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.

The Haunted Tower



Cold and unforgiving.
A testimony to defiance it stands proud.
Aged, weathered.
But determined never to yield.
Never to surrender.
Even abandoned, it oozes menace.
Empty, door less and yet never silent.
Ever restless it groans.
It stands guarding and remembering;
the punishment meted to audacity,
the vengefulness to contempt.
Pitiless it counts the souls lost,
whose mortal bodies stain its walls.
Exuding more cold than winter,
immortal and without remorse,
its walls cast ghoulish shadows
to play with minds.
Ever tormenting.
Ever relentless in its pursuit of souls.
It calls to all who would listen;
challenging the daring,
dominating the weak willed,
to come.

J M Lysun