Cracking his head open

against the wall of death

he stores souls in his skull

for her to wear around her neck,

a final attempt at togetherness.

He strains to crawl and hide

inside broken skull, with

voice dangling in vicious madness,

earsplitting cries crushing cranium

luring her to sense of security,

a final attempt to hide derelict fate.

She is enveloped by a sickening tapping,

his thoughts entangled around her neck,

laced with bloody ribbons multiplying

to cushion the crackling voices.

Grey matters is crammed into fissures,

mud in the sewer of her mind.

The road melts before her in puddles,

black tar hitting her skull necklace,

sucking his entity through a straw,

existing in a black and festered hole

dying in a void that overcomes his sin

His shuttered eyes capture darkness,

he tries to escape the skull of souls,

brain finds no sleep – comatose ravings

interwoven into his hollow bones.

She casts the necklace of souls aside,

crushes his skull and is free from darkness

as he drowns in a dearth that annihilates.

He kept souls in a skull he wore around his neck. Tens of thousands of dark, corrupted souls locked away in his amulet. He carried a dying, wooden staff in his decrepit right hand with dark magic spewing from his left. Garments as black as the moon's shadow covered his insectoid body. A towering papal tiara with sinful symbols engraved in the metalwork rested on his round head. A ragged scarf covered much of his hideous face with the exception of three pairs of black spider-like eyes poking out.

He was as old as the old ancient city of Dis, perhaps even older. It was said that he had explored many of the dark corners of the Inferno, even to regions still unknown to all of demon-kind. Locked within inside his twisted brain was an archival library of knowledge of all things dark and damned that he alone scribed onto his sacred book, The Condemned's Testimonial: Guidebook to All Spells, Hexes, Creatures, & Realms of the Afterlife Volume 1. Many of the denizens of Hell respected his great command of sorcery and sought his dark guidance. Even the devil would visit him in his cottage, where he experimented with his dark magic and questionable science experiments, to seek out his wisdom. Today was no different.

"Legion," The devil said, entering the old demon sorcerer's home. "I seek your guidance."

"I live to serve the Ruler of the Nine Circles." The sorcerer bowed to his master. His voice echoed of a haunting whisper. "I sensed something troubling you when you first entered my home. What disturbs you, my lord?"

"There is a child that holds unbelievable power." Lu told his most loyal follower.

"A child you say?" Legion hissed. "Tell me more of this power this child possesses."

"She has the unnatural ability to make those give in to her will with a mere look from her little blue eyes." He explained, sweat dripped down his face.

"Such power!" Legion sneered greedily behind his scarf. "Can she be controlled?"

"I'm afraid not. Many demons have fallen victim to her power. Even I myself am helpless before her. Please, aid me against this unholy power, my priest of heresy."

"As you wish but I must witness this power first hand. Where is this child you speak of?"

"If I'm right, she should be right behind me right about now."

The powerful demons turned and saw a small girl skipping through the entrance.

"Hi Lu!" She said, giving each an innocent wave. "Hi Legion!"

"Young princess." The demon sorcerer bowed.

"Don't give her ideas!" Lu growled. "What's up, munchkin?"

"I saw a commercial with the biggest, fluffiest unicorn plushy. Can I have it? Please, please, please?" Regan begged.

"No way!" Lu laughed. "You're not getting that! Don't you already have enough of those?"

"But this one is the biggest and the fluffiest just like the commercial said!" Regan boasted. "Can I have it, pleeeeeeeaaaasssse?"

"Forgive me, my lord." Legion bellowed. "But how can you say no to a face like that?"

Regan's eyes grew bigger. Her eyes twinkled like the eyes of a sad puppy. Her lower lipped quivered as her adorable face spellbound the demonic overlord. Lu cringed, struggling to resist his stepdaughter's powerful, cute gaze.

"Alright," Lu sighed. "We'll get it after work."

"Thank you!" Regan smiled, skipping back from whence she came.

"Incredible." Legion gasped. "I know what this power is, but in all my years I've never seen anyone wield it as she has."

"Legion, you must have something to combat this," Lu begged. "How can I fight it?"

"I'm afraid you cannot, my lord. Even with my vast knowledge of the blackest magic, I know there is nothing that can withstand the dreaded power of cuteness."

She keeps souls in a skull she wears around her neck

Of past lovers who chose to torture her and leave her brutally wrecked

For they didn't know she was a women

Of many ways

And by choosing to throw her out

Would be paving their fate

and devastating their last days

She finds them in the loveliest of hours

As they lay next to their new lovers

Naked and weak

Stealing his soul is what she seeks

They never see her coming as she slithers in as a grim fog

Hovering over their bodies

Thinking oh how sweet

they just made love

She drapes over them like a warm blanket

Yet waiting to ravage him from above

Just as they feel a sense of dismay

She casts her darkness on him

Causing instant decay

And devouring his wretched soul

Sucking it in

And thoroughly enjoying this

forsaken sin

While leaving his lover laying there in shock and fear she will die

Then winking at her with a

twisted eye

Letting her know

Her soul will be just fine

Being the soul keeper she saved her from his wicked ways

Now he's in a skull around her neck

For all his eternal days

And At night as She lays in bed

she faintly hears their souls crying to get out

She laughs at the sweet melodious they sing

Thinking next time

she shall create a

Soul keeping ring

S.W.~2016

She keeps souls in a skull she wears around her neck

Twisted boys that did her wrong now walking empty wrecks

But she told me I’d never belong…

I eat rice paper promises from fortune cookies loaded with regret

Dissolved and forgotten mysteries from the candles we’d set

But our auras wouldn’t unite…

I’d sit drinking on windowsills through the night

She’d follow but gravitate towards some other light

Rabid dogs arguing over anarchy…

Sometimes I’d guess colours and she’d call it psychotherapy

It never really ever meant that much to me

A witches song lost to the sea…

We tried but sore eyed we walked away

The passion turned into some twisted cabaret

Fire breathers and knife throwers congregate

In a circus that sealed our fate…

So my love declined and I silently confessed

But not into spherical bones that sway at the breast

Because I never belonged…

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

She keeps souls in a skull she wears around her neck. It’s not many, mind you. She may save only a chosen few without being discovered. Cradle, she was named, but why, by whom, she’d long since forgotten.

For time eternal, she stood in governance at the Fourth Gate. Those whom negligence caught resided within. Automobiles held majority stake here. She tidied here and there, re-positioning a tire, twisting a wheel, as cars caught fire, rolled down embankments and ran into countless trees.

Through endless nights, she bore witness. Her claws grasped the iron tightly as she watched each hateful loop. Born from fire, she had no soul, but she had formed compassion over thousands of years. It was tucked away from the fiery glint of his Majesty’s eye, and it had flourished in private. And so it was that once every few years she stole one burnt offering for herself.

One soul intrigued her now. She watched this former man, Jim, flip his Pontiac Sunfire end over end countless times. He suffered more than most in the never-ending night. He touched her, as did the other truly repentant, tugging at her time-built heart, because there was no absolution in hell. His self-hating soul was forever trapped in Cradle’s dominion.

On fate-night, he had suffered only minor injuries – the Devil wrapped drunks in his protection, for they were ever useful – but his three children and his wife had been smashed. His twin boys survived the car, but died on the side of the rain-slicked road. His wife suspected Jim was cheating, but Tequila shots were his only companion at the bar that evening. Jim was keeping odd hours of late because he had been fired from his job and couldn’t admit it to Jenny. So it was that he was hiding tears when he pulled up outside the theatre to collect them.

This Jim-of-everlasting had long since become self-aware, losing his private battle each night. Cradle watched him cut off his hand and sew up his mouth, but of course The Darke would not be thwarted by such. Each night at 8:45 pm, he would sprout a new hand, his lips would spring open and the pain would begin again. He never dulled to the pain, in fact, it grew more insistent every night, each recitation of his punishment, each blood and rain soaked episode bringing him freshly exceeded barriers of despair.

Cradle saw Jim-soul’s beautiful upturned eyes, watched him swallow shot after shot through gritted teeth, watched him as he placed one hand on the wheel, neck cords standing out from the strain, trying not to shut the door, trying in vain to shout a warning to Jenny. Forever trying and failing.

Cradle saw him lift the keys and start the car, calmly tapping the wheel to the beat of the music, while his eyes reeled in their sockets like an animal with its paw in a snare. Jenny strapped the twins in their carseats and Annie, his girl, scooped the last of the movie popcorn into her mouth. All the while he brimmed, almost exploded with exceeded effort to change the past, forever locked into who he was and wanting what he could never have again.

Every movement, every word, was a contortion of pain, not only for Jim, but also for Cradle. Through the floating bars, her blood-red eyes held his wild blue orbs. Tonight, she knew, he would again swerve into traffic and skid, his reflexes soft from the drink, and the skid would turn into a roll and the roll would crush skulls and he would sit stupidly, hands limp by his sides as bystanders pulled his twin boys from the backseat through a trail of his wife’s blood. And his daughter’s long black hair, Annie-that-was, was far from where it should be, too far from the rest of her…

Enough! she thought. Her decision made, she had to move quickly. She passed in smoke through the gates, with a rusted squeal. One nod of her horned brow and the scene evaporated, leaving only Jim, a shucked husk of a soul. With one huge rust-colored palm, she tugged roughly at the filament that tethered his soul to her level, deftly rolled it into a meatball-sized shadow and placed it into her skull locket.

He would not be free, not yet, but she would take him to swim in the Abshe, where wrung out souls that had lost their humanity were tossed to feed the beasts. A great ocean of grief, it met the Skye at the very end – a time eternal of sunset. Cradle had been told long ago that if a soul could transverse the black waves, spider-crabs, wailing serpents and other sea haunts, they would be granted passage to the other side.

Cradle peered out through the haze of fire and the wail of screeching tires. No one bore notice, so she unfurled charred wings, stamped her feet and thrust upward, rising fast. Passing through hazy barriers, she heard the screaming of billions of souls, twisting and writhing with eternal agony. She shook her head to lose the cacophony and broke through the filmy barrier, thrusting her hooves down hard, landing in tar-like mud at the edge of the great sea.

It was night here too, but stars shone, which they were never allowed to do below. They were breathtaking, too low by half, making the air thin. Cradle breathed deep and although she missed the taste of smoke, it was pleasant enough air – purer than her level. She checked that she was alone, then tucked her wings back self-consciously and opened her locket.

Jim-that-was poured forth in a silver stream, materializing in an inch of gruesome water, the foam teeming with sea-lice. His figure shone in the murky darkness. Cradle smiled at him - a toothless, terrifying sight.

He looked up at her blinking slowly, then behind him at the vast filth. “What new torture is this?”, he asked, bewildered, but not scared. He was past that now. Cradle had not spoken in a very long time and her voice was scratchy from disuse, like grating metal.

“No trick, my Jim. You can see them again.” With a wave of one huge hand, she showed him his family in the car in the moment before it all changed. The image hung there a moment above them, then faded into the darkness. “Whole, like you are now.” She pointed over his shoulder and his eyes followed her hand. “Swim hard to the end. It will be long with many beasts.” She breathed in deep and flung her enormous arms wide to take in the ocean ahead. “I gift this to you. A chance.” She spoke the last word with reverence. It didn’t exist on her plane, not for her, not for anyone save those few souls she carried in her locket.

Wanting to believe, Jim-soul said, “Why? Why would you do this?” Cradle leaned down, her large black and red form dwarfing his own and touched his cheek. It burned where her crusted forefinger lay, but he ignored it. “You fight for them still.” Cradle paused, considering, then added, “Now fight for yourself.”

At that, she rose and motioned with her hand, giving him a hard push deeper into the water without touching him. He looked around quickly and hoisted a slimy black rock the size of his fist from just beneath the scummy surface. He nodded at Cradle, took a deep breath and dove in.

She hoped he was ready to fight the beasts ahead for his salvation. She had no idea how many of her souls had made it, she hoped all of them had, but she would never see for herself. Those born below were terminally possessed.

She watched him swim away, worrying and then, chewing on one fire-blackened lip, cheated a bit. With another wave of her hand, she pulled a tusked tuna from the water and clawed open it’s belly. She tossed it far to Jim’s right and watched the razor sharks frenzy towards the unexpected feast. She stared at his receding figure for a few minutes more. He was strong, she thought. He might just... Hot tears ran down her cracked skin as, staring up at the stars now, she began to sink.

It is not

about her

slender neck

which

beckons

and yields,

nor is it

about

the ivory

rosary

of skulls

on that

alabaster

field,

promising

ambrosia

and forbidden

delight,

tasting

of copper,

with notes

of the night.

It is about

how to

merit

escape

from

the cage

that enfolds

the jewel

of spirit

before we

grow cold

and join

forever

her necklace

of souls.

She keeps souls in a skull on her neck,

At her throat, it's the loveliest necklace...

A gift from the Darkness, she's marked as his;

He likes his girls crazy and reckless.

The Darkness appeared and lifted her up;

She'd been left, broke and bloody again.

He dusted her off, tended her wounds,

He asked if she was ready to win.

She considered the years she'd lived in fear,

She recalled the beatings she'd taken.

And this silly bitch, shaking with terror

Felt the stirrings of Fury awaken.

She thought of the ones who failed her most,

Of course, she first thought of her mother.

Who had plenty of love for her plenty of pills,

But no love for her or her brothers.

She thought of her dad, and his old ideals.

She thought of his quick, heavy hand.

She remembers the tempers of men she'd once loved,

If she failed to follow every command.

She thought of ones who protect and serve;

Do gooders who do good lip service.

She thought of those who abuse their power;

It's no wonder that cops make her nervous.

She cried to the Darkness, "What can I do?"

She's been beaten down for so long.

His icicle smile lights up the night...

"My dear, you can right some wrongs!"

"I'm helpless, hopeless, I can't do a thing!"

She believes herself stupid and weak...

The Darkness places one hand on her throat,

The other hand caresses her cheek.

The Darkness holds a skull on a chain.

"This necklace will lead your revenge;

Your enemies souls - you'll trap in the skull,"

She smiles, she's got a lot to avenge.

So she wears that skull around her throat,

And she sets off to seek retribution.

She takes back her power one soul at a time,

She's the leader of her own Revolution.

Indebted to the Darkness, she is now his,

She's diving headlong to her damnation.

There's redemption in rage, she has been saved.

In vengeance, she finds the sweetest salvation.

She keeps souls in a skull she wears around her neck

Keepsakes of a life she's never told

She devours the stars

And swallows the ocean whole

She is a myth without a name

A phantom only the elder oaks have known

She could bring down the moon if it so pleases her

But she hides in the shadows of night and day

Ashes falling from her wings

Tattered and torn from this earthly plane

She resides to be alone

Disappearing into the unknown

      She retains souls in a skull she wears about her neck. The souls drip off her like putrid rancid things. Life ebbed and flowed forth in waves of rot of the men eaten and consumed for heart and health. Such is the way. A life taken and a life given. The life is hers, as is skull, the souls are not. Though one could argue that due to possession, they are. It matters little. At this moment, her skull stands erect, chad in flesh, upon her neck. It is a pretty thing, the neck. Thin and delicate, seemly too weak to hold a loft the bone and flesh of that make up her facade. That happens to be pretty as well, the flesh, the face, that is. I look at her, it is hard not to. The beauty is breathless, it attracts the attention, no, demands it.

      I have a problem with that. It has been my experience that women that beautiful are aware of it. This causes issues, whether you wish to merely bump uglies or pursue a proper courtship. Either way she would be tough to pin down, or should be. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. A woman such as that should be a hard won prize, paid for drinks, witty banter, halfhearted promises, but no. For the last few days I have watched her accept the advances of any man. She would leave with them, misbegotten apes or refined gentlemen, and return an hour or so later, pert and yet hungry, never sated. The life oozed forth, overflowing, dripping rot from newly eaten life of her most recent prey. Idiots. Never did they see the wolf amougnst sheep in this beauty. She ate want she wanted, and the souls of the consumed bled in excess from her. Rolling from the crown of her head and bathing her in a cloak of death. And yet they came, more still. As I said, Idiots.

      Many may look upon her and claim death after such a ride would be worth it, thus proving my previous insult with their inane statement. It is never worth it.

      I know what she is and I planned to kill her. As such, I stalked her, like any good hunter. Firstly you must show respect for your prey, so I didn’t blunder into the kill. I need to know what she was, many may say vampire, but I detest the term. It is like saying bug, you many mean any number of insects and maybe even a spider, but it is not enough. So while this creature fed upon men and ate their souls she was more than that simple label would convey. And though she happened to be beautiful most of them weren’t. They came from humans, and human’s idea of beauty is in constant flux.

      At some point she has noticed my attention. Whether due to instinct of prey or hunter concerns me little, for she is both. I have been spotted and I must strike. I stand and stumble a bit. It is subtle thing, playing the drunk; the trick is not over sell it. A twisted slow gait, one belonging to a man deep in thought over the placement of foot, and yet somehow lacking a sense of the floor. I smile, confidently, full of bravo, my step has a swagger now since she returns my smile.

      I place my drink next to her; she fingers it, exquisite extremities stroking the rim of the glass and lips parted slightly in a smile.

      Her smile is something else; it alone is enough to explain the men who have fallen for her act.

      One of those finger tips dips into my glass and the liquor therein. Slowly, with the grace like a caress to the spine she brought the finger to her mouth. Her tongue came out; tip curved upward, face tilting faintly in eagerness. The soft pink flesh sought out the small drop of whisky collected at her wet fingertip. It enveloped the digit, like a sheath, wrapping it up and tugging it into her parted lips. She sucked upon her prize; eyes alight with pleasure, the corners of her lips tugging into a restrained smile.

      I doubted myself then, I still planned to kill her, I think. And yet and part of me wondered at the men she ate, perhaps it had been worth it. When she placed her hand upon mine, one finger still wet from her mouth, I wanted to go with her. She smiled again, which I returned. As she turned I felt myself waiver, worried she had rejected me, but no, her hand was still hold mine, pulling me behind her. I followed. I didn’t know if it was to my death or hers.