2000AD Time Twisters! The 8th 2000AD Short Story Comp.

[The Legendary Shark]

Thanks for the kid words, guys.

Just finished reading the others and it is, again, a strong field.

[Lady Festina]

Very nice work, Shark. Very nice indeedy :-)

[Alski]

With apologies to the Legendary Shark 
And probably anyone Scottish 

Concerning Skiffy, Bawbies an all that Shite

My Dearest Alan,

How ye doin’, ye festering wee bawbag ye?

Remember that wee skiffy comic lord God almighty DC Thomson was on aboot? Aye, ah’m sure ye do, so how aboot this un then:

Last night, I was up an aboot, pacin’ my cell as ah will, tryin’ not tae ram ma face intae the walls in frustration, when ah had a vision. Fuckin’ nearly shat maself, so ah did. Mind, this was nae long legged beastie or nonesuch, it was a fella! Ah know what ye’re thinking’, Grantie, so wash out that filthy cesspit ye call a mind. It was no like my other visions, cos this un had clothes on an’ everything, and he was no erect or nothing. Ah’m, fuckin’ cured, I told ye that last time.

Anyway, this fella must have been six and a half foot, built like a brick shitehouse he was. He was wearing this skintight jumpsuit thingummajig, but it must been quite thick, as ah couldnae see his nips or balls or nothing. He had a big shieldy badge on, an’ it said “Dredd” on it. Spelt like that, an all, not like that coloured fella who does the silly songs. Heh, I love that “Big Seven”, reminds me of bein’ told nursery rhymes on ma nanna’s knee, so it does…. Ah’m ramblin again, must be the medication. Anyway, he also had a massive helmet, all shiny like, and I couldnae help staring at it.

Aw, ah’ve just read that last bit back and it’s no meant to sound all gay and shite. I mean he had a helmet on his bonce, like a motorbike fella. Ye could see his chin, mind, and fuck me it was massive, but flat like he’d bin chasin’ parked cars or sommat.

He just stood there, with an electric glow round him, whilst I tried not to crap me kecks. Then he talks to thin air, sayin’ “Control, we have an error on the time jump.” Then, to me: “What year is this, creep?”. So I tells him it’s 1976. “Forward fifty years control,” he says. “And this time get it right. Dredd out”.

Then he started fizzin’ an’ cracklin’ an’ he was gone again. It was like a fuckin’ epiphany, Al. This wee comic is gonnae be massive, and Ahm gonnae use that scunner in it every fuckin’ week. We’ll call him “The Mighty Dredd” and he can be editor. Bettr than your stupid fuckin’ “Tharg” idea anyways.

See ya, and get ready to count the bawbies.

John Wagner
Blairgowrie Home for Heid The Baws
August 1976

[The Legendary Shark]

Ha! Brilliant.

[Lady Festina]

Hamster, that is superb!

[Alski]

From an idea by Charlie Brooker...

Time To Leave

Megan stood, panting, the bloody knife still in her hand. At her feet lay the body of a salesman, surrounded by his own blood. She hadn’t even meant to do it, the urge had just come upon her  and the next thing she knew she was a murderer.

The Judges would throw away the key.

Just then, her palm phone rang. Reflexively, she put her thumb to her ear.

“Hello?” she said, her voice a little shaky.
“Hello Megan,” said a calm, male voice. “Have you just killed a man?”
“W-what?” she stammered. “I… I…”
“We thought so. I assume you are not keen on spending the rest of your life in a cube.”
“…no…” she said in a small voice.
“Well this is your lucky day, Megan. Leave your home and outside you will find a small van. Climb into the back and all will be explained.”
“Do I bring…”
“Bring nothing,. Just yourself and the no doubt bloodstained clothes you are in. Don’t fret - we will sort everything out.”


Five minutes later, Megan was in the back of the aforementioned van,. There were no windows, but it was comfortably fiited out. Her mystery caller, “Mister Fixit” was opposite.

“Let me explain, Megan,” he said. “Myself and my partners are in communications and that sort of thing. Put simply, we know whet everyone is doing at any time, because whenever you get that feeling you are being watched it’s most likely us that are doing the watching.”
“You bugged my house?” said Megan.
“Not at all. We know what you do in there, because like most citizens you are permanently connected to the citywide net. We knoe what you watch, who you talk to, everything. Of course, the Judges know this as well, but they don’t have PreCOG”
“Precog?”
“Predictive Computations Of Grimness. Poor name, but we wanted a cool acronym. We can accurately  predict when a citizen is going to snap and kill, based on their daily habits and personality. Today was your day.”
“What are you going to do?”
“We’re going to help you, of course.”
“How?”
“Well, the Judges will certainly catch you if you stick around, so we are going to time jump you into the past where we have set up a new life and identity for you. Easy.”
“But what about my life here?”
“It’s over, I’m afraid,” said Mr Fixit in a level voice. “You stay, you get cubed. Now if you’ll just sign over all your earthly possessions here we’ll get you sorted out.”
With no better options at hand, Megan signed, leaving the poor salesman’s blood on the pen.

Within hours she was stood in the TimeWarp chamber, clad in strange clothes, with a new name and history burned into her brain. All the way back to 1960, where the Judges would never find her. She could start all over, and escape the killer she had become. Manchester 1960, her new home, and Moira Hindley, her new name…

[Lady Festina]

Gulp. Following another masterwork from the Hamster, here's a small offering from the Lady...


---

His dead bones felt no pain as he landed heavily in the mud.

Defeated by the Judges of the future, he had returned to judge the human race of a different time and place.

He surveyed the scene around him. Carnage, destruction; he had never seen the like here before. It was almost like a homecoming. Bodies lay sprawled in the mud, clothes filthy, limbs askew, unconscious maybe dead in puddles between great fields of tarpaulin.

Death walked among them, moving towards a strange booming noise. As he grew closer, there were more people alive, the tarpaulins grew sturdier and more colourful, there was movement, some sort of ritualistic dancing.

Two half-clad young men slid by in the mud. “Gl-a-a-a-a-st-o-on-bury-y-y-y-y!!”

This must be a primitive time, Death considered, mud and rain and shamanistic pursuits. A strange and primitive time.

He approached a grand blue tarpaulin. The memory of music made him realise this was not a battle zone, this was enjoyment. And enjoyment must be quashed. Working through the tent, he stopped beside each gyrating figure and whispered “My name iss Death, I have come to judge you,” before feeling through their ribcages and finding his fingerbones in their still pulsating hearts.

Soon the tent was more dead than alive. Figures collapsed to the ground; ten, twenty, a hundred, before the heady sensation of panic took over. They fled.

Smiling, Death continued on his journey. He climbed to the entrance of a wheeled, wooden structure. “Want your tarot read?” A voice piped form inside.

Entering, he sat. His fortune teller laid out some cards, then paused. Slowly, she placed the remaining cards down in front of her.

“I cannot tell the fortune of the dead,” she said firmly.

“Then you must join usss,” Death replied. “It is easy,” he replied. “I just stick my hand in and ssqueeze.”

Death's exploration continued. He saw flames, beautiful and destructive. A young man threw sticks of fire to himself. Death drew nearer, reaching out to take one of the fire-sticks.

But something happened. Someone slipped. The fire-stick that Death sought to grasp flipped up in the air and came sharp-end down on Death's helmet, stunning him for long enough for his uniform to spark on fire. The fire spread, urged on by a sudden breeze. A crowd gathered, cheering on the man who had set himself on fire. More onlookers arrived as the flames died down and Death's form became a burnt hunk of meat and bone.

“BARBECUE!”

The revellers who had not seen the start of the conflagration enjoyed its end, ripping at the last few shreds of Death's flesh, feasting on him, calling for ketchup.

Death was gone – an ignominious end among the party in the mud. But Death always returns. Within moments, those who had eaten Death began to belch and fart and shit and spew, and Death returned in the air, in the stench, in the piles of crap and sick. Death sailed through the air, through the tents, through the stages, through the bars, sickening everyone he passed.

Death lived on. His work would still be done.

[locustsofdeath!]

The last few stories are excellent! Great job guys!

There's still time to get your entries in - get writing people!

[The Enigmatic Dr X]

Desperate Times, Greener Grass

The time machine looked like a giant’s head: two rectangular observation windows as eyes, a nose-like entrance, and the retractable walkway was the tongue. A giant’s head, and Jake was to walk into its mouth.

Sometimes, he wondered if it was alive. It hissed and laughed when he was nearby. Tech-boys said it was hydraulics in the clamps, or the bass hum of field suppression. They even explained away how it seemed to move in the corner of his eye. Low-level tachyon distortion. It takes a few seconds for the light around the machine to reach your eyes, so your mind makes stuff up to fill in what it can’t see.

Jake thought different. Damn thing’s gonna eat me all up and it knows it.

“Scared?”

Jake stifled a small yelp and whirled around to face the speaker. Black suit, white shirt, spotless lab coat. Even now, in these times, the Director effortlessly managed to look smart.

“Of course I’m scared, Frank. I’m terrified. I don’t want to go.”

Frank looked anxious. “But there’s no one else. Your profile is the most likely to succeed and…”

Jake held up a hand. “I said I don’t want to go, not that I won’t. I’m still going ahead. But I’d be mad if I wasn’t afraid.” He paused and turned back to the machine. “Do you think it’ll work?”

“Still  no consensus.”  Frank shrugged apologetically. “There’s the paradox camp. By going back, we stop the reason for the whole project, so we never go back, so we end up here, then go back… yadda, yadda. Others think we’ll fade away or that we’ll carry on here, but in some parallel world everything works out.”

There was silence for a moment, then it was broken by a metallic scream as a winch started to move away from the machine. It was ready.

Frank put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Billions are dead. The Far East, most of Europe. They’re all dead. These creatures… these judges… they don’t stop. They don’t negotiate.”

Jake rubbed his forehead. “It was too good to be true, wasn’t it? After centuries of conflict man achieved its goals. Peace. Prosperity. Happiness. Health. Then they came and replaced them. Death. Fear. Fire. Mortis.” He shook himself. “I’ve never killed anyone. Will it work?”

Frank sighed. “I don’t know. But we need someone who will invest in the technology needed to fight these creatures. Someone who will support the decades of research needed to defend ourselves. America’s tech budgets were slashed after President Harvisson died. Vice President Carmichael spent it all on welfare. We need someone strong, a leader of the people.”

“So if Carmichael is out the picture, who is Harvisson’s VP? Who takes over when he dies?”

Frank pulled a data-pad from his pocket and checked the screen. “Far as we can figure out, the likely candidate is Booth. Robert Booth.

“Let’s just hope he makes a good president.”

[Alski]

Nice one Dr X

[locustsofdeath!]

That's excellent Doc X. First paragraph especially.

[Dandontdare]

nice one Dr X - you wrong-footed me not once but twice there as I thought I'd guessed the 'twist', which is pretty impressive in a sub-500 word story. Enigmatic indeed!

[nev]

This is my first piece of writing that isn't school based so I'm open to criticism.

The Youths
   It was a dank alleyway, the light was fading. A constant drip of water fell from the building above, there was an audible splash as the droplets of rain hit against metal. In the distance echoed the revving of an engine.
   He heard voices. A commotion, an argument. He pulled himself out of the overflowing bin bags and got to his feet, lumbering slowly forward towards the sound.
   Lampposts illuminated the small car park. About a half dozen of them were congregated next to some recycling bins, smoking and drinking from unlabeled bottles. Tinny music blared from a tiny speaker. Two of the members of the group were engaged in heated debate:
   “Naw pal, geez us a fuckin’ swally!”
   “Ach fuck you, ya bawbag!”
   As he approached, the argument was gathering momentum. One of the onlookers dropped his bottle, creating an alcoholic pool as he stared agog at the newcomer.
   “Gweetings, chaps.”
   “Whit the fuck is that?” inquired one of the gang.
   “It’s some twat in a costume, ya bass.”
   “Fuckin’ deck that prick”
   “I’m sowwy?”
   One youth picked up a bat that lay at his feet and advanced on Walter.
   “Please chaps, can’t we be wesolve this peacefully?”
   The crowd cheered the youth - Walter gathered that his name was ‘Jay-Bee’, or some such nonsense - on as he readied the bat. Walter took a step back in fear. With a clank, the bat sunk into his chassis, came down again on his screen.
Walter fell.
   “That’ll fuckin’ teach ya”

   For a moment, nothing happened.

   Then, a brief whirring of gears followed by an uneasy silence. Lights began to flicker slightly - the youths backed away warily. Walter got to his feet, something slightly different about his demeanor.
   “That wasn’t vewwy nice, was it?”
   Walter’s arm revolved once, twice - a swift movement brought it through Jay-Bee’s ribcage. The greasy teen looked down in shock at the harsh metal protruding from his chest, blood seeping from the wound. Walter jerked his arm out, taking the heart in his steely grip. Walter paid no heed to the blood which covered him, merely turning his attention to the others. They were frozen with fear. A clean cut through the leg brought one to the ground, causing cries of fear and pain. As Walter knelt down to finish off the boy, his friends sought escape. It was useless; a bright light from Walter’s chest melted flesh and bone, leaving only outlines on the wall.
   “Now, where were we?”
   With surgical precision, Walter removed the eye of the boy cowering in front of him, taking care not to sever the optic nerve. He ignored the pleas for mercy - so different from the jeering laughter of only minutes before. Turning the eye back on its owner, he tightened his grip on the boy’s neck with his other hand, slowly crushing the windpipe until he felt his victim go limp.

   Walter’s HUD read “0006”. He was proud with the start he had made.

[Van Dom]

Holy Smokes!
I haven't been around much for a few days and it looks like I have a lot of reading to catch up on!!!! Yowzers!!!!! 

[Lady Festina]

The True Historie of Mary Queen of Scots

Then one of the executioners, pulling off her garters, espied her little dog which was crept under her cloths, which could not be gotten forth by force, yet afterward would not depart from the dead corpse.

Robert Wynkfield

A lifetime had come to this. A lifetime of rivalry, envy, kinship, bitterness. A lifetime which could have been so different.

Elizabeth, strong, bold, a woman in a man's world, outsoldiering the soldiers, outpoliticking the politicians, outscheming the schemers.

Mary, her cousin, her friend, her nemesis. Gentle, impetuous, ruled by the heart. She had made her mistakes, surely, but at least she had made decisions when the need came. Where Elizabeth had held back from marriage, Mary had thrown herself into it. Where Elizabeth conducted her affairs behind closed doors, Mary lived and loved in public.

Their rivalry had ebbed and flowed across the years, regular and eternal as the tide. For each wave of suspicion, a wave of understanding. For each accusation of treachery, an expression of cousinly affection. An uncomfortable truce emerged; Mary's imprisonment became the terms around which the truce was built. She would live, in some comfort but in isolation and confinement; Elizabeth would rule, secure, no blood on her hands.

Finally after some two decades of Mary's imprisonment, the unequal balance came to an end. Speculation at court, letters implicating Mary in another plot, another rumour of treason; the weight of evidence grew ever heavier. At last, Elizabeth could wait no longer.

Mary's arrest was swift, her trial efficient, the outcome inevitable. Brought for execution, patiently, carefully, her servants helped her to the scaffold; they removed her robe, stripped her down to a plain red dress, a foreshadowing of the blood that was to come.

Kneeling, Mary held her breath as she waited for the cold on her bare flesh. Calmly, she said “Into your hands, O Lord.” The slow intonations of the priest continued beside her. “Into your hands, O Lord,” she repeated. The eyes of the gathered crowd followed the blade arcing up above the executioner's shoulders. “Into your hands, O Lord.”

Down, down, fell the blade. A deep ravine of flesh and blood appeared across the back of her neck. Not enough to kill her. The crowd winced. The blade rose and fell again. Mary's head tumbled to the wooden stage below. Blood came. His work done, the executioner bent and lifted Mary's head by the hair. There was a gasp as her hair came away, revealing her hairless scalp beneath.

Another gasp, verging on a scream as her headless body twitched. Was she come back to life so quickly, to bring yet more anxiety to Elizabeth, in death as in life? From beneath the billow of her skirts, first a paw, then a strange fleshy nose, then a dark furred limb appeared. Dark dark eyes and long tall ears emerged. Some said it was a dog, others a small bear, some said it was like nothing they had seen on earth. It scrambled out from under Mary's skirts, down the steps to the ground where it picked up and started to gnaw on a small rock.....