Homecoming

by John Xero

London sprawls across the horizon, taunting us with its rude, bustling health, drawing us in with coy insinuations, with promises of revenge. The journey has not been easy but we are finally home.

Whatever the scientists shot us full of is rotting our insides away. I can feel it in spikes and jabs of bright pain, in a growing, pervasive ache. We are the walking dead, but we refuse to lie down, our symphony is not done yet.

We were built to win, and we won. We were trained to fight, and we have brought the war home with us.

Knight

by John Xero

His armour is detachment.

His steed is the music he rode in on, the rhythmic, heavy thunder of hooves.

His dragon is a writhing, tenebrous thing. It has a thousand eyes that watch him by day and judge him. It has a hundred mouths that flicker with tongues of barbed comment, and cruel claws which rake him with doubt.

His weapons are forged in the fire of his heart, and here, ‘neath night’s banner, he dances.

His fight with the dragon is eternal, but in these moments of grace and energy he is winning and he is nothing but happy.

Z-word

by John Xero

“Don’t say it. I know you’re thinking it.”

Ryan smiled broadly. “Thinking what?”

Elliot knew that smile; it was infuriating, and far too cute. “You know what. The Z-word.”

“Oh, that. Actually, I was remembering the last time we were up here.”

Elliot coughed and looked away, feeling his cheeks redden. “That was eleven years ago.”

“So? A boy remembers his first kiss.”

“The one that set him straight? And stop smiling.”

The sunset was beautiful. Hungered moans drifted up from the street below.

“Why wouldn’t I smile? I couldn’t wish for better company at the end of the world.”

Warsmith

by John Xero

Sweat, soot, grime and beating, beating insistence. Oppressive heat and a fierce orange, bright in a room of darkness. A sparking, clanging heart.

You. Will. Live.

His thick apron armours against the flicker of fire demons. He wields a hammer of heavy iron: a brutal, simple weapon of purpose. Corded muscle lashes out as he beats metal into obedience, into life. Swords and bucklers, daggers, shields, breastplates, helms and gauntlets.

You. Will. Save.

You. Will. Harm.

The grail is lost. We men, we breaths of thought in cold metal, are all lost without it.

Find. The. Grail.

Win. The. War.

(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction) 

Hangman

by John Xero

“It is done, my lord.”

His lord? How insincere. But then, if he could genuinely conceive of fealty he would be of no use to me. He thinks he will feign subservience and be done with me once I grant him his apotheosis. Fool.

He holds the newspaper high. The headline is his, again; they have dubbed him The Hangman of Headley. Proud fool.

He thinks I am deceived by his false obeisance but his pride blinds him to the truth. With each child hanged his soul shrivels. Soon enough he will be empty and I will ride his husk.





(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)

Colonisation

by John Xero


“I thought Private Jones was dead.”

“He was. Is.”

“Right, well, he’s looking remarkably awake for a corpse.”

They looked at Jones through the reinforced glass. Jones looked back. He was unusually pale and the whites of his eyes were grey. Black tears ran down his cheeks.

“Is he crying?”

“It’s a side effect, waste material.”

“Waste material?”

“He’s been colonised by alien bacteria that breed in necrotised flesh. The individual cells network. They only take a few days to achieve sentience.”

“Didn’t we send the rest of his squad home in body bags?”

“I’m afraid so, Colonel.”

Jones smiled.

Monsters

by John Xero

Burnt out, a building becomes an exposed corpse. Blackened ribs of brick and broken wood. Empty windows like dead eyes. Ghosts of ash drifting, dissipating on a mournful wind.

The Institute of Advanced Necrological Research had been our home; the place we were raised, so to speak.

Doctor Frankie told us this day would come, the pitchforks and torches of yore replaced by shotguns and gasoline. In the ruins of her office I find the charred painting of her infamous forebear and I am resolved. We are children of the grave and we will find the monsters that did this.

(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)

Sanctuary

by John Xero

Find somewhere high, somewhere safe. Hide.

The white noise of the monsoon-born storm transcended anything Simon had experienced in England, it was deafening and terrible, biblical. The walls rattled and shook and he feared the chapel would be torn apart.

The locals had warned him of such weather, and the things it drove above ground: things better left unseen, unimagined.

He shivered and pulled the blanket around himself. Superstitious nonsense.

He almost missed the rough shouting, half-stolen by the storm. Then there was a heavy, urgent thumping on the doors. He went to unbar them. Some company would be good.

(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)

Drank

by John Xero

Billy wedged himself as deep into the narrow crevice as he could, sweating, shaking. The beast couldn’t get him here. But it tried, testing his sanctuary with a swipe of paw and extended claw, making his heart clatter.

Fibrous ropes of drool hung from its jaws and slid from its yellowing teeth. A cloud of damp breath rolled over him and he gagged at the smell of rotten meat. He felt wretched, and stupid.

Drink me, the label had said.

“Just a sip.” Alice had cautioned.

He should have listened. He should have shut Cheshire in the kitchen, at least.

(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)

Mapmaker

by John Xero

The Dark Cartographer sat at his desk, mapping taboos.

He had trouble, at first; one person’s taboo was another’s breakfast, fetish, or badge. Then he began imagining religions, generations, perversions as countries and continents and he discovered psychological tectonics... thrusting mountains of prejudice, vast spreading oceans of distrust, disgust.

And once he had the subjects – people, he means – codified: the islands, archipelagos, and peninsulas of taboo; he saw how simple it would be to foster little warzones of hate and violence, out there in the real world.

He rolled up his map, tucked it under his arm and set out.

(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)

Nightfall

by John Xero

“For your price range, we got a real beauty.”

The salesman smirked at Joe’s credit chip; he led him into the dim, flickering recesses of the hold, to an ancient maintenance shuttle in flaking yellow.

It would do. Just a little conversion and it would be the perfect mule for his nasty, little dark matter bomb.

A short trip to the sun, and then... the final eclipse. A hole punched into another dimension – let’s call it hell, for the sake of argument. A gateway, for a race long fallen, banished.

For this betrayal, he had been promised his heart’s desires.

(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)

Daylight

by John Xero

A bloodcurdling scream split the night, sending shivers down his spine.

No, no, no...

It was the curse of horror: all the good screams were taken, all the shivers and quickening heartbeats had been done. The dark, dank locales were overpopulated with all manner of cloaked psychos and grizzly monsters. You couldn’t hide your twisted creation anywhere, all the good spots had gone.

Bright sunlight dappled the forest floor. Two Red Admirals fluttered past, oblivious in their chaotic dance. It was a beautiful day. So why couldn't he shake the sense that something was stalking him, something broken and starved?












(Originally written for Six for Sunday on Easily Mused)

Honey

by John Xero

Spanish boys taste like honey.

The child Delilah used to watch them from her window, playing football in the dust. Later, older, she dared to go out, lean against the hot, red brick and smile back beguilingly at their catcalls, fluttering inside.

Older still and she struts for them; she paints her face, wears a corset, stockings and heels. Each catcall steals a little more. They press her against the brickwork, cold now beneath the stars, the only fluttering the Euros they toss in her face.

She used to love the taste of honey, but life ruins every sweet thing.

(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)

Pig's Ear

“I’m not sure about this, Cindy.”

Paul poked the greasy foam floating on top of the mug; the grey froth was flecked with blackish-green granules. Even looking at it made him feel nauseous.

“It’s herbal medicine, Paul. Just swallow it quickly.”

He looked into her dark, deep, hypnotic eyes; his mouth went dry, how could he refuse her?

He steeled himself and knocked it back in one go, gagging as the lumpy, viscous liquid went down. He felt strange, dizzy. He fell to the floor.

“And my name’s not Cindy, pig. It’s Circe.”

Her cruel laughter sounded strange, distorted.

But... that title is two words!

Xeroverse 101 is one year old. To celebrate entering its second year, I've gone crazy with some two word titles (and ninety nine word stories).

Thank you to everyone who has read and commented over the past year. =)

See also: Bad Science, CyberOptical Illusion, Shroomiversal Truth

Shroomiversal Truth

His stomach convulsed rebelliously, a sure sign the ‘shrooms were kicking in. This time felt bad though; maybe he should have eaten less.

Too late now.

The effect was subtle at first. Colours deepened, as if everything was liquid and he couldn’t see the bottom; his skin tone reddened, turning carnelian. Then he fell inside the world, drowning.

He drifted through the other side, saw the universe from without, understood what the toadstools were showing him: Everything.

The cat wasn’t dead and alive, the cat didn’t even exist until it was observed.

By seeing the universe, he created it.

But... that title is two words!

Xeroverse 101 is one year old. To celebrate entering its second year, I've gone crazy with some two word titles (and ninety nine word stories).

Thank you to everyone who has read and commented over the past year. =)

See also: Bad Science, CyberOptical Illusion, Pig's Ear

CyberOptical Illusion

Captain Carter glared out at the steaming city. The men behind him traded nervous looks.

“The situation has moved beyond ethics. Commissioner Warton is calling it treason.”

Brand spoke up, “Seems a bit strong, boss.”

Brand was new. Brand didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.

Carter growled. “Hacking into everyone’s cyberOptics. Defacing the king, live. Making the country a laughing stock...”

He turned and stomped up to Brand till their faces were almost touching. “Everyone thought King William had a goddamn Hitler ‘tache. Call that a prank? Tomfoolery? High Jinks?”

Brand, wide-eyed, red-faced, kept his mouth shut.

But... that title is two words!

Xeroverse 101 is one year old. To celebrate entering its second year, I've gone crazy with some two word titles (and ninety nine word stories).

Thank you to everyone who has read and commented over the past year. =)

See also: Bad Science, Shroomiversal Truth, Pig's Ear

Bad Science

Cameron stirred the weak, amber liquid with a glass rod. He watched the granules going round and round in a tornado-like funnel. It was kind of hypnotic.

He began to feel drowsy. No, stay awake. Keep stirring, stirring, stirring.

The potion was deepening and darkening, slowly, so slowly. His arm ached but if he stopped the grains would float to the top, and he never needed to hear those screams again.

If he’d known Virgin’s Terror took this long to dissolve he would never have added so much at once. The Wytch Mother always cautioned him for his impatience.

But... that title is two words!

Xeroverse 101 is one year old. To celebrate entering its second year, I've gone crazy with some two word titles (and ninety nine word stories).

Thank you to everyone who has read and commented over the past year. =)

See also: CyberOptical Illusion, Shroomiversal Truth, Pig's Ear