Ici Les Mort, the sign stated, behind which the eighteenth-century debauched of Paris would host decadent parties amongst the discarded piles of bones in the realm of the dead.
I always loved a party; tried to imagine what a catacomb party would have been like back then.
A centuries old gate creaked open, drawing me away from others, viewing the neatly staged piles of bones along the tourist path.
“Come join us,” breathed an intangible voice, drawing me towards clinking glasses and soused laughter.
The door clanged shut.
How long, I wondered, before I became a pile of party bones?
I always loved a party; tried to imagine what a catacomb party would have been like back then.
A centuries old gate creaked open, drawing me away from others, viewing the neatly staged piles of bones along the tourist path.
“Come join us,” breathed an intangible voice, drawing me towards clinking glasses and soused laughter.
The door clanged shut.
How long, I wondered, before I became a pile of party bones?
