When his muse died, the poet was heartbroken. He wept, drank, burned his books, but found no comfort. One moonlit night, he went to the cemetery, sneaked into her tomb, and stole her urn of ashes. That night the poet ate his muse for dinner, one spoonful at a time.
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Published by Vincent Mars
I write as a way of life: stories, blogs, articles, almost-poems. I'm a freelancer, a vegetarian, and I listen to Leonard Cohen and enjoy French films. We are dying a little more with each new day we live, so shouldn't we make the most of our time?
View all posts by Vincent Mars
boy with a hat 
This is a hauntingly beautiful 50 words. Lovely job.
Adequate sunglasses you got there.
macabre… and provocative
but made me smile in my gruesome way thinking of this little ditty:
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
if you don’t eat
your lips will rust
Randy
Great ditty.
How many times have I told you now that I like you comments?
Each time you leave a comment on this blog, I hear a trumpet blast from Heaven. Or from Hell?
I’m glad you’re having a blast.. wherever you are.
that’s gross! ahhaa. but beautiful. 🙂 He’s a queer poet!
I bet something like this happened sometime, somewhere…
Of course it has happened. People eat anything and everything.
Gothic.
And I want that invisible gift.
Me, too!
I love this! It would make an awesome short story, too! =)
Breakfast of champions!
I will never feel the same about eating soggy grape nuts again!
Yikes! I don’t want to picture that!
woa! Talk about a different version of necrophilia. Ingesting instead of literally mounting..
lol
ha. great comment. lol too.
(please forgive my humor, but I’d need Tums instead of Trojans)
haha.. nice!