13th August 2021 - 15 Minute Fiction Friday
Voices echo, cruel odes of old; through desolate plains, their tales remain untold.
Creaking, yet no breeze; disturbance yet at ease; in silence it calls out, that stone ruin of disease.
On long-dead ground, once a stone cauldron of decay; in piles, in droves, those poor souls did once lay.
Its splendorous appeal in the dying of the light is, if townsfolk are believed, deceiving; its foul wrench to the below, they say all it is achieving.
A hero to they turned, for hell those ghouls be returned.
These skills I cannot coach. It must be me. Deep breath; approach.
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