Wednesday, 28 March 2012


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.

Wednesday, 21 March 2012


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.”

Wednesday, 14 March 2012


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

Wednesday, 7 March 2012


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)