50 Word Stories: Death’s blade


Never has death been dealt so brutally. If this cold blade could talk, hearts would weep hearing the ruthless chatter emanating from its tarnished sheen, that cared not for the blood of vanquished souls, whose stain even now dared not linger less they share blame for fouler deeds to come.

Cold of winter



If only the cold wind would die down,
And I could be left free from the torment.

Cold, cold is the bitter winter month.
Dark, dark is its mood.

Howling and full of chill,
It speaks of concealing the warmth of the sun
And laying low, the once fertile land.
Devoid of character, all is white.

White, white is the blanket that covers everything.
Bright, bright is its reflection in the day.

Inviting and playful and yet suffocating.
Glistening though it might be in the sun,
In the dark of winter it is merciless and treacherous,
Offering little comfort to the unwary and unprepared.

Silent, silent is the winter as it spreads and freezes hearts and souls.
Death, Death is what it brings.

Buried from the nourishing light all must wither, sleep or perish.
No more to grow but to weep until the end of winter.
Drawing strength from the certainty that winter too will pass away.
And in its wake will come rebirth and light; the seed of life.



J M Lysun