By Alan Moore
Reprinting brief sci-fi tales by way of Moore that seemed in 2000AD.
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Extra info for Alan Moore's Twisted Times
My words might have stunned her. It might have been she was glad inside that I’d come back. She raised her stick as if to hit me, but instead, took a hold of my hair and waved a bandaged finger in front of my nose. “Look what you’ve done, look wha . ” Mom groaned heavily and began to cry before she finished the sentence. I pushed my head into her apron. “Mommie, Mommie,” I pleaded. “For Christ’s sake I’d rather have you beat me up than hear you cry. Mommie, I’m sorry I wore you out; please beat me up an’ you’ll feel better.
Of course, it was all true, but it’s neither here nor there. So, go on wherever you want,—you with • your brand of truth, and we’ll stay here with ours. It isn’t healthy for you to stay. W e here stick to each other like flies to flypaper—be glad you can still fly away. Scat! Take the coppers and goodbye, pal. W e ain’t guilty to you nor are you to us. It just cannot turn out well. ” I pored over their faces; they were nodding in agreement with Matvey. “So long, pals,” I tossed my bundle over my shoulder.
Go on, but blow on the spoon. ” Two minutes later I was sitting again in the shade of his mud hut. I was dirty, exhausted, and very hungry. My heart ached, yet I ate, and ate. The chowder with sturgeon and flounder tasted good. The Two Kinds of Truth by Pyotr Zamoyski Pyotr Ivanovitch Zamoyski, 1896-1958, ¿on/ Z evalkin, of a poor peasant famjly. Self-taught, he did all kinds of work, wrote mostly about village life. ider the in fluence of Gorki wrote a biographical trilogy, Stripling, Youth, Sunrise.