50 Word Stories: Shades of Night

“There are many shades of night, child, multiple blacks.”

“Black is black, and it scares me.”

The old woman smiled.

“When the cold comes, we treasure the moments before sleep wrapped in blankets, our eyes closing, bodies warming, don’t we?”


“As I said, there are many shades of night.”



There was an undeniable truth to the fact she was a killer. Her eyes spoke of it, smile suggested it, and as for her figure, well… yum. She was everything a spark ignited, everything that made a dark dream dire. Her allure offset her demon. Her magnificence demanded respect. She was a little boy’s nightmare and a grown man’s fantasy, all this and more. Yet like all mysteries wrapped in purple, silk bows, she required exploring. What was the point in excess if one couldn’t partake of it? What was the point in deliverance if one had never needed delivering? I partook, she delivered. I lost, she won.


When did we lose what we’d already lost

Days and nights blending to one seamless malaise

How did the fabric rip when stitched so tight

Melancholy raindrops playing our song

Did the sun drop from the sky

To mire in subterranean depths

Or was it me that slipped between the cracks

When least I expected it; there was no crash

I’m pulling up trees whilst thinking them weeds

Seeds of an unseen God set to fester

Just losing my mind without knowing why

But I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready

Or stuck on repeat as the moon gently shimmers

Seeking to reassure, massage the mind

Sunless, the world’s turned sunless

Good job I’m built for the night

This Wicked City

Despite the winter cool,

melodrama of the mania

that surrounds and inveigles,

this fungal city continues to deny,

to suppress and irritate,

provoke and patronise.

Although the window glass

makes mirrors of the man I would be

all it suffices to remind

is I am not.

Yet, within the dimming dusk there is hope,

a modicum of allowance,

acceptance of myself and others.


When the wind turns,

the nightmare grows darker

a sheen of polished jet,

then perhaps, just perhaps,

this wicked city

will release me.

Perhaps not?

An Ominous Darkness 

Energy efficient, they say,

The subdued streetlights offering agreement.

A night world of lighted corridors has vanished,

The cities veins strangely diminished,

Replaced, instead, by an ominous darkness.

Less jovial in their environmental obligations,

Insipid streetlights barely illuminate my way;

The world seems less safe for it.

Like a fog, I pass others,

But whether they think the same,

Who can say?

Each face is as blurred as the next

In the murk of the evening,

And I fear for finding my own street.

The stars glitter above offering an ancient solution;

It makes me smile,

But I am no astrologer.

I might walk these streets forever,

Or at least until the dawn.