The Muse stalked the cold and dark city streets, every hour of the long weekend. It was Sunday evening when she finally found her target, huddled in a dark corner of a respectable tavern. It was obvious that he did not belong, not in the bar full of overpriced drinks nor surrounded by the two women.
He was startled to see the Muse standing in the doorway, blocking his escape. A wine glass fell and shattered, sending chilled liquid and razor sharp shards of glass skittering across the carpeted floor. Standing, arms outstretched in panic, he pleaded with the soon to be assailant, pleading for his life. The Muse would hear none of it. She was there for one solitary reason and nothing could stop her. They both knew it.
Her left hand reached out, grabbing his shoulder, pulling him across the low table. A water glass tipped, sending cascading waves of water to meet the shattered wine glass. Fingers flexed, filling the now silent room with creaks of leather bending and shaping to contain the clenched fist. The gloved hand reached back. Everything moved in slow motion, but it was over in an instant. Her fist smashed into his jaw, sending spittle and blood flying into the wall and hanging pictures.
He fell back onto the bench where he was sitting, dazed from the sharp blow. Leaning over the table he spat. Once, twice, three times. Three blood soaked marbles rolled across the table, the pool of spilt water cleansed the teeth. Satisfied with the results, the Muse plucked the teeth from the table. She placed them in a black leather bound book and handed them to her felled victim.
He grasped the book from her hands and opened it. Pages of the book were blank, save for the lines that ran across each page. The teeth dissolved into the pages as words seeped out. Line after line in the book was soon filled with words. With text. With poetry! His head rose from the book to look upon his assailant. As quickly as she had pounced she was gone. Three new poems were left in her wake, the only evidence of her presence.
