Hi all, I'm thinking of entering another 2000AD writing competition and this time it's a touch different.
The competition involves pitching a script for a Future Shocks script. These are an established comic strip feature in 2000AD and are one off stories, often more sci-fi or dystopian rather than fantasy and told over four pages.
The fun part to the comp is that your entry has to be in the form of a 2min self recorded video pitch. Not something I've done before and, as anyone from the UK will attest, a Black Country accent could sink it quicker than a cannon ball in a bubble bath.
My own dulcet tone aside, I've gone back through some of my 75s and picked out four that I could expand on. Unfortunately, I cannot decide which to choose.
Any help would be appreciated. Cheers, Stuart aka Luiglin
White room
They scratch and push at my wall, seeking a weakness, a route in.
I'm not sure how long I can keep them out.
I'm not even sure who or what they are.
Cowering, I hug my knees tight and pray to a God that I don't believe in.
Their whispers are seductive, words unintelligible but tone and nuance obvious… let us in.
-
...test subject 936: partial success... high psy rating... resists contact... mind locked out
Virtuosity at Paganini’s
The beat dropped and the crowd erupted. Bodies writhed, arms pumped and hands twisted to each heavenly hook.
Slaves to the pulse of the bassline.
In the pulpit, the DJ worked his decks, adding loops, fading the pitch, juggling the tracks to birth something new, something wicked.
A shadowy idol, the DJ deepened the bassline step by step and the crowd responded, sweat soaked bodies cavorting to a hellish beat.
The DJ grinned, fiddle forgotten.
Hooked
He was never alone.
Lines of red messages scrolled up his optic feed, to give the alley a bloody tinge. Looped warning messages bombarded his cochlear construct. He could taste the dirt, smell the trace heavy chemicals; olfactory and taste receptor nanobots overloaded.
So much noise.
He wasn’t addicted, just needed a few minutes, an hour at the most.
Faraday's Cage, the neon sign above the door read. He stepped through and into blissful silence.
Hooters
The bar emptied but he waited, the wall supporting his inebriated infused confidence.
Then she appeared, they’d been sharing looks all night.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he drawled.
She walked past and he staggered after. His addled mind hunted for a good opening line… and failed.
“Why do they call you Hoots?”
With deliberate unhurried pace, her head twisted around to face him.
“It’s because I can do this. Fancy a bite to eat, little mouse?”
The competition involves pitching a script for a Future Shocks script. These are an established comic strip feature in 2000AD and are one off stories, often more sci-fi or dystopian rather than fantasy and told over four pages.
The fun part to the comp is that your entry has to be in the form of a 2min self recorded video pitch. Not something I've done before and, as anyone from the UK will attest, a Black Country accent could sink it quicker than a cannon ball in a bubble bath.
My own dulcet tone aside, I've gone back through some of my 75s and picked out four that I could expand on. Unfortunately, I cannot decide which to choose.
Any help would be appreciated. Cheers, Stuart aka Luiglin
White room
They scratch and push at my wall, seeking a weakness, a route in.
I'm not sure how long I can keep them out.
I'm not even sure who or what they are.
Cowering, I hug my knees tight and pray to a God that I don't believe in.
Their whispers are seductive, words unintelligible but tone and nuance obvious… let us in.
-
...test subject 936: partial success... high psy rating... resists contact... mind locked out
Virtuosity at Paganini’s
The beat dropped and the crowd erupted. Bodies writhed, arms pumped and hands twisted to each heavenly hook.
Slaves to the pulse of the bassline.
In the pulpit, the DJ worked his decks, adding loops, fading the pitch, juggling the tracks to birth something new, something wicked.
A shadowy idol, the DJ deepened the bassline step by step and the crowd responded, sweat soaked bodies cavorting to a hellish beat.
The DJ grinned, fiddle forgotten.
Hooked
He was never alone.
Lines of red messages scrolled up his optic feed, to give the alley a bloody tinge. Looped warning messages bombarded his cochlear construct. He could taste the dirt, smell the trace heavy chemicals; olfactory and taste receptor nanobots overloaded.
So much noise.
He wasn’t addicted, just needed a few minutes, an hour at the most.
Faraday's Cage, the neon sign above the door read. He stepped through and into blissful silence.
Hooters
The bar emptied but he waited, the wall supporting his inebriated infused confidence.
Then she appeared, they’d been sharing looks all night.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he drawled.
She walked past and he staggered after. His addled mind hunted for a good opening line… and failed.
“Why do they call you Hoots?”
With deliberate unhurried pace, her head twisted around to face him.
“It’s because I can do this. Fancy a bite to eat, little mouse?”
