Fairytale

by John Xero

Billy believed in fairies.

Not just your garden-variety, hand-sized, dainty flutter mites, clinging to the old ways. Billy believed in them all. The impassioned evangelists, decrying modern modes. The concrete kissing, urban-bred outcasts. The rainbow-chasing freefolk, dancing on the wind.

He believed in them and he told people about them, and he got bullied. He got beaten and left to bleed away into the dirt. He nearly died, that day. But the fairies believed in Billy. They put aside their differences and they brought him back.

Billy knows now, what he must do. The bullies will believe, as they bleed.

303: Angelic, Retribution, Guardian.

by John Xero

You may have seen me mention Lily Childs' Friday Prediction here before. Through her the ancient black tome speaks three words which must be incorporated in a story of less than one hundred. It's a great challenge, a wonderful little community and many of my 101s have germinated there. Sadly the Prediction will be closing in a few weeks, I urge you to hop on over and give it a go while you still can.

This week, three 101s that were all born from the same three words.

Angelic

“I will scratch out your eyes and curdle your blood,” the cherub screeched from its gravestone perch, clenching a chubby, broken-nailed fist.

The thing looked like a podgy child about two years old, but for the disdainful snarl of its lips, its bloodshot eyes, and its wings, with feathers fading from black to white as if soot-stained.

Unimpressed, John Harley locked eyes with it, “War’s over Anaeus. Give it up.”

The cherub stretched its wings wide in threat, “I will gut you.”

“I don’t think so.”

Harley pulled the trigger.

Roaring buckshot ripped through Anaeus, shredding flesh and feather alike.

-----

Retribution

The plague first presented as a raised rash from spine to shoulders that itched irresistibly. The few survivors were called Cherubim for their angry, red wings of ripped, scarred skin.

Without thinking, Ellen scratched her back. She flinched as a scab tore beneath her fingernails. She felt the fresh, wet blood well up.

The only survivors were all carriers. As the death toll rose, Humanity’s compassion curdled; the Cherubim were locked away.

Ellen waited for the blood to congeal, another feather to her wings. Then she dressed and strolled calmly into London’s Safezone, a serene angel of vengeance and death.

-----

Guardian

Orlov hung over London in a web of tubes that pumped curdled fluids through his transmuted body.

“Sp(ai)der mechs at Marble Arch,” the interface whispered in his mind.

He saw scuttling machines clambering over the broken buildings and cracked tarmac of Oxford Street. He heard the New Baker Street Irregulars panicking.

Orlov remembered being human.

“Launch cherub bombers,” he commanded.

London span into twenty Londons as his consciousness fragmented between the bombers. The Orlov/ Cherubs swept down from the clouds and unleashed a hailstorm of micro-explosives that ripped through the sp(ai)der mechs. The Irregulars cheered.

“Thank you,” the interface whispered.

(The three words were: cherub, curdle and rip)

Wolf

by John Xero

“What’s the time, Mr Wolf?”

So goes the invocation. Children chant it, their innocent tongues taunting with wicked words. What is the time? How long I have been imprisoned below, barely alive, while they play?

A scraped knee, a snagged shin, a scratch... Tiny, sweet offerings of blood, just enough to keep me aware but sluggish, delirious.

Then last night, a full moon, and a murder. Delicious panic and pain and pooling blood, a whole life seeping deep down, nourishing me, revitalising me, reviving me.

Now I wait. And soon, the children will return. Soon, it will be dinner time.

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