnar."
"Yes, Friday."
"Now lets move out. There are plenty more Karvanu patrols out there. Want to make some more kablooey, Eightball?"
"Oooh, yes please"
Faplad, I think I love you. Cracking stuff. I really liked the Karvanu jihad elements of the story too.
I agree on the whole Friday cancellation thing - that was the only time that Rogue really appealled to me - the reintroduction of the original Rogue aside (and even then, the arrival of Gunnar & Venus made that pill a little easier to swallow). Such a shame.
That's pretty good. Like it! :P
Faplad! Welcome to the fray. Great story mate, when I started this comp I thought "Oh yeah, lets have a story comp" and then it dawned on me that I hadn't written anything creatively for years, "Oh shit" was my next thought, but it gets easier.
Sharkey you're a freaking genius.
Well, here's my effort for the comp. I had to rethink what I was going to write thanks to Christov. Thankyou for that. And also thanks to the lads on the wednesday night chat for giving me the inspiration for this. Cheers guys! Ahyhoo, here it is. It's not a story and it certainly aint 500 words, but I hope it chimes a chord. Be gentle with me, it's the first time I've shown anyone I've written. Ta.
Wha went awa tae be a sodjer
(who went away to be a soldier)
Wha went awa tae be a sodjer?
The youth, the fool, the upstairs lodger.
Sergeant major, jumping jimmy,
Rip your balls off in a jiffy.
To earless gods they fiercely pray,
To keep them safe upon the day.
Luckies, compo, biscuit bone,
Still no letters came from home.
Fathers, sons and many others,
Sit in filth and dream of lovers.
Sangar, bunker, shallow grave,
All they had, all they gave.
IED and IOU,
A waste for him, a loss for you.
Wheelchair, prosthetic, plastic face,
No hope for love or state of grace.
In a paper, a box and flag,
Lost among stories of some stupid WAG.
No more or less than any other,
The fears and tears of every mother.
Grunts and Toms and Para Boys,
Children playing with the Devil's toys.
Finally when the madness ends,
The best to hope, to die with friends.
Atop the night of bloody scree,
"Fifteen platoon! Are you with me?"
Come the silence, come the slur,
"Aye. I'm fucking with you, sur!"
Hate and hope in equal measure,
Gone the days they fought to treasure.
In his throat, a sad proud lump,
As emotion twitches in his stump.
Amid stones of white and men of grey,
On each and every remembrance day.
Come the memories of some old codger,
Wha went awa tae be a sodjer.
Quote from: Colin MacNeil on 02 November, 2009, 09:04:03 PM
Wha went awa tae be a sodjer
(who went away to be a soldier)
Wha went awa tae be a sodjer?
The youth, the fool, the upstairs lodger.
Sergeant major, jumping jimmy,
Rip your balls off in a jiffy.
To earless gods they fiercely pray,
To keep them safe upon the day.
Luckies, compo, biscuit bone,
Still no letters came from home.
Fathers, sons and many others,
Sit in filth and dream of lovers.
Sangar, bunker, shallow grave,
All they had, all they gave.
IED and IOU,
A waste for him, a loss for you.
Wheelchair, prosthetic, plastic face,
No hope for love or state of grace.
In a paper, a box and flag,
Lost among stories of some stupid WAG.
No more or less than any other,
The fears and tears of every mother.
Grunts and Toms and Para Boys,
Children playing with the Devil's toys.
Finally when the madness ends,
The best to hope, to die with friends.
Atop the night of bloody scree,
"Fifteen platoon! Are you with me?"
Come the silence, come the slur,
"Aye. I'm fucking with you, sur!"
Hate and hope in equal measure,
Gone the days they fought to treasure.
In his throat, a sad proud lump,
As emotion twitches in his stump.
Amid stones of white and men of grey,
On each and every remembrance day.
Come the memories of some old codger,
Wha went awa tae be a sodjer.
This is bleedin' fantastic. I bow down to you sir.
Aren't you glad I beat you to the post for the letter home idea now? Hm?
Jesus, I actually teared up there Colin. That's a bloody powerful piece of writing man. Thankyou, seriously.
For future reference, poems, song lyrics or any other form of writing are all good as far as I'm concerned.
And Christov, a small point but it's not necessary to quote whole stories or immediately preceding posts, some people get quite exercised about it.
Shall rectify sir.
EDIT: Or not, whoops.
Thanks guys. Your comments rally mean a lot to me. And Christov, if everyone appreciates the poem as much as you and Kerrin, then I definately owe you a pint sometime. Cheers.
Free beer?
(http://i35.tinypic.com/2ur8c2u.gif)
YEEEESSSSS.
Cheers for the kind words. I nearly didn't put mine up because there really is a lot of very good stuff on here and it was a little intimidating so a couple of complimentary coments was just what the Doctor ordered.
Oh, and Mr MacNeil sir, that was bloody beautiful. Fair brought a tear to the eye it did.
Some memory inducing lines there Colin.
Step forward that man!
Nicely done, Faplad - a cracking entry whether it's your first time or not. I look forward to reading more of your work, oh yes indeed.
And Colin; wow. That just makes me sick. Artistry and poetry of surpassing quality from the same hand? It shouldn't be allowed, I tells ya!
Well done, everyone. This surely is the most talented place on the web.
Colin, my man, that brought a tear to my eye. Beautiful.
*grabs the tiny bit of credit his homoerotic wednesday night ramblings may have earned him (yeah I know, not much but I'm taking it)*
Quote from: Colin MacNeil on 02 November, 2009, 09:23:26 PM
Thanks guys. Your comments rally mean a lot to me. And Christov, if everyone appreciates the poem as much as you and Kerrin, then I definately owe you a pint sometime. Cheers.
Colin,
I hope you dont mind but I've printed the poem out and will put it up in my Detachment tomorrow in preperation for me parading my Cadets through the town on Remembrance Sunday.
I have to say, Colin, I think it's stunningly appropriate for just the use Logan will put it to.
Very fitting for Remembrance Sunday, especially in today's world.
Quote from: W. R. Logan on 05 November, 2009, 01:23:09 AM
Quote from: Colin MacNeil on 02 November, 2009, 09:23:26 PM
Thanks guys. Your comments rally mean a lot to me. And Christov, if everyone appreciates the poem as much as you and Kerrin, then I definately owe you a pint sometime. Cheers.
Colin,
I hope you dont mind but I've printed the poem out and will put it up in my Detachment tomorrow in preperation for me parading my Cadets through the town on Remembrance Sunday.
It makes the thoughts I put into this poem all the more worthwhile if you think it's good enough to inspire your cadets, especially this weekend. You most definately have my permission and upmost thanks.
La a' Bhlair s'math na Cairden (Friends are good on the day of battle) - an inscription from the 51st (Highland) Division war memorial, Beaumont-Hamel (Somme) in France, 1924.
Quote from: Kerrin on 02 November, 2009, 09:16:40 PM
Jesus, I actually teared up there Colin. That's a bloody powerful piece of writing man. Thankyou, seriously.
For future reference, poems, song lyrics or any other form of writing are all good as far as I'm concerned.
Well then Kerrin, you've got me going now. A song it is!
Dance wi' me
We marched and sang along the Tummel,
We fought and danced at Beaumont-Hamel,
My leg I left among the rubble.
Now, who will dance wi' me?
Shipp'd back hame frae bloody France
Wi' a widden leg and nae a chance
I stumbled tae the vict'ry dance
To see wha'd dance wi' me.
The reply, frae a nippy chick.
I'll nae daunce, I would'na skip
Wi' a man wi' a widden fit.
I nae daunce wi' thee.
Then arose fae another chair,
An earthly maid wi' angel's hair.
She did'na judge, she did'na stare,
And said, come dance wi' me.
As we pranced upon the flair
My buggered stump began tae wear.
I din'na mind. I din'na care,
For she danced along wi' me.
Wi' song an' dance an' comely lovers.
Here's to all my long lost brothers,
Wi' orphaned weans and grieving mothers,
We will dance fer thee.
Well I'll be...
You're a bonafide prodigious polymath Colin. That's bloody excellent man.
Not exactly a 2000AD war song though...
Mebbe...
"Shipped back from Upminster palace,
Oor mutie war a poisoned chalice"
Hey Presto! 200AD! :D
Quote from: emceehamster on 06 November, 2009, 06:27:48 PM
Hey Presto! 200AD! :D
There seems to be a slight mistake there, I'm not sure what though!
Another stroke of brilliance from Colin. Well done sir, well done.
Your literary excellence dwarfs my own. *bows down*
Quote from: emceehamster on 06 November, 2009, 06:27:48 PM
Not exactly a 2000AD war song though...
Mebbe...
"Shipped back from Upminster palace,
Oor mutie war a poisoned chalice"
Hey Presto! 200AD! :D
DOH!! Quite right Sgt Hamster. I got so excited about the thought of "WAR STORIES", that I completely failed to carefully read the rest of the first post by General Kerrin. I utterly failed to set my efforts in the 2000ad multiverse. Please disregard my efforts as entries in the comp. If I have time, I will try to come up with something more appropriate.
I will now go off and double time round the parade ground in full kit.
Oh come off it, Colin. Your work is ace...in fact I'm nearly ready to post my entry as another sacrificial lamb. We'll all let it pass, no worries.
I'm sure both WWI and WWII have featured in Twoothy at some stage, so it's all good!
I'm not saying they weren't VERY cool bits of verse. It was good to read them Colin, and nice to know yer not just about the sketchin!
Quote from: The Legendary Shark on 06 November, 2009, 10:56:36 PM
I'm sure both WWI and WWII have featured in Twoothy at some stage, so it's all good!
Charley's War, Fiends of the Eastern Front, Shuckelgruber Grab spring to mind.
Colin, you Sir are scary good. It's almost not fair. What am I saying, it's definitely not fair. No man should be that multi talented.
Anyway, now that I have, as the yanks would say, busted my cherry, I've decided to go all out and have another go. My levels of Pat hate have gotten me into trouble on the board in the past so I thought I'd try and make a little peace offering by basing my next entry on one of his series. Not sure it quite works, but I'll let you lot be the judge.
NOT ALL BASTARDS (436 WORDS)
I remember once, a long time ago, my Grandfather sat me on his lap and told me a story. It was a story of honour, bravery, camaraderie and friendships that lasted a lifetime. He was so proud of his time spent serving his country that he awoke in me a fierce desire to do the same. Of course, what I didn't know, and what he couldn't tell me, was that today's army is very different from the one he joined. Honour is the last thing our Generals concern themselves with.
*************************************************************************
She was a child. No older than my nieces back home. Just walking the street of her home town, taking in the night air, minding her own business. Or so it seemed to me. Yes, it was after curfew, and I suppose maybe she did have other, less innocent motive for being out, but Hell... She was just a child. What right did we have?
We had lost a lot of good comrades in the last few weeks, since the freedom fighters (yes, freedom fighters, though the words would probably get me court-martialled) had started up their activities in earnest. So the men were understandably wound up tighter than usual. I can't though, in all honesty, say that this was the reason for what occured. The truth is that what they did, what I allowed them to do, was not out of character for them. Not out of character for this army I find myself a part of.
She saw her fate coming of course, and tried to escape it. She tried to run, and when caught she claimed to be diseased, but these men, these brave comrades of mine, had taken so many of the local women, willing or otherwise, that they already had pretty much everything there was to catch. They laughed. They laughed at that poor, terrified girl.
I was going to stop them. I stepped forward, the order was on the tip of my tongue. What stopped me? Fear. This is what my people do. This is how we treat people on a daily basis. What would happen to me if I intervened? I would get no thanks, from either side. Fear stayed my hand. Until my Grandfathers face in my dreams made me realise how little honour I truly had left to me.
**************************************************************************
So go ahead. Kill me if you must. I'd have some peace at night at least. Tell me though, so that I can go to my Grandfather with some little pride, that you will deliver my message.
That you will get those names to Bill Savage.
Quote from: Colin MacNeil on 06 November, 2009, 10:23:42 PM
I will now go off and double time round the parade ground in full kit.
Get your shaggin' knees up MaNeil, move it, move it.
Lets here yah!
"I will read the thread properly Sar'nt."
Come on you 'orrible little scrote, I can't hear you!
I can make more noise pissing in a bucket full of cotton wool.
Twice round my bronzed chest...............
GO!
Quote from: COMMANDO FORCES on 07 November, 2009, 08:07:01 AM
Quote from: Colin MacNeil on 06 November, 2009, 10:23:42 PM
I will now go off and double time round the parade ground in full kit.
Get your shaggin' knees up MaNeil, move it, move it.
Lets here yah!
"I will read the thread properly Sar'nt."
Come on you 'orrible little scrote, I can't hear you!
I can make more noise pissing in a bucket full of cotton wool.
Twice round my bronzed chest...............GO!
I will read the thread properly Sar'nt, I will read the thread properly Sarn't, I WILL READ THE THREAD PROPERLY SAR'NT, I WILL READ THE THREAD.....
.......I WILL TREAD THE BREAD PAPERLY SUR'NT,PERP WILL I THE NERDELY SLURRED FAA'RD, WILL i thead tha tha bed naughtily... blur'd.... *cough*, *wheeze*, ...............*THUMP!!*
NEENAW,NEENAW,NEENAW,NEENAW,NEENAW,NEENAW,NEENAW,NEENAW!!!
As far as I'm concerned a war story/song/poem by a Twoth art droid (built by Tharg's own hand) is about as 2000ad as it gets (short of Mr Ezquerra posting a video of himself on youtube pretending to be Johnny Alpha).
So there! *rasp*
If you feel you should do a more obviously tooth entry Colin then go for it mate. I think the two entries you've done are fine, we've got "Deadeyes" as a modern British war related story and the ones Logan mentioned for the 20th century conflicts.
Absolutely. That stuff deserves to be in it.
here's another one:
Gladys & Fred (491 Words)
Everyone likes Gladys and Fred. It's rare that you find a couple like them, as, in general, people are scum. Yeah, I know it's a jaded view, but it's kept me alive as long as this, and it'll keep me alive for a good few more years, as long as I don't let some snecker get the jump on me. Gladys and Fred wouldn't dream of getting the jump on anyone, mainly because they're way too old for that sort of shit. At 92, Fred is way past his prime, no longer capable of piloting a dropship, no longer a leader of men, just content to be the best husband and neighbour he can, which is a pretty great way to be, when you think about it. He was in the local news vid last week, and not for the first time. One of his neighbours, Mrs Wagner, was being mugged by a mutie kid. The kid wasn't much of a mutie, just six toes on each foot, but it was enough for "normal" society to keep him at arms length. Anyway, Mrs Wagner wasn't too keen on giving up her pension credits, and the kid, Carlos, was trying his best to persuade her otherwise, using the argument commonly known as "a beating". Fred was passing by, and instead of scuttling away he grabbed Carlos, took him down and sat on him 'til the cops arrived. Not bad for an old guy, and certainly worthy of a full page in the newsie.
Whilst she doesn't beat up muggers, Gladys is no less impressive. A few years behind Fred, her husband of sixty years now, she is as trim as she was in her youth. At a recent Eldsters Olympiad, strictly for the over eighties (no bionics allowed), she kicked some major ass in no less than seven events. She also started up a charity for abused Morks some time ago, and that charity is still going strong. Odd to me how some people rate animals over people, but I suppose it's easier to give sympathy to something that's cute and makes a funny noise. Either way, Gladys is what's known as a swell old gal, and when teamed up with Fred, she's one half of a whole lot of love. Sweet, isn't it.
Of course, they don't look so sweet now, lying at my feet with a neat bullet hole through each of their foreheads. Gladys has the shocked look on her face from when she opened the door to find my blaster pointing at her, and Fred a more angry one from when he came at me with, of all things, a fly swatter. I take a knife and mark their faces with the symbol, a symbol that me and my kind will never, ever forget. Gladys and Fred may have been sweet old duffers, kind to animals and the best of neighbours, but sixty years ago they were Kreelers.
Wow! That was a good'un. Kept me guessing right up to the end. Full of true human experiance with a wonderful twothy twist. A big three thumbs up to you.
Cheers, Col. Gladys and Fred were my Grandparents, although they weren't Kreelers ;)
Quote from: Kerrin on 30 October, 2009, 11:19:58 PM
You've got plenty of time Van, comp ends midnight on the 16th of November.
Cheers Kerrin! I doubt I'll be submitting anything though, what with jetlag and also an overflowing pile of work in my "to do" tray at work (cheers to my fellow workmates for keeping on top of things in my absence....not!) I did have an idea knocking about in the old noggin...if by some miracle I find the time I'll certainly post it up but I don't have high hopes!
Great stuff by all involved so far though!
I'm gonna try and finish two more off tonight.
I can't believe you lot didn't tell me how hard the writing lark is ::)
Here we go.
VIOLENT WAR. (497 words)
If we were to be dull, we might make the inane comparison between The Sedgrave Divorce and the Boer War. Both were superficially aerial wars, concerned with the accumulation of forestry. Both were due to climax with a procession of crypto-psychic duels fought with increasingly short halberds. Both were likely to climax in a one-sided stalemate, as those who were obstensibly on the losing side turned to hallucinogenics in an effort to project their own delusions onto the noumenal realm through sheer force of pharmatological will. It should be noted that both parties were not aware of The Sedgrave Divorce being an actual inevitability at the point where we join them.
It was Christmas in the Sedgrave household, a sprawling pile staffed, as with all similarly venerable institutions, with buggerers of all persuasions. Charles Sedgrave, the scion of this most elephantine of dynasties had already commenced with his usual spree of insults against his older siblings.
"Clarissa, you bovine sow, your beauty cannot hide the constant aura of idiocy which you so eagerly project, unconsciously or not. I am tired of your constant vampiric presence. Leave your present at my bedside. I already know what it is, it's some sort of ersatz fire truck as used by the East Germans. It's very nice, thank you."
Clarissa left the toy ambulance by Charles' bed and left. Next to slope in to speak to Charles was Thomas, who, if we were to be dull, might be considered as the black sheep of the family, as if any family construed around the obsessively Aphroditian nucleus of Margaux Sedgrave Folstrom could ever produce any child that was even partially unloved.
"I have brought you a present", intoned Thomas in his oppressively solemn howls.
"Oh, you have, and what would that be, you fucking turd?"
"It is a letter from Herriman to Hearst written in 1945. I shall read it to you and Roger will put it in a quote box with scrolling text if it will work"
Quote
May I ask just what the fuck is with lemon drizzle cake. I like sponge cake as it is. You do NOT pour a shitload of lemon juice in it just because you do not have the imagination to project your own paint[/move][/quote]
Charles threw a hard-boiled egg at Thomas. Were I Charles' wet nurse, it might have occurred to me that this particular form of abuse was the only abuse that Charles did not consider to be a sort of pre-cognitive penance for the miseries that his siblings would later inflict upon the Markets and on the lower orders of society.
Then the Volgans invaded and all of the Sedgraves were publicly executed. If we were to be dull, we would probably guess that this was because the Volgs had it in for the landed aristocracy. And also that The Sedgrave Divorce actually meant that they would be divorced from like and that Charles was shit at pre-cogging.
Well that was... something.
You are a very strange man, Mr Godpleton.
I've just spotted a typo. Here is the corrected final paragraph:
QuoteThen the Volgans invaded and all of the Sedgraves were publicly executed. If we were to be dull, we would probably guess that this was because the Volgs had it in for the landed aristocracy. And also that The Sedgrave Divorce actually meant that they would be divorced from liFe and that Charles was shit at pre-cogging.
Strange indeed but interesting and by the way did you notice he put like instead of life near the end ;)
I'm glad you changed that Roger, I was beginning to think you'd fucking lost it.
Happy to see that wasn't the case.
heaven forbid :D
Well, I know who I'm voting for.
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.
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........
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....
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.
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.
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!
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!
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.
Now that was a good read! :P
Excuse my ignorance, but which 2000AD creator are you (I'm new here).
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.
And that should of course be hear, not here. Some fucking spellchecker that was, tsk.
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.
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.
Another cracking bunch of stories there chaps. It's definately gonna be a tough choice when it comes to voting.
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).
Well, here we go again! It's a war story, 500 words and set in the Twothy-verse!
Hope you all like it.
Fiends of the Western Front
A black uniformed guard opened the tall ornate door as he strode in. The small bespectacled man at the far end of the room looked up. "Welcome to Castle Wewelsberg, Sturmbannfuhrer Lichtmann."
"Heil Hitler!" Lichtmann said, as he snapped off a text book salute. "Thank you Reichsfuhrer."
Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler looked back at the open file on his desk. "Sturmbannfuhrer Josef Lichtmann, 4th SS Police Panzergrenadier Division, Iron Cross 2nd class, numerous citations for bravery..." He paused. ".. . And leadership." He said as he looked up at Lightmann's Silver German Cross. "You have been recently seconded to our Rumanian Mission and have had dealings with our..." He paused again, "... special allies."
"Yes Reichsfuhrer." replied Lichtmann uncomfortably, his hatred for 'them' showing on his Aryan features.
"I take it you don't like our Rumanian 'allies' then, Sturmbannfuhrer?" said Himmler.
This puny, most un-Aryan little man disturbed Lichtmann with his perceptiveness. "If the Fuhrer has said they are our allies, then I will do my duty. "
"You believe them to be a threat to us then?" Himmler said, as if searching for something in him.
Lichtmann, momentarily unsure as to where this questioning was heading made a decision. "Yes Riechsfuhrer!"
"That is good!" Himmler replied with a simple smile. "Like you I also trust the Fuhrer totally. However, even the Fuhrer cannot deal with every day to day detail of the Reich, or the threats to it. That is my humble task to do."
He looked directly at Lichtmann and said, "And I have a task for you." Himmler continued, "I want you to lead a new unit. Reporting directly to me , and me alone."
"Do I make myself clear?" Himmler added coldly.
"Thank you, yes, Reichsfuhrer!" Lichtmann felt a mix of pride and fear.
Himmler continued, "At the moment we are involved in a war against the forces of Hell, and we have had to make a deal with the Devil's own children to win that war."
Lichtmann's memories flooded back to his grandmother's stories of gnomes, changelings, vampires, Jews, Bolsheviks and other creatures of the Devil. He knew with bitter experience that some of them do exist.
"I believe them to be not only a threat to our glorious Reich and the Aryan race. Indeed a threat to all the races of man." Himmler said, as he picked up a large folder from his desk. "Here are your orders!" Himmler passed the sealed file to Lichtmann. "Don't forget God is with us. I know you will not fail Standardten Fuhrer Lichtman.""A car is waiting outside to take you to Normandy." Himmler went back to studying the piles of papers on his desk. Lichtmann already seemingly forgotten.
"Heil Hitler!" said Lichtmann, as he saluted and walked out, still stunned at the sudden promotion.
Sat in the spacious back seat of his limousine he opened the folder, labelled 'SS unit 44'. As the car sped westward one word sprung out at him.
"WEREWOLF!"
Colin, that's a belter. *applause*
I am always impressed by the writing threads, glad you're a semi-regular on them now, mate. Although it makes VOTING that much harder.....
Very nice Colin ;)
Cracking story there Colin. I presume you must have done a fair bit of research into WWII when you did the "Fiends" story in the Meg. Nazi Werewolves? Has that been done yet?
Quote from: Kerrin on 13 November, 2009, 07:09:02 PM
Nazi Werewolves? Has that been done yet?
I certainly hope not. But I'm sure those ardent 'googlers' on the board will tell me different. I mention no names.
Quote from: Colin MacNeil on 13 November, 2009, 08:35:53 PM
Quote from: Kerrin on 13 November, 2009, 07:09:02 PM
Nazi Werewolves? Has that been done yet?
I certainly hope not. But I'm sure those ardent 'googlers' on the board will tell me different. I mention no names.
I found this,
"The Werewolves were originally organised by the SS and the Hitler Youth as a diversionary operation on the fringes of the Third Reich, which were occupied by the Western Allies and the Soviets in the autumn of 1944. Some 5,000 -- 6,000 recruits were raised by the winter of 1944-45" It does go on a bit but I don't think they were real werewolves so I think you are okay with your story Colin ;)
Okay, to my chagrin I officially am not going to have time to enter the comp this month. And its a great one too. :(
Colin (and everyone else who is interested for that matter)- there is a book called "The Wolfs Hour" by (the very underrated) Robert R McCammon which is set in WW2 and features the concept of both Allied and Nazi werewolves fighting each other. Its an absolute belter of a book, one of my all time favourites, and I highly recommend it to everyone here. Along with McCammons other work of course - Swan Song is an epic masterpiece and Stinger is a great old adventure yarn too.
Just thought I'd say!
Look forward to putting a few hours aside some night next week to read through all these and get my votes in! And I'll definately be rejoining you fine writers for next months comp!
Glad to hear it Van. I'll have to check out that McCammon stuff, sounds good. I reckon Colin could probably do his own sequel to "Fiends" with this werewolf idea, artwork and writing, reading all those scripts from the masters over the years has obviously rubbed off Colin, your writing's bloody good mate.
Ah, with so much testosterone - for what could be manlier than Total War? - permeating the comp this month, my entry probably seems incredibly out of place. It was, in fact, written for my wife, and the description of the beautiful Queen is entirely inspired by her (apart from the wickedness, mind; Adrene is a sweetheart).
The floating ship is from Slaine - I hope that's enough for you guys to allow this in the competition. Anyway, my sacrificial lamb to Colin's wonderful poem clocks in at 430 words:
Eneuwydd
So Eneuwydd, Queen of Kyph and Pir, stood silently on the highest deck of her floating ship and looked down upon the battle that raged below.
She was beautiful; she was wretched.
She was beautiful:
When a man beheld Eneuwydd he could not help but fall in love with her, for she could trace her ancestry to the very gods, and only the fairest of gods could rival her beauty; her milky white skin was like the pale morning mist, and her blue eyes the frost shimmering under a virgin sun, and her black hair the night that fled the dawn.
And when a man fell in love with Eneuwydd the gods mattered no longer, nor did kingdoms or riches, nor the lives of princes or peasants; for her breath wove a spell of enchantment, and her voice a song of rapture, and her every movement a ritual for which men willingly sacrificed themselves to take part.
She was wretched:
Eneuwydd delighted in pain and suffering, and like the gods her cruelty could not be tamed by love or devotion, power or pleasure. Eneuwydd knew only how to destroy, and to destroy utterly. Men who loved Eneuwydd were many, and many were the men she left in ruins – penniless, soulless – empty and abandoned.
And Eneuwydd smiled, her lips betraying her cruelty, for this mid-morning she would see armies hewn before her flights of fancy; she who had broken men would crush nations: indeed, on this mid-morning Adolgar-Adwir, King of Qitir, sought to earn her favour as did Iolsgair-Kadir, Prince of Avondir.
Proud men both, Adolgar-Adwir and Iolsgair-Kadir led their armies into battle.
And the two hosts came together, and across the field of battle swept a violent metamorphosis: those once soldiers became shattered bodies and wasted flesh, and those once brave screamed in agony and despair. Yet still the armies fought on, 'til the earth became soaked with blood and gore, 'til the feasting carrion birds could eat no more. And still they fought on, 'til a thousand men lay dead and a thousand men lay dying. And as they died, they cried, 'For Eneuwydd!'
'For Eneuwydd!'
Eneuwydd, so beautiful.
And Adolgar-Adwir, King of Qitir, wept as he saw his warriors strewn lifeless over the battlefield before him, wept for he had no more lives to give, 'For Eneuwydd.'
Eneuwydd, so wretched.
And Iolsgair-Kadir, Prince of Avondir, sighed as he surveyed the mounds of the dead and wondered which army had won the day, won the day, 'For Eneuwydd.'
'For Eneuwydd!'
And Eneuwydd on her floating ship laughed at the carnage wrought by her terrible beauty.
The End
Quote from: Van Dom on 13 November, 2009, 09:26:02 PM
Colin (and everyone else who is interested for that matter)- there is a book called "The Wolfs Hour" by (the very underrated) Robert R McCammon which is set in WW2 and features the concept of both Allied and Nazi werewolves fighting each other. Its an absolute belter of a book, one of my all time favourites, and I highly recommend it to everyone here.
Had a peek on wikipedia at this. Looks intersting, must track it down, once...
Quote from: Kerrin on 14 November, 2009, 12:06:11 AM
I reckon Colin could probably do his own sequel to "Fiends" with this werewolf idea, artwork and writing, reading all those scripts from the masters over the years has obviously rubbed off Colin, your writing's bloody good mate.
... hmmm?! You give me idea Kerrin! I would like to do another "Fiends" strip, though I personally still think that it would be best if " The Bish " were to do the writing of it. It's been fun doing a 500 word story ( I could have easily done a 1000 words! ), but the craft and disipline needed to write an actual comic book series is still too far away for me.( at the momment! ;) ) If it was that easy then we'd all be "Wagners", but we ain't.
Thanks for your vote of confidence though, it's very much appreciated.
"Welcome to Castle Wewelsberg, Sturmbannfuhrer Lichtmann."
Try saying that when you're pissed!
very good Colin - worth developing as a strip idea - how's yer werewolf drawing skillz?
Welcome to Plan B. My first idea, I couldn't cut down from a few thousand words into 500 to make it work. So, the Combat Enhanced Infantry, another failed spin off of the GI programme will have to wait for another day.
Like Mr McNeil, I wondered if there were fiends on other fronts as well. So if you'll forgive the similar subject material, are you ready to drop into another Normandy in another June 1944?
WHO GOES THERE?
I'm slumped against a tree, fighting off sleep. How long is it before adreneline and benzedrine, discipline and bloody mindedness are enough? Not long now, I'll tell you.
Assumption is the mother of all fuck ups. Parachute in forty eight hours before the landings. A remote chateau in a Normandy forest where some Nazi brass are holed up. " A surgical strike" the Old Man calls it. Red handed murder I call it, but that's what we do. Meet up with the local resistance and a Special Operations Executive agent to get us out.
Nine men leave the Dakota at midnight, only eight make it to the ground. One lad says he saw something black moving through the air. Shadows and nerves.
The hike through the forest takes hours too long. We get lost. Commandos don't get lost. The captain hisses at Chalkie "Fucks sake, you were on point. What the fuck were you doing?" Chalkie looks lost "I was following one of you!" "Who?" "Fuck knows..."
The pre-dawn grey brings an ambush. Mottled battle dress and Schmiessers. Fucking SS, we shit them. But they knew we were coming. How?
The op is over. We pull back to rendevous with the local resistance. They're at the rendevous point strung from the trees. We've all slit enough throats in our time to see the wounds are torn, not cut.
Then there is a harsh cry in German and the rest of the day is a claustrophobic duel fought with knives and bullets. We lose a few, they lose many.
An hour after dark, Smudger goes for a piss and never comes back. We spend the rest of the night looking for him. Eventually we find some of him. We need to rest but the dawn brings more patrols. They find us like hounds drawn to blood.
They dog us until sundown, then darkness brings respite. Bell and me take the first watch and that's how I come to be slumped against this tree. I must have been staring at him for a minute before I realise I'm looking at the man who has been hunting us. If a man has a mouthful of spikes for teeth, if a man floats six inches off the ground.
It moves in a blur of speed and Dinger dies in a glut of blood, carried off as though he weighed as much as a child. I've pissed myself and I'm too scared to shoot at it, in case it comes back for me.
Then there is a piercing, inhuman shrieking from the blackness, cut off as if by a switch. It's coming back, only now the shape in the darkness is seven foot tall, built like a brick shithouse and has pointed ears. Only, a bollock naked man steps into view and says in a perfect cut glass accent "Sorry I'm late old man. Missed the rendevous and I've been after that bastard ever since."
I don't like the way he looks me up and down with a face covered in dark stains. "Commandos eh? You fight dirty." he says. "What unit are you with Sir?" I manage to get out. He gins wolfishly, "SOE. We fight dirtier."
He turns and is gone. A different voice comes from the shadows, a rough growl. "Head west sargeant. I'll cover you."
Quote from: Dounreay on 14 November, 2009, 07:30:54 PM
Like Mr McNeil, I wondered if there were fiends on other fronts as well. So if you'll forgive the similar subject material, are you ready to drop into another Normandy in another June 1944?
Oh yes! Drop away! Geronimoooooo!!!
okay, i couldn't help it. all this talk of monsters in WW2 made me think, so hera is an incredibly rushed 5 minute effort that will make you go "grone".
Mama Mia
When I enlisted, I was told this was a man's war. Well excuse my French, but bollocks to that! I hear it's all gone a bit mental on the Eastern front, with bloody vampires and now werewolves making like they own the bloody place. Those aren't men, those are fiends, plain and simple.
Anyway, if that isn't bad enough we came across something even weirder a few months back on a recon mission somewhere in Germany. I would elaborate but I'd have to kill you, and possibly your family as well. We were creeping through a forest, no problems, me, Smudger and Captain Brylcreem, when there was a weird moaning from nearby. Well, we thought we may as well investigate, so we crept up silent like and saw, of all things, a mummy. I shit you not, it was right there in a clearing, arms outstretched like in the films, moaning like it had caught it's left bollock in a mangle.
There didn't seem to be much to worry about, so we came out of cover and went up to it, guns at the ready. The mummy looked at us (or I assume it did but there were bandages all over the place) and went "Muuurrrggghh", like they do. To be honest, it was bloody hilarious, not quite the same as facing off against a vampire or werewolf. Old Brylcreem thought for a second then shot it through the head. This didn't seem to do much good, except that it went "Muuuurrrrgggghh" a few times, so we had a bit of a pow wow. After this, Smudger knelt down behind it, Brylcreem pushed it over and the rest was down to me. First, I gave it a jolly hard kick in the goolies, just to see what happened (not much - too much padding I suppose), then I set it on fire with my trusty lighter. Okay, so not the smartest thing to do on a covert mission, but it was so funny the captain actually threw up.
A bit of screaming and "Muuurrrgggh"-ing later it seemed to be as dead as it was going to get. Just then, a Jerry type burst into the clearing and so of course we shot him, but only to wound as he didn't seem to be armed. Under some gentle persuasion he told us that after seeing the effect of vampires and werewolves the Nazis had decided to have a go at creating their own mummies. As you can imagine, it wasn't the most successful of ideas. Seems the chap we barbecued had got loose and wandered off. Anyway, we shot him through the head after hearing this, and were all pretty amazed that the Nazis had even thought this would work against us. After all, everyone knows that the English love their mummies...
Quote from: emceehamster on 14 November, 2009, 09:52:45 PM
okay, i couldn't help it. all this talk of monsters in WW2 made me think, so hera is an incredibly rushed 5 minute effort that will make you go "grone".
After all, everyone knows that the English love their mummies...
Sorry! Pushed the wrong button. I'll try that again.
Quote from: emceehamster on 14 November, 2009, 09:52:45 PM
After all, everyone knows that the English love their mummies...
Ouch!! You're not wrong.
Nice "Fiends" interlude though.
The Meknificent Seven
The red sun blazed down upon the seven mechanised warriors. Stealthily they moved out of the rockcrete building, towards the marble monolith near the perimeter wall, the long wet grass hiding them from any prying eyes.
Seventeen hours straight they had been tracking this beast, after it's initial rampage bringing death and destruction upon the local populace. How many dead was still being calculated, what with the bodies being ripped apart, limbs half eaten and the rest strewn over a wide area. It was this action that had finally made the humans employ this specialist squad.
Sarge signalled his troops forward, heading across open ground towards the perimeter wall. They had been following this beast quite easily due to its deep tracks but its speed was incredible. Numerous times the warrior's proximity alarms had set off, only for the beast to vanish before they could make contact.
This time it would be different, the captain and sergeant had been ever so slowly forcing the beast into a corner. The trap would be sprung very soon.
'Enemy front. Enemy front!'
Within a split second of the proximity alarms sounding the beast emerged through the grass and was in amongst them. "Flambo, burn it!" Sarge yelled. She was already adjusting her aim before the order had even finished. Her metallic finger squeezed the trigger, producing a fine jet of napalm from the nozzle, sweeping through the air. The creature looked back and saw the fame arc towards it, increasing its speed and at the last possible moment turning away from the space where it would have been roasted, had it not.
Before Big D could react the creature was upon him, it pinned him onto the damp earth. It's black beady eyes staring at him as its claws raked his protective armour. The weight of the beast started to buckle his chest cavity sending system failure alerts to his electronic brain. This was not good!
Captain Stomper signalled Able, Baker and Charlie to attack the target from its blind side while he and Sarge moved in to rescue D.
Sustained firepower slammed into the creatures exposed flanks, turning its head sharply it saw the new adversaries advancing towards it. With a flick of its mighty tail the three troopers were smashed into the marble monolith.
This was all the time Flambo needed to adjust her aim and target the monstrosities head. Molten death spewed towards its target. This time it wouldn't escape but it ducked its head and the bowler hat perched upon it took the full brunt of the heat.
With its hat on fire it ran towards the perimeter wall and scuttled up and over the top.
Captain Stomper quickly initiated the perimeter defences from a subroutine in his circuitry and the electronic grid hummed into activity. That rat wouldn't be attacking anything in this garden again. Well until the defences malfunction again!
Mission Accomplished!
Another brilliant entry from CF there. Nice reveal at the end too. Cracking.
Must finish my 3rd entry too,wasn't that happy with my last one. Hope I can finish it off before the deadline.
Thanks faplad, that took me ages to condense into the 500 words.
There's only one word for that one CF.
SMOKIN'!
Nicely written CF. :P
I've just been back through the posts and we've already had 23 entries, Jesus this is going to be bloody hard to judge.
Place your bets. My money is on a landslide win for Roger. That was some twisted genius right there.
Quote from: faplad on 15 November, 2009, 12:00:17 AM
Place your bets. My money is on a landslide win for Roger. That was some twisted genius right there.
noooo... it was just mental.
23 entries is great...glad to see this contest growing. Now it's the votes we need to generate.
Might as well make it a dirty two dozen (though I've my doubts over how well this will work)
OUR WAR
Welcome to Rabigh, a charmless shithole that makes up for it by being made mostly of stategic materials. It's not Nu-Earth but the locals have been fighting each other since forever, so mostly we just need to give them encouragement now and again.
Today's operation Captain, is to escort two ho's to ground zero insertion point. Your particular talents are suited to this kind of thing. Sargeant Chavez will accompany you. That is all.
Yeah, everybody loves us newts cos we're so fast and strong and smart. That's why we get all these creamy jobs.
The two ho's turn out to be brother and sister. He's fifteen and scared. She's seventeen and cold as a stone. Human Ordnance - you gotta love this army. The target is a busy market, no military value, lots of colateral. It's that kind of war. We get them within 500 metres, they walk in with all those weird chemicals slopping around their blood stream, the Mil-Sat beams in the detonate signal and we (hopefully) have sprinted to minimum safe radius. Job done.
10 kays from the target, we stop to rest. Chavez is standing with her hands on her hips, ragging on the boy, stripped down to a vest top. I don't think what she is proposing to do to him is actually possible between a man and a woman but you never know.
I'm laid in the dirt, taking in the view. Chavez could just about get a rise out of a newt like me. Just about but not quite. The girl spits in the dust and whispers. Neutered I might be but I'm very, very far from deaf and that was not a nice thing to say about the people who are trying to keep you safe and free.
And because I'm focussed on the girl, I manage to get Chavez killed. A black shape whips through the air. I should have seen it coming. There is a meaty slap and Chavez stares in amazement at the ovoid sticking out of her side before she explodes.
The girl and I are fine. The boy isn't. One of Chavez's ribs is stuck in his thigh and he's bleeding badly. I turn to the girl. "MOVE...NOW." Remote kill drones will sniff the blood and be on us in minutes. For the first time I see her crack. "But what about...", I shrug, "Sorry".
Before we crest a rise, I look back and he is crawling along about 100 metres behind us. Then we are over the rise and he is gone. A metallic insect shape zips over our heads, zeroing in. Really gone.
We stop again before the insertion point. I make a great play of checking my sidearm, so I can ask her about all these people who are about to die. "What of them? Thay are nothing." she says. "Thought so" I answer as I shoot her neatly in the face.
So Captain, only you survived this attacked? Yessir. And how was that, Captain? You've read the brochure, sir. Combat Enhanced Infantry, sir. Bred for higher surface battlespace survivability, sir. Get out of my sight Captain. Sir!
I liked Chavez.
I thought that worked well Dounreay. Good job of wittling it down.
This comp is currently for stories of 500 words or less, which is intentionally constrictive, but that doesn't mean that the only fan fiction on the board should be entries here. If someone writes a story they're pleased with and they'd like to share it with the rest of the board, why not just post it. We could have a fan fiction thread with some sort of witty title or just post them in a new thread each time, Blah de blah, a short story, or something like that. In 'Creative Common' or here in 'General' would be the best bets I guess. After all, it's your board.
Great stuff as ever, everyone!
Regarding your idea Kerrin - maybe a thred for all non-competition Fan fiction would work best. That way we'd all know where to go?
Okay, this is my 3rd and final story. There would have been a fourth but I'm crap at puns and a gang war in Downlode not full of puns just felt wrong. That and, you know, I just culdn't get the bugger into 500 pages. This one was a struggle to make fit as well but I got there in the end.
FRIENDLY FIRE
It was 06:37 when the world exploded.
Little Benny and Big Joe, inseparable to the last, disintegrated into the same cloud of pink mist. It's what they would have wanted.
Tony was doing his morning pull ups so he was saved from the blast. Above the waist. He put what time he had left to good use. Screaming.
Mark was lucky. As usual when he had no duties in the morning he was still asleep. He didn't feel the sleeping bag melt itself to his flesh or he'd have been right there in tune with Tony.
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Sgt Jacob Marcus crested the rise and looked down at the camp. "What the fu... Leroy, Ump, up here. You're on point. Jeff and Titsup, on me. Whatevers happened down there, whoever's responsible could still be around. Eyes peeled."
"Sarge", came the mumbled responses, his men too shocked to offer more. The tension broke quickly though, training reasserting itself, and they began the slow, measured approach to what had been, when they left last night , a thriving base.
Ump was first. Making steady progress towards the edge of camp, he stopped, hunkered, signalled a pause. He stared at a pile of debris just inside the perimeter, gestured to Leroy to keep an cover it, stood, and disintegrated.
"Christ" yelled Leroy. He raised his weapon, began laying fire into the debris pile as Marcus and the others moved up.
Marcus arrived at Leroy's side as Jeff and Titsup took up positions 15m either side of them, finding what cover they could. "What was that?" he asked. "I didn't see anything."
"Me neither Sarge. Ump was wary of that pile of rubbish but if there was anyone there I've done for them. You want me to move up?"
"It's the only way to be sure. We'll cover yo..." He didn't get the words out before Jeffs position erupted in a cloud of muck and flesh. "Jesu..." he cried, turning to Titsups position to see the same thing, a geyser of rock and dirt mixed with the young soldiers gore. "To hell with this, we go, now."
"Thats a negative Sgt."
The voice had come from the radio. The one that hadn't been working since 06:37, which failure had prompted the return to camp. It was working now though.
"Withdraw, you'll not be fired upon"
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The Major looked down at the bodies of Sgt Jacob Marcus and PFC Leroy Vance, and shook his head. "Was that really neccesary, they hadn't seen the prototype."
"Things are bad enough. There can't be any risk of this malfunction getting to your superiors. Think of the project."
"Yes, but..."
" A lot of my money's tied up in this, and your civilian career once this war is over."
"I suppose so. What about that thing down there?"
"I can shut it down remotely. We'll sabotage the mini nuke generator, the camp disintegrates, one big accident. Trust me, it'll all come up roses, or my name isn't Howard Quartz."
One more for the road...
Teenage Rampage
"Arse!" said Norman, snarling like he'd been taught in basic, both tusks pointing to the sky and shining like deadly pointy toothy things, which they were. He pulled his knife from the guts of the Betelgeusian guard, wiping the sticky green blood on his combat fatigues. "Balls" he said quietly, reminding himself to cut off the guard's testicles and put them in his pocket as collateral at the barracks card game later. He had no doubt that there was going to be a later, as he was a G.R.U.N.T.
Genetically Reconditioned Undesirable Neutered Teenagers were the backbone of Terra's space corps. Any time some little scrote fucked up back on Earth or the colonies, they were snapped up by the corps and bludgeoned into ass kicking shape. They also had their bollocks removed, which may explain their morbid fascination with other peoples. Norman was pretty new, having been taken away after he farted too loudly in a library without owning up. He was due for bollock removal in two days, but a shortage of troops meant he had been picked to go on a mission first, rescuing some diplomat from Betelgeusian scumbags.
"Cumbiscuits!" he shouted as he burst into the guardroom, totally surprising the seven guards inside, six of whom were indulging in homoerotic fantasies to amuse the seventh, who was slightly higher in rank and not afraid to abuse it. It didn't take long to massacre them, and Norman whistled a happy tune as he sliced through them and pocketed their nads. As a result of the surgery, his brain wasn't quite what it had been (and even them he'd been a right dimbo), and his vocabulary had slipped somewhat. Norman didn't mind, mainly because the part of him that objected to anything at all had been burned out by Doctor Proctor, a man who delighted in causing pain and suffering (he was a lawyer on the side).
"Cocknuggets!" came Norman's war cry, making the guards outside the diplomat's room shit themselves as this large tusked, purple skinned maniac descended on them. They were the best of the Betelgeusian best, but were nothing against Norman, who blew raspberries at them as he cut off their Rosettes Of Sirius before heading southwards. He safely stored his testicular treasure and opened the door.
"Shitbadger!" he exclaimed when he spied the diplomat. She was a stunner, something obvious even to a lobotomized man with kick arse tusks and purple skin. He felt a swelling that would soon be impossible once Doctor Proctor got him back under the red hot tongs.
"Oh!" exclaimed the diplomat. "Are you here to rescue me?" Norman nodded, flexing muscles that had once belonged to a lioness. "That's wonderful!" the diplomat gushed. "Is there anything I can do to thank you?" Norman considered his options, as well as his highly limited vocabulary.
"Fuck!", he said simply, and they lived happily ever after...
Very nice Hamster. Had me grinning like a loon throughout.
Yes there have been a few ;augh-out-louders. I feel like a pretentious bastard now with my last few entries... :-[.
Don't be daft Locust.
That was class Hamster, almost Godpletonian in it's barking madness.
I felt the spirit of Bill The Gaalactic Hero looking over my shoulder as I wrote it.
Ah, dear old Bill. What a man. What a cape.
If I don't win this time I'm honestly going to fucking murder someone.
That's the funniest part.
Quote from: Roger Godpleton on 16 November, 2009, 12:08:37 PM
If I don't win this time I'm honestly going to fucking murder someone.
You are John Smith and I claim my five galactic groats...
I am actually really excited for the voting thread. Always a pleasure to read the entires one after the other. You know, a few of you may have done yourselves in with excellent multiple entries...!
Contestants. You have four hours. Four hours remaining. Thankyou.
Bumper crop of stories this month men, I'll make a start on the voting thread straight after the comp finishes at 8pm.
That is all. Dismissed.
SO many stories...
Will you list them on teh front page of the voting thread? That would help.
Why not, let's give it a try. Not all of them are titled, it's not a requirement, so some of them will be just name and number.
Stand down! Stand down! Exercise over. Make all writing implements safe and return all unused adjectives.
Well done men, you have beaten and abused the language into retreat and secured a resounding victory for board based short fiction. Get yourselves a brew and standby for the voting thread.
DOUBLE AWAY!
Ah Kerrin, my favorite parts of the comp are your lyrical intros and outros. You must write these things ahead of time :D!
Bugger. I thought the closing date was the 18th. I provaricated (?) so long I thought I still had time. never mind. I'll be rading all the entries and voting accordingly. Is it my imagination or are these comps getting more and more popular?
Well, I've just cast my votes in the other thread. Can I just say that it's been a real pleasure to participate in one of these for the first time. The talent on display is a bit intimidating but it's been a lot of fun and I'll definitely be back for the next one.