Tag Archives: invasion

Hopefully They’ll Wait Until After Dessert

The room fell silent as the doors opened and the President of the World strode in. He walked over to the podium accompanied by the flashes and clicks of the cameras of the press corps. Spotlights shone brightly, and he tried to resist squinting as he faced the assembled audience.

“Ladies and gentleman,” he said. “The situation is grave. This morning our space radar picked up a large fleet of alien flying saucers approaching the planet. We believe they intend to attack.”

The floor erupted with questions. The President pointed to the correspondent from the Chronicle.

“Where will they hit first, Mr. President?”

“Our tracking shows they are heading for Russia, America, and a village called Little Pickling in East Rothshire,” he replied.

Now the reporter from the Echo had a question. “How will we fight back, Mr. President?”

“Unfortunately,” he sighed, “the Air Force’s most advanced super jet, the X7000, cannot defend us, because I left it at Jamie’s house yesterday. Instead, catapults from the pirate army and Mr. Ruffles will be our advance guard. The paper astronauts and Wooden Man will take cover behind Growing Bananas Without Going Bananas, 2nd Edition as our last line of defence.”

Suddenly the door to the conference room opened and the Mother of the President of the World popped her head round. Again the press corps went wild, shouting for a quote.

“Harry,” she said. “It’s time for dinner.”

“Ok Ma,” said the President. He turned to address the crowd. “Our defences will be set up after dinner, which is a broad bean risotto.”

The representative from Asia-Pacific Weekly held up a hand. “What if the aliens attack sooner?”

“For all our sakes,” said the President darkly, “let us hope that they do not.”

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Goddess of Old, Part III

Continued from Part II.

The shepherd reached the holy cave. At the mouth he surveyed the harbour town below. The buildings burned. Soldiers marched through the streets. More black boats were sprouting from the steamship and heading for shore.

The shepherd’s heart beat heavily, his knees shook at the sight of his town in flames. Now was not the time for weakness. Grief could be given audience later. Now, revenge. The shepherd turned and walked into the cave.

His advance was arrested by a priestess. She was the last representative of a once-venerated order. Dressed in full robes to impress severity upon visitors, she blocked the shepherd’s path towards the hiding place of the idol of the goddess.

The shepherd requested to see the idol. The priestess refused. He told her what was happening. She refused. He described in detail, tears welling up in his eyes, the suffering inflicted upon their people. Still, she refused. The price was too great, she said. He protested still. If no atrocity could warrant the ceremony, what use was the idol? Again, she refused.

He said she should at least watch the end of the people she betrayed. She nodded solemnly, and walked to the mouth of the cave. She saw the town, saw the fires, heard the screams on the wind. Then she saw darkness as the shepherd smacked a rock upon her skull, caught her falling body, and laid her gently on the ground, whispering apologies and repentance.

To be continued…

Goddess of Old, Part II

Continued from Part I.

As the speck drew closer it became an ugly, angular shape, belching out black smoke. Nothing like the gentle sails that pulled the islander’s boats. They had never seen such a vessel before.

Like those on other islands now conquered, they did not know this was a steamship from a far-away empire. Like many before them, they did not recognise the black spikes that studded the vessel’s hull. They quickly learnt that these were guns that could knock down the town’s walls from a distance, set fire to homes and murder children.

A group of the island’s strongest stood on the beach to meet the little boats that were vomited from the sides of that unexpected devil. The strongest were brave, but they were hunters used to running after prey, butchers who knew only the guts of small animals, and fishermen whose virtue lay in patience. They stood, they fought, they fell. The modern men came ashore.

Matching, brightly-coloured clothes, with gaudy baubles, spiked boots and long, metal rifles that spat fire. Shiny blades cut down all who did not submit. The meek and the mild-mannered were herded into lines, chains tightened around their necks.

An old shepherd, grey yet sprightly, watched these happenings from a field outside the town. He remembered the stories of crisis his grandfather had told him, and he remembered what to do. He turned away from the sorrowful sights by the shore, and headed for the cave in the centre of the island.

To be continued…

Invasion Plan

Whapples are the best way to start your day. Heroes go to work on Whapples…

The announcer’s voice boomed across the hall as Malcolm and Doris took their places at the microphone. Doris’s hands were shaking a little, as always. Malcolm looked over to the audio technician to check they were not live yet, and whispered to distract his co-star.

“Martians this week, again. Seems to be a running theme,” he said. “I expected them to have run out of plots by now, they’ve invaded everywhere.”

“S’alright for you,” drawled Doris. “You don’t have to let out blood-curdling screams every episode. Quite dries out the throat.”

On the other side of the room, the announcer was holding an interview with a supposed nutrition expert extolling the benefits of a bowl of Whapples every morning.

“Do you eat that?” said Doris. “I’m not convinced by some of the things they say.”

Malcolm shrugged. “It pays the bills. What’s the problem?”

“…why a zillion folks eat Whapples for breakfast. Do you? Enjoy with…”

“What if it’s bad for the kids?” whispered Doris. “They all eat it. What if it’s doing something to them?”

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “What, it’s a commie cereal?” he mocked.

“Forget Martians,” said Doris. “If I really wanted to take over people, that’s how I’d do it. I’d put something subtle in the food. Make people slowly apathetic. Take a long time doing it.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Sixty years,” she said. “Nobody would notice until too late.”

The technician began the countdown.