Wednesday, 12 December 2012


by John Xero

There's a place, down in South Carolina, where they farm hatred. Shipped and sold to markets you know nothing about. A trade in things to turn your skin. The secret economies of the world.

Tumours ripple and shimmer as they swell through the children's skin, and when the growths begin to seep they are ready to harvest.

The smell of hate is bilious and sour.

The cattle are bred for purpose, a different species, a line centuries deep, Homo Domesticus. Sometimes they learn words from the workers but they have no rational thoughts - we promise ourselves that, trying to believe.

Author bio: John Xero believes in secret histories and hidden conspiracies. Nothing specific, mind you; maybe everything is true, and maybe nothing is. Trust no one. ;)


  1. Chilling and flesh-crawling - just as you intended.

  2. Very dark. Disturbed too. But in a good way.

  3. Wonderful. That opening line is like a punch to the solar plexus. I feel like I've just been counted out on the canvas.

    marc nash

  4. Replies
    1. Thanks, Helen. I like to dabble (drabble? ;) ) in the dark side occasionally... ;)