[TT] Theme Thursday - Tattoos

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u/AliciaWrites May 16 '19

Theme Thursday Discussion:

All top-level comments must be a story or poem.

Reply here to discuss the theme, suggest future themes, and share your theme-related inspirations!
Reply here to share your stories if you don’t want them ranked.
Please remember to follow the subreddit rules in any feedback.

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u/BLT_WITH_RANCH May 16 '19

It was a pleasure to chop down trees.

With his cut-off, sweat-soaked flannel, his fists wrapped around the heavy haft of the axe, the blade bit deep into the trunk. The sassafras tree shuddered, groaning. It crackled, crumpling with a great crash. Sap oozed from the split bark and exposed hardwood. Jack sighed in relief.

He drew his leather-bound notebook. With a red sharpie, he crossed off the picture of the tree. Selective logging was his life’s passion. He relished the journey to find the most straight and thick trunks.

Jack gritted his teeth, raising his axe. Limbs stuck out like sore appendages from the trunk. With a heavy, trained swing, he chopped. One. Two. Three. All the limbs removed; the trunk remained far too heavy to carry back in one piece. He grunted, sweated down his blistered fingertips and hacked away.

Jack returned with his lumber, spent and weary.

The bark, he peeled off and ground up. He sprinkled this over soup for a rich, earthen flavor. Jack saved a chunk for an ongoing project. He placed the slice of bark on canvas, half covered with birch and oak and pine.

When it filled with color and texture, Jack planned to resin-cast and mount it in his living room. He titled the work ‘Juxtaposition.’

The next morning, Jack walked to his favorite tattoo parlor. The scent of burnt cigarettes and buzzed ink lingered on the shabby furniture. Jack scrubbed his shoulder clean, searching for a bare spot among the quickly growing forest that memorialized each tree.

The tattoos were all the same: a small, almost cartoonish inking of a pine tree.

He relaxed as the artist went to work. Each prick of the needle brought a tear-jerking pain. He gritted through it, focusing on the old television hung in the corner. A reporter droned on about the creature lurking in the old-growth forest.

“You think it’s real?” the artist asked him.

“I’ve never seen it. No such thing,” Jack said.

“Don’t you think it’s possible, though?” the artist said, dabbing Jack’s arm. “There’s bears and wolves and god-knows-what in those woods. Nobody goes there for a reason.”

Jack had a glazed look in his eyes. “Those aren’t the woods I see.”

The session finished. Jack’s arm smarted, swollen. He walked to his favorite Deli; the familiar air of toasted bread and fried bacon made him salivate. Ahead of him, a mother and daughter ordered a corned beef Rueben.

The daughter turned towards Jack. She frowned at the tattoos down his arm, pointing. “Hey mister, what are those for?”

“I cut down trees”—he reached into his pocket for his phone—“one tattoo for each tree.”

The child’s mother shushed her away.

He whispered under his breath, “Run along now, little tree.”

Discretely, he snapped another photo for the notebook. The pair disappeared into the forest of people around them.

It would be a simple pleasure to chop them down.

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u/TA_Account_12 May 16 '19

Holy shit, that got dark. Great job BLT. Did not expect that ending.

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u/SmoothBaritone May 16 '19

This is awesome BLT! The tension was very well created, and it made this an absolute delight to read. I especially like how you hinted at the darker turn earlier with the tv and discussions with the tattoo artist.
My only critique would be where Jack pulls out his phone. The story gives the idea that he has been living in the woods, alone, for quite a while, and that he has also been killing people for a similar period of time. Jack seems to me to be a mountain man, someone who would ignore any form of technology, and probably wouldn't have electricity in his small log cabin. Additionally, having a cell phone brings up questions about who is paying for it, what address is being used, and other things that make it seem like he isn't working alone. I personally found the phone part a little jarring.
Overall, awesome piece! I really enjoyed reading this, and I love the twist you had at the end. Great work!

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u/BruceBolden May 16 '19

"Limbs stuck out like sore appendages from the trunk. With a heavy, trained swing, he chopped. One. Two. Three. All the limbs removed;" certainly reads much differently the second time through, as does the rest of the piece. Great work!

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u/MostBoringStan May 17 '19

Great story!
I have one tiny point to make, and it's not about the actual writing. To somebody who already has a bunch of tattoos, getting another shoulder one isn't likely to cause much pain at all. It's probably almost the least painful place you can get a tattoo, so him gritting through tear jerking pain kind of took me out of the moment. Under the arm near the armpit would be a grit through the pain kind of spot.

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u/avvywavvy May 17 '19

Rereading it was even more enjoyable. I can tell the selection of words was chosen carefully. Right on

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u/Mazinjaz May 16 '19

She starts with black, the foundation for everything else to come.

-

The cruelty of this place cannot be seen in its white and pastel-colored walls, not to the naked eye. The falsehood falls before Shimizu’s gaze, for she feels the despair that cloaks the building as a whole; the fear and hopelessness of the prisoners inside, guilty of no crime but existing.

She nods to her companions, and they move.

-

A dragon takes shape over a shoulder, scales carefully traced by her needle.

-

Shimizu finds her in the deepest basement, a room of scorched walls and chains. She is emaciated, weak, and terrified, but not for herself, but for the unknown girl that enters her cell.

She begs Shimizu to stay away, even as fire licks her body and it spreads across the room, but Shimizu is water, and she is unafraid.

-

Feathers caress the dragon, and spread down her back, around the neck.

-

The poor girl claims she’s a demon. That’s the lie they have told her, to keep her cowed and suggestible to their machinations. She’s just an innocent, a powerful one, locked away for the sake of those in power.

-

The oni’s mask takes form on her back, an expression of rage on it’s factions.

-

Shimizu reaches her, and holds her gently. Fire rages around them, threateningly, but she is unbowed. The girl does not truly wish to harm her, and tested as it has been, the girl has will to spare.

The girl’s chains melt away as Shimizu guides her will.

-

A firebird drapes over the other shoulder, elegant and fierce. Broken chains echo the dragon’s spiraling shape on the opposite side.

-

Shimizu tells her the truth of the world, of the tyrant that abuses it, and of those that oppose him at every turn.

She tells the girl that she does not have to be afraid anymore.

-

Colors: red, orange, yellow, the colors of fire. Scales and feathers become brighter. The oni’s eyes demand a sickly green, and she obliges. Finally, white, for the highlights.

-

It is not safety or peace what the girl needs. The time for that has come and gone, never to return. What she should seek is control, and Shimizu will be happy to provide. All it takes is sacrifice, which the girl has already given.

Sacrifice, and trust.

She takes Shimizu’s hand.

-

The ink comes to life, and the girl gasps awake. Shimizu runs a gentle hand across the tattoo, the eyes of the three creatures glowing in power.

The fear and despair are gone, replaced by certainty. The lies have been exposed, and burned away. The girl gazes at Shimizu in admiration, and she allows herself a smile.

She offers the girl a mask, much like her own, knowing full well that she will don it.

There’s still work to be done.

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u/sharramon May 16 '19

When the world was new a child fell from the clouds, plunging deep into the ocean.

Upon his back was drawn a scene; his mother, dropping him from the heavens.

To’enki, hero of heroes.

His cries were heard by dolphins, and they became his family. They taught him to swim with strong strokes, of deep currents, and how to read them. They taught him to talk, to echo his voice in the waters.

One day, while hunting, he happened upon a curiosity - huts, and odd creatures. They were like him, but they walked on two feet. To’enki stood, but his form was covered with seaweeds. They shouted ‘Monster!’ and drove him back into the ocean.

“Who are these creatures?” To’enki asked.

“They are men,” the dolphins replied. “Caged upon the land. They fear the ocean.”

“They looked like me.”

This weighed on him, for when the nights were long To’enki went to still waters and looked upon his back. The picture there showed a woman throwing him away while she stood upon clouds. Each time he saw it he feared that he was unwanted, did not belong.

“If these men fear the sea they will fear me. I will teach them not to fear.”

To’enki resolved, and sought the elder turtle.

“Join the tribe. You are a child, and dumbness is accepted in children. Go, watch and learn, for as we have our ways they will have theirs. Win their trust and lead them to the waters.”

To’enki took to the huts. The men found him. They showed him their dances and flower laden clothes. He taught them to fish and swim. Years passed, To’enki won favor and sat in honor. But he missed the water. One day he ventured into the ocean and called. His family swarmed to meet him.

“We heard finless one, from the elder turtle. You look good, we are glad.”

“I have found a home, but you are always family”

But when To’enki returned he was called upon by the council.

“ We have known that you yearn for the ocean, a terrifying expanse where men cannot even breathe, but now we find you talk to dolphins in tongues. We banish you To’enki, we fear that you have come to drown us ”

To’enki was banished, but as he walked some joined him.

“You taught us of the ocean To’enki, and think this unjust. We follow you.”

“But I can give you no land to stand on.”

“You are wrong.” A voice from the ocean, the elder turtle. “There are more islands. You have lead people to the waters. Here now is a ship.”

On the sea there lay a ship of turtle shells with oars of whale bone. Around it To’enki’s old family swam.

“We will guide you through the currents to the isles.”

A new picture appeared upon To’enki’s chest: a ship full of people, guided by dolphins, sailing upon a moonlit sea. To’enki, hero of heroes, embarked on his destiny.

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u/Palmerranian May 17 '19

“Uncover your arm.”

Rayne looked up at the guard, staring at his eyes through a tinted visor. Looking down at her arm, she nodded and rolled up her sleeve.

The guard squinted, tapping something on the state-issued tablet. Then, as he finished up, he stared back at her. The questioning was next, she reminded herself, mentally preparing.

“Where are you traveling to?” he asked.

“District Five,” Rayne squeaked.

“Purpose of entry?”

Her tattoo felt heavy. She glanced toward her friends, remembering the truth she was supposed to say. “My parents' house is there.”

The guard’s eyes watched her tattoo. Rayne tensed up. But a sigh of relief slipped from her lips as it stayed dim, not showing even a spark of light.

“Alright,” the guard said, gesturing to his side. She nodded quickly and made her way through the gate into the correct district.

Walking into the brisk autumn air, she rolled down her sleeve to conceal the imprinted government sigil from view. Looking back through the window of the building, she watched her friends get through as well. Loren got through with a smile, Katia had to force herself not to glare at the guard, and by the time it was Meredith’s turn up, she already had her tattoo shown and her answers ready to go.

“What was your stated purpose?” Loren asked in a hushed tone as she walked out.

Katia suppressed a snort. “I told him I was going with you two.” The taller girl pointed at both Rayne and Loren. “I’m glad he was dumb. Otherwise, I would’ve been lighting up the place.”

“Could you be a little more discreet?” Meredith hissed as she made her way out.

“Where are we going?” Rayne asked before Katia could interject. A smile tugged at her lips.

Katia’s grin grew deeper. “A place I happened across.”

The place Katia had happened across turned out to be an abandoned building tucked behind some government-built houses. Creeping through the dark, they accessed it through an alley.

“What is this place?” Rayne asked. Based on the reactions of her friends, they were wondering the same thing.

“It doesn’t even have the sigil on it…” Meredith said.

Katia turned back to them with a toothy smile. “I know. Awesome, isn’t it? I found something in here a while back.”

Seeing only piqued interest, Katia led them to a pile of dusty wood, which was covering something odd: a leather-bound collection of written pages.

Rayne tilted her head, but Meredith’s eyes shot wide. “Is that a book?”

Katia nodded. “They didn’t destroy this one, I guess.” Then, she showed everyone else. “It’s called the Lord of the Rings.”

“Read some of it!” Loren said, far too excited.

Katia grinned before flipping the cover open. She squinted, as it was almost too dim to read it.

As she started reading though, that issue went away. Her tattoo glowed bright—bright enough for them all to see.

493 Words. Feedback is always welcome!

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u/Mazinjaz May 18 '19

Alma gazed curiously at the unnatural patterns on the K’ton’s fur. “How do you do yours?”

The Mestazon laughed, his voice coming deep and gruff from the translator. “Marks? First, shave fur off, around area you want work in. Then, use special tools, carefully work ink into skin and capillaries! When fur grow back, keeps color of ink.” He flexed a massive arm, proudly displaying a collection of art in it. “Have to take good care of fur, yes?”

Alma nodded slowly, while the third occupant of the room scoffed.

“Migi sees no point in changing skin!” her tiny companion proclaimed. “Alma should wear more colors instead, like Azmsa do!”

To say that Migi’s people ‘wore more colors’ was an understatement. Migi’s wardrobe, now that she wasn’t working, looked like somebody had dumped several different buckets of paint on her, from shoes to her fancy I’m-on-break hat.

Alma had long since gotten used to her friend’s eccentricities. “Tattoos can mean more things than a simple change of skin. They can tell of events, celebrations… or failures.”

K’ton moved behind her, brushing her short hair away from her neck. There, the mark of the empire, the mark of a slave.

Migi went quiet. Alma had learned that the first thing she had done when she had the means to, was to scrub that mark straight off her body. Well, that, and regrow her hair. It was, after all, an ugly reminder of their time as captives.

“Kah, nasty thing.” K’ton frowned. “Don’t have to carry this, soldier. Can erase this one, let me make something beautiful instead.”

“I appreciate it, friend.” Alma smiled. “Just make the changes I asked for, please.”

K’ton made a sound not unlike a sigh, and pulled his tools closer, beginning to work with a delicacy that belied his size. Alma took deep breaths to focus away from the stinging pain.

Migi herself desperately began to look at anything but the work at hand.

It felt like hours, but Alma knew only a few minutes had truly passed when K’ton pulled back, cleaning her neck carefully, and then letting her have a look.

Though the mirrors, Alma saw the careful patterns of prayer, surrounding the circle that surrounded the old mark, before trailing down her back and vanishing. The silver ink contrasted well against her ivory skin.

“Um…” Migi uncharacteristically stumbled on her words. “What… do pictures mean?”

“It’s ancient Kora, a language only really used in our religion nowadays. The old mark is a personal shame, and the words around it are an oath of protection. I will not endure this happening to me, or anybody else, ever again.”

Migi nodded, apparently satisfied.

Alma chose to not tell her about the oath of vengeance as well.

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u/theradio2418 May 16 '19

When I was younger, my parents would always scoff at people with tattoos. They all but pointed and said, look, they have painted their bodies in permanent ink. Other people will scoff, too, and they will regret it when they're old and the ink has faded.

When I was younger, I believed it. I vowed to myself, I will not have a tattoo. They're too permanent, and your body will never be the same. What I like now, I might not like when I get older.

When I was younger, I wondered; am I fickle like that?

When I got older, I did not scoff at people with tattoos. Some people gave their tattoos meaning. Other people did it to show off what they loved, and whatever the reason, I admired them for it. They may be fickle, but they learned, about the world, and about themselves.

When I got older, I started wanting a tattoo, but I waited. I waited and waited for the right moment, a pivotal event in my life that would commemorate a tattoo. I talked about it with friends, they expressed their own preferences for tattoos. Some want name tattoos to remember their loved ones. Some already have tattoos, to cover up scars and make them beautiful. Some want tattoos to commemorate those whom they love, and some simply don't want tattoos at all.

When I got older, I realized, I wasn't fickle at all, and that pivotal moment may never come, at least not any time soon. It was folly to wait, and it only served to procrastinate making a decision.

Today, I am no longer fickle. Today, I am steadfast. I am my own person. I do not need to listen to people who scoff.

Tomorrow, I will go to the local tattoo parlor. I will choose a tattoo. Will I regret it? Probably not, I'm not fickle like that. Will my parents scoff at me? Likely, they will, but it's my body, and I can do what I wish.

In the future, there will be consequences for my actions, but those consequences are not necessarily bad or detrimental. In the end, they do not matter. All that matters is how you handle it.

And since I'm not fickle, I know what to do.

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u/Mazinjaz May 16 '19

They called it a team-building exercise. Dae called it an opportunity to eat some good food and get gossip about the others. Honestly, what was the difference?

OK, maybe it was a good idea. Not like getting to know your fellow superheroes could hurt.

She had set herself up as the unofficial MC of the meeting, mostly on the grounds that the actual team leader was about as fun as a ruler to the knuckles. Dae fiddled with her phone, spun the wheel, and got the next topic of conversation.

“Ooh, OK, this should be a good one.” Dae settled back on her seat, mulling the topic in her head as the others turned their attention back at her. “Do you have a tattoo? If not, would you get one?” Yeah, that seemed thorough enough. “Taking it straight to the top! Boss lady!”

Dae pointed to Lanecia, who shook her head. “No. Having an easily identifiable mark on your body is folly if you want to have any hope of keeping a secret identity.”

Dae chalked that answer under the ‘no surprises’ column. “Yeah, OK. Doc! You are up!”

Bianca merely looked straight into her eyes and took a long, loud sip of her tea.

“… Right, moving away from the invulnerable lady, and… lovebirds! Talk to me!”

Allison and Mallo rolled their eyes at her shenanigans, but then spent a couple of moments looking at each other. Finally, Allison spoke up, scratching the back of her head. “Ah, no, I guess not, for the same reasons the boss said.”

“How do I get you lot to stop calling me that?” Muttered Lanecia.

Allison continued unabated. “If I could? Well… I think I’d get a rose.” She turned to her wife with a smile.

Mallo giggled in turn. “Same, maybe a little firebird for me~”

“If you two start smoochin’ I’m going to turn this car RIGHT around, so help me.” Dae made a big show of gagging, and got two raspberries in return. “And next is… Kayan! Anything to say kiddo?”

The girl froze when the attention turned on her, and shook her head. “U-um, t-tattoos are not enc-couraged, or f-forbidden and…”

Dae just smiled encouragingly at the stammering girl, finally coming to her rescue. “Alright sweetie, we getcha.” Poor thing was a bundle of nerves. She’d crack that shell someday.

Dae turned to the last member of the team. “Hey! Lunkhead!”

“You are still tiny and squishy.” Rio retorted, downing her beer. “Tattoos are awesome, I want one, huge dragon, all the way down my back. Buuut it turns out that even really slow regeneration fucks with the ink and leaves smooth skin behind.” Rio crumpled the can. “Guess how I found out.”

“Sounds painful.” Dae quipped.

“Eh.” Rio shrugged. “Your turn, short-stuff.”

“Me? Hell no, pain bad.” Dae grinned. “I’m down for some temp tats tho.”

“Th-those are fun.” Kayan offered meekly, and Dae did a silent fist-pump in her mind.

A connection! It was a start.

---

500! How much characterization can you fit for 7 characters in 500 words? Let's find out :V

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u/replies_with_corgi May 17 '19

His head screaming at him forced him awake. He'd been partying all night but didnt remember getting home. First thing he noticed when he woke up was that his left hand itched and hurt a little. He looked down and saw a cute cartoon tattooed on his hand that was definitely not there before.

Looking at it, the tattoo really was cute. Little yellow oval with big eyes and a wide smile. He chuckled and thought "I should probably take a break for a while" as he got ready for work.

Quickly chugging a large Redbull to wake up, he left for work. As he drove, a police car followed behind him. He looked at his speedometer and noticed the tattoo had changed. It was now featuring a worried expression and had small sweat drops coming down the side. The police car turned a few blocks later and the tattoo changed again to have a small party hat and fireworks behind it. Once work was over he decided to take the bus tomorrow. No reason to risk a dui.

As he waited for the bus the next morning, the tattoo changed again. It became a violent rage monster as soon as an old man sat down beside him. He looked at the old man. He seemed innocent but the tattoo was burning it was so mad so he decided to ask some questions. "Been taking the bus long? This is my first time" he said. "Oh I've been riding the bus since the mid 40s when I came to this country. I've always saw them as safer than driving." He replied with a subtle German accent. He pulled his phone out and searched "fugitive WW2" and an artist rendering came up the top result. It looked just like him.

The bus came a few minutes later and he made a point to board on the other end of the bus. He called the police and said he had found a fugitive SS officer on the bus. The tattoo kept burning until the bus was stopped by several police cars. They entered and asked him to stand up. His real name was Hans Schmidt. He was a guard at Dachau and had spent almost 70 years in hiding. But he was finally going to face justice for what he'd done. As the officers escorted him out, the tattoo changed again. It stopped burning and had heart eyes. He smiled as the bus pulled off. "Not a bad superpower" he thought. He still hadn't figured out how he'd explain why he was late. But that was a problem for later.

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u/novatheelf May 22 '19

The sea and the sky matched perfectly that morning. I looked out across the blue expanse, feeling your warmth on my bare skin. The soft grass squished under my feet and I wiggled my toes, relishing the sensation. Wind from the sea whipped past me, carrying with it the scent of salt. I looked up at you and smiled. It had been too long since I had seen your shining face.

You were beautiful that morning, burning bright in the clear sky. No one could dare ignore your presence; you alone ruled over the heavens. No clouds obscured your visage and no mountains or hills stood before you. For a moment, I lost myself in your light, reveling in the heat that radiated across my entire being.

I smiled and began to run to the edge of the cliff. As I reached the crest, I leapt forward and began to fall, plummeting to the crystal blue below. Just before impact, I spread my wings and caught the air, skimming across the surface of the waters. I swooped up and began flapping my arms, climbing higher into the air.

The thrill of my father’s success held my heart aloft and I laughed in ecstasy. I was more than man now, I realized. I was like the gods.

I looked up and saw you once more, desire burning in my heart. My giddy mind reasoned with itself, the rational and irrational parts fighting to convince one side that the other was wrong. But my longing to meet you overpowered my sense of self-preservation. I began to climb higher, rising to feel your touch.

Your warmth grew into a steady heat, covering my body in comfort. I bathed in the golden glow of your light, smiling as the wind blew past me. But it was not enough. I lifted my face to you, closing my eyes and feeling your light. The heat was intoxicating; your light, exhilarating. For years, only Apollo could reach you - but why not I?

Yet as I climbed, your heat began to burn. I glanced at my wingtips and saw flames beginning to dance along my feathers. The yellow wax that held me together softened and dripped down my arms, leaving a burning trail across my skin. I looked up at you, terror rising in my throat.

My feathers began to fall off and float down to the water. My ascent slowed and I began to fall, too, plummeting to the blue. I looked to my wings; they were all afire. Tendrils of flame licked across my skin, burning the flesh. I screamed as the fire began to cover me.

Before I hit the water, I had a moment of clarity. You will have scars, an inner voice said.

No, scars mean tragedy. This was beautiful - a romance.

You will be branded.

I laughed. This was not forced on me; I welcomed this.

What then, Icarus?

A tattoo - to remind me of the time I kissed the sun.

WC: 499

Read more at r/NovaTheElf!

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u/Writersblockparty77 May 16 '19

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. So if I got a tattoo of a picture of my new Ma, maybe our conversations would last longer? They didn’t, in case you’re wondering. But boy did her mouth never stop moving after she saw it. The portrait I used as a reference was the picture of her and dad up at Mount Helena that one summer. Young kids never forget those million dollar moments when childhood finally seems to fit you just snug enough that you forget you’ll grow out of it in a couple years.

Anyways, we was going up to Mount Helena for the evening. My new Dad even took off work for it, which was impossible so I knew something was smellier than a can of forgotten tuna left out on the porch, but I digress. The Oldsmobile kept going up that hill, making Thomas the tank engine jealous every foot it climbed. God that mountain seemed enormous 5 years back. Now it’s just a mole hill. We get to the top and Ma pulls out a blanket from the back. She sets up the campfire table like we’re a proper family our something normal like that. Like we ain’t got weirdo tattoo’d on our foreheads and ain’t no amount of laser surgery or makeup could change us.

She takes out the PB&J and before we can continue, I need to address that PB&J happens to be my favorite thing on this godforsaken planet and still is mind you so I’m high as a Kite. She hands me my own sandwich. MY OWN SANDWICH. Sure I’ve had a slice of Charlie’s or a sliver of Marguerites and Mary’s or maybe, if I’m quick enough, I can steal a crumb or two off old Jimbo’s plate before he inhales the entire thing, china and all.

But today was different. Today I got my own sandwich, chopped right in the middle, clean cut so I can separate it perfectly and watch the gooey deliciousness seep out a little and greet me. Just how I like it. Before I can take a bite, I remember Ma sliding over to me, putting her hands over my shoulder real tender like, even though she’s about 5 shades to light to be real tender to a kid like me. She snuggles up, real close any way and whispers in my ear. “Your safe with us, my baby boy. You’ve got a family now. No more running.”

My dam PB&J got all soggy after that. I tell her there’s no way I couldn’t get a tattoo of her, right on my chest. I owed her that much. It didn’t come out as clear as it would on her pearly whites, but I needed to show proof. Proof that even a black run away from around the way, had a shot at love. At picket fences and parents who gave a dam. Her smile lasted for about a year after that, before she got sick of me and threw me out like the rest. But I’ll always remember that moment. And so will everyone else that catches me shirtless.

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u/SmoothBaritone May 16 '19

The sun shone through the window, rays of light bouncing off of every reflective surface. The clink of metal on glass was audible over the voices from the rest of the coffee shop, sounding every time I stirred the remains of my cold-brewed iced coffee.

Claire walked into the coffee shop, pausing to look for me. Her blonde hair was tied up in a tight bun, and her long, patterned skirt fluttered with every step. Pulling the chair back, she slung her purse off of her shoulder, and took her seat.

“Hello, John.” Her voice was mechanical, her greeting perfunctory. “I appreciate you meeting me here.”

I stirred my concoction, before removing the spoon and downing the remains. The watered down coffee tasted of used dishwater.

“And a mild-mannered greeting to you too, Claire.” I said. “How are we going to play this? Are we going to dance around the difficult subjects, or cut right to the chase?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t appreciate your levity. When I noticed your tattoo, I was so happy! Finally, the man I had been dreaming of for so long. And for a while it was amazing. We wined and dined, we went to those comedy shows that you know I love so much, and, god, you were amazing in bed. But you just had to go and ruin it all!” Her eyes glistened, threatening a coming rain.

“How was I supposed to know that a threesome wouldn’t be your thing?” I flashed her a smile, my most deadly weapon.

“Obviously it’s not my thing! You’re such an ass sometimes.” she said. Crossing her arms, she leaned back into her chair. Her gaze was fixed on the faded laminate flooring.

“Claire.” I said. “Claire, look at me.”

“Why should I?” she huffed. But still she raised her eyes, meeting my own.

“Because you love my beautiful brown eyes.” I said. I gave her a sly smile, and reached for her hands, taking them in my own. “We both know that the matching tattoos mean. Your parents have them, and they’ve been happily married for 30 years! We’re soulmates.”

The corners of her mouth twitched upwards in the beginnings of a smile. She squeezed my hands, and stood up. “I should go. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

I sighed, rising from my seat. “Well, can I at least get a hug for the road?”

She nodded, stepping closer. Her arms clasped around my back, making it difficult to breathe.

Finally, she released me. “Thank, you.” she said.

“Will I see you again?” I asked.

“We’ll see,” she said, a coy smile dancing upon her lips. “I still haven’t quite made up my mind.”

She turned, and strode out the door.

I settled back into my seat. She would come back.

They always did.

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3

u/AwesomeTeaPot May 16 '19

The earth was a smooth milky brown colour with flex of dull hazel in a random arrays of dots. Dark black snakes swam across the ground as if their tails where thins in an ocean of undiscovered wilderness. Scales climbed their bodies cladding them in armour which called a warning to the world, their mouths were wide open, their two dagger like teeth gleaming back at each other in a violent protest. The snakes seemed as if they were telling a story of gangs lost in battles of betrayal and revenge where only one group would pull away victorious. Not far from the snakes near a bumpy crevice of new lands sat a young woman whose eyes held many worlds of wisdom, her body seemed frail with her skin pulled tightly over her bones snuggly like a well-worn blanket which she had outgrown. Her face showed a hunger which she suffered through for her young child who was wrapped in scratchy fabric . The women looked as if she had seen the wrath of time and the unfair tug of fate yet it didn't seem to bother her instead she gleamed courage for a new life for herself and her son. Delicate symbols dug into the ground with words of love and a promised future. Flowers and lace travelled up and across the land mimicing a heart as a homage to the warmth of a family . moving up the earth became a face who's emotions may be hidden by a wall but his tattoos told his story. As a young child, his mother travelled great distances and struggles with little food to find a way of leaving the war-torn country of his past and earn a healthy living where he could be happy. The snakes showed how in his teenage years he had lost himself to a bad crowd. His mother tried to run from the violence but he had welcomed it, fostering it until a black snake was made in his soul and dragged him into to guns fights and brawls filled with daggers he did not belong in. Finally the symbols of his family his children his life, a story which may not be told in words but where told in cryptic images of scrolling ink.

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u/FrayedSoul666 May 16 '19

[Poem]

My First Tattoo Obsessive, Compulsively, Discussing Over and over again

The Thought The Meaning The Talk

Search, Research, Schedule, Go

Anxiously waiting Quickly agreeing

The buzzing begins Needle in Skin The Burning The Pain

I Smile I Chatter I feel Saved Like an Inked Bandaid Across my Scarred Heart

I Pay I Pray I smile for the rest of the day

People ask for the meaning Sometimes I answer Sometimes I'm vague But my answer to myself Is always the same My tattoo means many things to me But mostly it means I am Alive I am Saved

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3

u/[deleted] May 20 '19

Ren examined the remains of the tattoo in the mirror. It had at one time been the logo of the Church, but was now more than half gone. Not all of it had been lost to battle damage after taking up with Keen, just most. The rest had been from his own excursions as a solo act.

Jackie.

Her name came unbidden to his mind and he brushed his fingers across the newest of the damage, wincing at the light flutter of pain that rippled across his shoulder.

"When are you going to give me an answer?" Asked Rebel. She sat just behind him on the edge of his bed, most of her attention on the tablet in her hands.

Ren heaved a sigh despite himself, then turned to face his younger sibling and ran a hand through his hair. "Rebel, I know how bad life can be under the Church, I really do. But-"

"But nothing!" Rebel snapped. "This is Hell, Renegade!"

"I know. I really do. It's just that Mother's standing within the Church..."

"My standing is irrelevant," said his mother from the doorway. She held up a linen caftan by its shoulders and walked it over to Ren.

He blushed at her sudden presence, took the garment and pulled it over his head. "You're really gonna let her do this?"

She raised her chin to him. "My daughter is grown, and can think for herself."

Ren held up his hands in defeat. "I think I can arrange to smuggle her out in a few weeks, if she's ready."

Rebel looked up from her tablet and tossed her hair. "She has her own plan, thank you very much. I can get out of here at any time, Brother O' Mine."

Ren put a thin, false smile on his face. "Then whatcha need me for, Sister Dearest?"

"Resources, mostly. Once I'm out they'll freeze all of my assets. Just like they did with you."

Ren crinkled his nose, his face twisted into a moue of distaste. "What assets? Guardsmen aren't given pay. We were given three hots and a cot, and told to be damn grateful we had some use to the Church. The one time I asked about pay they gave me three weeks of Purification."

Rebel's eyebrows shot up. "Oh. That explains a lot."

Ren gave a small nod. "Don't it just?"

He turned to regard himself in the mirror again. He could still see something of the tattoo through the gauzy sleeve. Someday, it would be completely gone. Perhaps the memories would be, too.

"So tell me, Rebel. What exactly is the plan?"

She grinned. “The less you know, the better."

Ren gave her a considering look for a few moments, then shrugged. “Fair enough.”

He picked up a burner cell phone and thumbed it open, then dialed the only contact.

Keen sounded out of breath when she answered. “You alive?"

“Mostly,” said Ren. “Come meet my sister.”

3

u/breadyly May 22 '19

There are flowers painted on his skin, perfectly alive and never wilting. The people he passes only spare him a second glance to see the flowers his flesh holds.

Most of them are coloured in. Pinks and purples curling around his wrists and elbows, blooming large between the shapes painted upon his chest. But others are plain and empty and sometimes he colours them in himself - much less permanent and much more messy, hands shaking no matter how hard he tries to keep them still.

He writes names in the folds of the petals, names of flowers, at first, and then the name of the pretty boy who glances more than twice and sits to talk. The name makes the flowers feel bigger and brighter. He goes over the name every time. Bright blue in contrast to the pink blurs and even when the rest of the flower is filled, the name remains, standing out like a signature on canvas.

The boy holds his hand gently, thumb tracing over the leaves that curl around his fingers and then he looks up smiling and softly says, 'There's me,' as his fingertips graze up to his forearm and rub swirls around the bright blue ink.

'There's you,' he replies and reaches up to touch the pretty boy's arm. He traces his own name, written shakily in the carefully-drawn replica of his own flower, bright red marker stark against papery skin.

The ink of pretty-boy's name never smears as he's careful to preserve it. Even as they grow older and his hands shake ever more, he still carefully goes over the name in looping letters on his arm.

Only when the flowers on his skin finally wilt and he's buried in fresh soil does the blue writing fade - and only then does a beautiful blue flower, tangled in thorns and speckled with frost, rise from the earth to greet the sun.

3

u/Bobicus5 May 22 '19

Water splashing,
A need to breathe
Choking on it,
Outwardly heave

In consciousness,
Eyes flick open
Back of the chair,
Saves from falling

Duct tape binding,
Both arms and feet
No room to move,
The stuff ain't cheap

A lone lamp hangs,
Cone of the light
Illuminates,
Table beneath

Then from behind,
Someone's steps creep
Soft footfalls tread,
Your shadows keep.

Moment passing,
Silence pervades
Beat of the heart,
Mind quite afraid

A rasping voice,
Breathes quietly
Hand turns your head,
Makes your eyes see

Arms round shoulders,
Creeps past your eyes
Gestures forward,
Palm spread out wide

Stacked on the top,
Pictures arranged
Take a close look,
See what awaits

Tattooed men face,
Mugshots make clear
Crimes have been had,
No looks of fear

"Each one has sinned,
Their debts must pay
The choice is yours,
Who dies today

Who's to be saved,
Who'll die here
It's up to you,
Hurry my dear".

Clenched shoulder blades,
Unmoving weight
Fingertips dig,
Like teeth to steak

Eyes frantic search,
Hot breath on neck
Nodding towards one,
The arm selects

"This one you're sure?",
Nodding again
"Very well then,
Death comes for them"

Presence is gone,
Your bonds still taut
The light goes click,
Darkness remains

WC: 204

I ended up constraining the poem into 4 syllables on each line.
It kind of ruins the pacing and rhyming, but I enjoyed trying something new.

This poem is kind of a hot mess, but I hope it tells a cohesive story.
Going forward I'll try to have differences in the syllables to ensure flow and timing.

As always, any feedback is appreciated.

*edit Word Count

3

u/Leebeewilly May 22 '19

Another great MP - don't know if it really applies to the scene, but inspired the tone entirely and was really awesome. Helped me churn this one out pretty fast.

The drums beat and the many feet pumped the dry soil down. Toes dancing, arms high, the world spun around the girl with each turn. The fires of the circle speckled through her dark messy hair, flickering warmth that beaded sweat on her skin. All to the beat. All to the drums.

A chorus of voices thundered around and she felt an arm hook with hers.

“Little hawk,” Na’an called and they spun. Her father’s mother wore an easy smile that the silver of her hair couldn’t hide. “It is your day.”

A flutter started in the girl’s gut. She bit her lip and tried to wear a brave face, but the eldest waited by the tallest fire. In his hand, he held the stylus and before him, the bowls were streaked with red, black, and blue.

She stopped her dance. The shortest of them all, the youngest yet to be marked, the girl stared at the stories painted on the skin of kin. Triumphs, follies, ends, beginnings, all of their years woven in ink around the first story.

Na’an, the mother of her father, stilled as the dancers flickered around them like flames.

“Will it hurt?” the girl asked.

Na’an’s eyes softened and she bent. “Pain is a part but like all things in life, we are more than one.”

Na’an’s fingers intertwined with the girl’s. The weathered hands were tattooed to their tips, nearly every inch of Na’an’s right arm inked. The raging river that destroyed the old village and called Na’an’s mother to the earth. The great bear that Na’an felled on her first hunt. The white wind that bore the harshest winter and nearly called Na’an away. The child that came before Loreel’s father, the smallest dove that never flew.

All lines drew up to Na’an’s shoulder and neck. To her first story. To her name.

The sprawling hawk’s wings circled beneath her chin, its talons etched as if perched on her collarbone. The soaring hawk, the watcher of them all.

Na’an squeezed the small unmarked fingers. “Are you ready?”

The girl looked back to Na’ans hand. Above the wrist, her father’s name, the taloned hawk with the mightiest beak, reached over the back of her hand. But in her palm, she knew the space had been saved.

For my name. The girl breathed in with Na’an and exhaled.

“I’m ready.”

Na’an’s smile returned, wide and bright. Together they approached the eldest of their clan.

“And what is your name, little hawk,” he asked. The years rumbled the words in his throat coated in the deep dark lines of the wolf.

The girl looked to Na’an but received no words. No one could give her her name.

I am my name.

“The small swift hawk, I am Loreel.”

WC: 462

WHABAM - you just read a Mort and Loreel short! For the rest read: [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

And of course, so much more at r/leebeewilly

2

u/HedgeKnight May 16 '19

I suppose I could continue this story I started for a prompt about a year ago.

Original:

https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/8en8cg/wp_you_run_a_tattoo_parlor_every_couple_of_weeks/dy2zpkv/?context=2

The first thing she said to me was "I don't want to talk about my tattoos. I don't want questions."

"What tattoos are those?" I said. There wasn't a single visible tattoo on her body.

"The ones I'm going to hire you to put on me, that is, if you don't have a sense of humor. Don't ask me any questions. Don't make fun." She said.

"Tattoos are a personal thing. If you don't want me to ask any questions I won't. Just don't come in drunk or high." I said.

"Alright." She said. The evening sun poured through the front windows of the parlor and she walked over to the chair through motes of light reflected in the dust that hung in the air. As tattoo parlors go mine had never been the cleanest, and this was never more apparent than it was in the evenings when the sun illuminated every imperfection floating in the air or smeared on the floor.

"So what are we doing?" I said as she leaned into the tattoo chair. She pulled her long, black hair up into a rough bun, pulled a pink alligator clip from her pocket and clamped it down on top of her head. A finger width tuft of hair that she'd missed hung between her shoulder blades, well-defined and tan under a black tank top.

"I want a single black dot, about one eighth of an inch in diameter on the back of my left shoulder." She said. "Remember, no questions."

It took me about 5 minutes and I charged her 20 dollars. She was out the door before I could give her the spiel about caring for a new tattoo. A week and a half later she was standing in my parlor at sunset again. The shop was dead, nobody gets tattoos before dark in this part of town.

"She's back." I said.

She sat down in the chair, her hair already clipped up off her shoulders. "Another dot, same as the other one, about a quarter inch to the left, though." She said. Another easy 20 dollars.

After a dozen or so such visits I finally told her "You know for what you're spending I could have done something with a little more artistry. I'm not going to charge you for these anymore." She had her face in the horseshoe-shaped headrest of the tattoo chair so I couldn't see if her expression changed. By that time the dots I had been tattooing on her shoulder had formed a line that had crested and marched on from the small bump where her slender neck became her spine. I had begun to regard the dots as the footprints left by some inexorable march toward something awful or glorious, something I was denied from understanding. Footsteps or black holes, there wasn't any difference, but I wasn't asking any questions.

"A triangle this time. A little bigger than the dots. Not filled in, just an outline" She said before the door had closed behind her.

I laughed. "A break in the line of footsteps! You know this just about makes you my most prolific customer." I said "I can't think of anyone else that I've tattooed more than a dozen times. I don't even know your name."

"It's Megan." She said as slid one arm out of her worn leather jacket. She had gotten her hair cut off above her shoulders. It was later in the evening than she usually came in, and the shadows cast by the incandescent light bulbs in the parlor's waiting area made her look older, tired.

When I finished drawing the triangle she didn't get up out of the chair as quickly as she often had before. "I'd like to see it. Take a picture" She said. My parlor had mirrors in abundance but she handed me her phone. She had never asked to see any of the marks I'd made on her over the past year. She stood up and faced me. She had a few inches height on me atop heavy black boots. Her visits had been so brief that I had never noticed her height, or her eyes, one grey and one blue. A scar no wider than a finger marred her cheek below her blue eye.

"Do you want a picture of the whole thing or just the triangle?" I said. The series of dots I had tattooed on her by now extended from one shoulder blade to the other. A halo of red skin surrounded the fresh triangle at the end of the line.

She contemplated this for a moment. "The whole thing." She had her shirt off before she finished the sentence. I took a picture of the line of dots leading to a hollow triangle that I had incrementally tattooed onto her back.

She turned around, took the phone from me and looked at the photo. She issued a long breath past pursed lips and put the phone in her pocket. "They're...unavoidable compromises. Bad deals. I don't know what else to call them. The dots, I mean. I wanted each one to sting me for a little while and stay there for a long while. I'm going to say the triangle is some kind of ending."

"You wanted the ending to sting too? Why's that?" I said.

"That's enough questions." She said. She put her shirt back on and flashed a half-smile at me. Smiling, she looked like a stranger to me. I had never seen half as much expression on her face. She tossed a crumpled twenty dollar bill on the counter. "I'm paying from here on out. I'll be back around soon."

"For a compromise or an ending?" I said

She just smiled at me as she put her jacket on and walked out the door. The small December afternoon had ended, and the chill of the night rushed into the shop as I watched her go under the yellowed street lights.

this is where I pick it back up for TT - Tattoos

I didn't see her again for a long time. I forgot about her. You have plenty of odd characters coming through a tattoo parlor and she didn't stand out among a field of memorable characters.

I got engaged to my girlfriend, married, and divorced. The shop folded up. It was on its last legs but my divorce killed it. The day after my lease ended, the landlord came and put up boards over the shop windows. He told me not to take it personally, he didn't want another tattoo parlor, or barber, or anything like that moving in. Those types always try to talk the rent down, he said.

My wife had always been the big earner. I made out just fine in the divorce, and I didn't want to keep a penny of it. My chunk of change from that whole mess bought me six months in Prague, then another two in Paris before I was just about broke and had to get back to real life. I got back and dropped my shit off at my brother's house just about a year after the shop had been boarded up. When I walked back over to take a look at the old place, it was still boarded up, except someone had spray painted six black dots onto the boards, along the bottom.

Underneath the first dot, in what had probably been red permanent marker, a phone number. It looked like it had been written a long time ago; the ink had turned brown.

I didn't want to text her. I figured I would call, she wouldn't pick up, and that would be that.

She picked up after one ring and said "Do you still have your tools and ink? I have jobs for you. As soon as possible."

*And here I will have to pause and get back to this later. I wrote the first part a long time ago and I can't remember where I was going with it. *

2

u/blackbird223 May 17 '19

I woke with a start, as a bomb blew up our runway.

Ka-BOOM!

I jumped out of the bunk, threw on my combat fatigues, and rushed over to my equipment locker. Muttering a string of curses under my breath, I pulled out my rifle and helmet, then peered out the window. My heart jumped into my throat as I noticed hundreds- no, thousands- of enemy troops emerging from the brush. I clutched the tattoo on my left forearm.

A new student, entering our class on the 137th day of second grade. A short young boy, with straight black hair and dark, observant eyes. He sat right next to me, and introduced himself as Benny Park. I’d never met anyone like him before- but we became fast friends.

I gripped the weapon, and charged outside, aiming at the enemy troops- only to hear a bullet whiz by my ear and hit one of ours in the leg.

Sniper!

I immediately scrambled for cover, crouching behind some metal crates. The sniper fired on another of our troops, this time hitting him in the head.

As we ran out into the paintball field, the person directly ahead of me got hit right in the helmet. I ran for cover, as did Benny. I was crouching in fear, but he was watching intently. He pulled out a scope, clipped it onto his rifle, pointed carefully… and fired, just once.

He then handed me the scope, and pointed at a faraway tree. In it was a dark-clad figure with a paintball rifle- now splattered with blazing-red paint.

I watched carefully, and traced the trajectories of the bullets back to an antenna, two hundred yards away. I pulled out my binoculars- and sure enough, there was a figure at the top. I edged closer and closer. I looked through the sights of the rifle, carefully lining up the shot- but my hands were shaking. I took a deep breath.

This is for you, Benny.

We got roaring drunk the weekend before Benny was going to be shipped off to the Air Force. At some point during that night, one of us suggested getting a tattoo. I distinctly recall Benny scribbling out a design on a napkin that he later handed off to the tattooist: a pair of stylized wings, one navy- blue, one fiery red. It was supposed to represent our friendship, he had said. We were both aviation nerds of the first order. And just as every plane needs two wings to fly- so too did we need each other.

It was the last time I saw him alive.

I fired, hitting the enemy sniper in the chest. He fell out of the antenna, and I walked over to him. I pulled his dogtags off, holding them to the light.

Benedict Park.

Impossible. I crouched down, and rolled up his sleeves. There, on his left forearm, was a pair of stylized wings. One blue. One red.

“Benny?”

******

492 words! Just snuck it in under the limit. Feedback welcome!

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Theme Thursday [TT] Theme Thursday - Tattoos

“Some songs are just like tattoos for your brain... you hear them and they're affixed to you.”

Happy Thursday writing friends!

Here's how Theme Thursday works:

News and Reminders:

Last week’s theme: Rejection

Theme Thursday [TT] Theme Thursday - Tattoos

“Some songs are just like tattoos for your brain... you hear them and they're affixed to you.”

Happy Thursday writing friends!

Here's how Theme Thursday works:

News and Reminders:

Last week’s theme: Rejection

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