Unfortunately, Beowulf: The Midgard Horrors will have to wait one more week. We all have the flu in the Byers household. Here’s a little revenge piece to end your Saturday with …
Soumya painted on the bed.
The thousandth time her canvas, red,
Exploded in the splotchy scene-
A dying man bereft a spleen.
Eternity, her lot it seemed,
Ascended past the life she dreamed
And when a knife drew drops of blood,
The echoes washed her as a flood-
Soumya, now a hell spawned leech
Embracing powers in her reach,
Decided prisons of the mind
Elicited her only bind.
A succubus now summed the length
Of who she was; her inner strength
For tasty vengeance had a price-
A serial in murder’s vice,
And when the Lord of Hell took note,
It’s wasn’t long before the tote
And totem of her fancied style
Became his glowing, wicked smile.
“Soumya,” Lucifer would say,
“Now run along! Those boys you slay
Are quite delightful in my fold.
Your methods, well, are bloody gold!”
And who was she to turn this down?
Revenge, avenge, it was her crown!
“The devil’s due,” she often said
And bottled blood; she loved to shred
The entrails of some hapless fool,
And sometimes she would even drool.
Enamored with a life of lust
At times could be a bumming bust,
A demon hidden underneath
The outward flesh; her garland wreath
For luring mortals in the trap
Until fatigued, they took a nap.
Unmitigated horror’s cape
Surrounded as she bore the shape
Of who she was inside the skin.
She knew the devil wore a grin
For Lucifer, above them all,
Expected death to be a ball.
The wanton wreckage she would leave
Suppressed the notion some would grieve.
Or maybe not; most been were gags-
Cremated ash; assorted bags
Atop her head, a sweet disguise.
No graves to mourn their hollow eyes.
The lipstick shades around her mouth
Bespoke of somewhere deeper south.
This time, however, feeling guilt,
She wore it like her mother’s quilt-
The one she used to use at night
Before her rape and loss of sight-
The way a mortal values life.
The only thing she loved- her knife-
Invited freedom from the pain.
Unfortunate, for Hell’s domain
Explicitly endured the plot-
A torture field; a lake so hot
The demons even felt it’s heat.
No, there was nothing safe or sweet
And as Soumya entered through
The gates, she longed for life’s renew.
Surprised, she found a rose of black.
Accepting it, she saw a stack
Of petals urging her to move.
The sadness losing in a groove
Rekindled something she forgot-
The pang of joy; the tummy knot.
And as she went into a flame,
Her parting lips released a name:
“So, Lucifer, what have you done?”
The devil smirked, “Let’s have some fun!”
Soumya, startled, took a chance-
Enveloped in his horned romance.
However, what he didn’t know-
The succubus had seeds to grow
And as she used a special blade,
She stole his life; his body flayed.
“Now who’s the Lord of Hell, you pig!
It’s just another grave to dig.
No biggie; nah, I’ll toss you in
And gorge myself on every sin.
You see, those men who took my youth
Devised their plans from you; my proof
A simple visit to the lake-
A soul in torment, no mistake,
Becomes an open book, you see.
So all of Hell belongs to me.”
And as she sucked him, munching bone,
She sat atop his gleaming throne.
James Matthew Byers resides in Wellington, Alabama with his wife, kids, a dog named after an elf, and two tortoises. He has been published in poetry journals and through Jacksonville State University in Jacksonville, AL, where he received his Master’s in 2010. His epic poem, Beowulf: The Midgard Epic, is out now from Stitched Smile Publications, LLC in both Kindle and special edition paperback. James designed and illustrated the cover and interior art for his debut novel at SSP, where he works as an in house illustrator. He also has a short story featured in their latest release, Unleashed: Monsters Vs. Zombies. James has recently won three Prose Challenges at http://www.theprose.com. His poems, “More Gravy,” “The Raven Redux,” and “Nativity Nuance” all took first place. His poem, “The Dinner Fly,” will be published in “Weirdbook Magazine” #35. He continues to write prolifically, supporting anyone who wishes to place their hammering fingers to the keyboard anvil, becoming a polished wordsmith in the process.
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