They Hang

by John Saxton


They hang; some in bunches, others alone. Umbilical cords connect to maternal branches. The progeny sway in the breeze. Sun bakes the forest floor.

Footsteps! In soft grass. The man salivates, eyes glazed. Pauses; inhales; snarls through discoloured teeth. Bloodshot eyes swivel toward a succulent hatchling. Unsheathes his knife.

The scions sense danger. Scream. Agonisingly.

He falls to his knees, knife dropped. Ears covered, bleeding through fingers.

Foetal leeches jump, cords elastic. Countless needled jaws affix. His death is slow torture. They drain him. Withdraw. Bloated. His alabaster corpse stinks in the calescent sun.

They hang.

Until the next feed.


John Saxton

John Saxton hails from Yorkshire, UK, where he is happily married, with two sons.  He has had over 50 short horror stories published in the independent press, including his own collection: ‘Bloodshot’.  He writes mainly after dark…

Find him on Twitter @jsaxtonwriter.



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