Tattoos

The day I got my tattoo was a marvelous day. The sun was out, and a calm November chill hung in the air. Lisa and I parked in the brand new parking garage downtown, joking and laughing and reminiscing as we walked down the street toward the best tattoo parlor in town. I was free, happy, determined to get this tattoo; my first mature act of rebellion and remembrance.
I wore comfortable clothes which all of a sudden seemed to big for me as I walked up the creaking stairs into the waiting room. We waited for Kim Foreman, I had memorized her name, to come and get us. Butterflies had started in my stomach.
"Nervous?" Lisa asked.
"I'd be crazy if I wasn't," I said, smiling wryly.
Finally it was time. Kim led us into the empty back room. Light streamed in through the windows, making the white walls, the white tables, the silver lining of the black chairs seem even brighter. I had to change chairs three times, my short torso being concealed by the back of the chairs each time. The fourth chair was one reserved for lower back or full back tattoos. This too was too big, but it did the job.
I took off my shirt, revealing the camisole underneath, and slipped off the long earrings that tickled the tops of my shoulders. Kim pressed the print to my back, leaving a reddish impression on my tan skin. I could see all of this in the mirror. I saw her open the sanitary needles, pour the ink, and glanced nervously at Lisa who sat in the corner, giving me a reassuring look.
"Just do it," I said, prepared for excruciating pain.
The needle hit, almost like a prickling, tickling sensation. I relaxed. The numbness took over.
Thoughts flew through my head. The past year had been surreal. My dad's nearing kidney transplant put on hold after the stroke. The threat of cancer put on hold after the infection. The following coma finally put on hold after the heart attack. The funeral, the unkind mortuary workers, the hoardes of people coming to pay their respects.
The ink, the constant punctures of the needles, spread heat through my shoulder. The pain increased slightly when she went over my shoulder blade, or colored his dark hair. I took pleasure in this pain. I knew my father had suffered in his last days, unable to communicate, only able to react. This was as close as I was going to get to really understanding what he went through.
I could feel the familiar form taking shape on my back. The sharp nose, the strong jaw, the slight wave in the hair; all things we shared. Finally, it was done. Feeling the blood pulsing in my shoulder I slid off the chair and walked over to the mirror.
In that moment I could not know that in a few short days when my mother came home that she would look through my checkbook. I could not know that she would cry, my brother would cry, claiming that I had done something neither of them could forgive. I could not know that this would alter my relationship with the both of them forever.
In that moment all I saw was the smiling face of my father, his shoulders swathed in the robes of a hindu saint. His eyes crinkled slightly, his hair thick, his face kind. His head was tilted slightly to the right, and the raised red of the tattoo gave his face a look of vigor. Beneath him, in numbers, plain and clean, "1959-2007"

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I wrote this over a year ago for the livejournal community all_unwritten.
Prompt 132 - Tattoos.

Nothing great...but it was good to write.

Poise - (Unfinished)

The neighborhood is dead silent save for a few chipper tweeting birds and the soft meticulous hum of mechanical pool cleaners, doing their duty.
She sits on the sparsely watered earthen mound that makes up her mother's front yard shaded by a tree so tall one must look to the heavens to see the end. To look at her, you immediately know she's one of those intellectual girls. The kind that look sweet and innocent pouring over their stacks of books books but bite back with an insultingly sharp intellect when challenged but with such poise your have to forgive her naivete.
At first glance that is.

But just by looking at her what can we really know?
The books she's holding. Is it a work of old literature or the latest romance novel found on the racks in the grocery store? Is it a coming of age analysis of society or is it a prepackaged murder mystery, complete with flat characters? Did she pick it up with a giant stack at the library or has she been working her way through the same novel for the better part of the year? Is it intellect we see, or boredom in disguise?
The skirt she wears is long, colorful - red, gold, and green. It reaches her ankles, nearly concealing the backs of her bare feet. Her shoulders are muscled but her thin, weak-looking arms do not reflect this. Her stomach curves forward slightly indicating either poor diet or lack or exercise or perhaps just unfortunate metabolism.
She looks healthy, but there are bags of worry under her eyes. One soon realizes she's not reading but looking, acting.
This is either a moment of deep thought or a moment of respite from whatever is plaguing her. The bags under her eyes maybe a result of stress or late nights or both.
Her hair is unruly. Did she forget to comb it? Or does she just not care?

But that's just it, isn't it? We'll never know, will we?
Unless we ask.
Unthinkable.



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Unedited. I actually wrote this on my phone on my way to the library today.
Inspired by the incredible stillness my neighborhood acquires in the afternoons.

First Post - Flinging

This is a writing blog.
I hope to start posting the little things I write here for review or revision or perhaps to just fall into the cluttered junk drawer that is the internet.
I don't know how often I'll post. I don't know of any of this is any good. I, quite frankly, don't care.
I just need a place where I can share these things. I hate being the center of attention and as a result, rarely share my work.
I have no desire to put people through those horrible moments where you have to scrounge for something to say- some empty compliment paired with false criticism- when faced with the creative works of another. A blog is perfect.
No comments, no problem. This is not about what people have to say, this is about flinging my words out into the universe in the most effective way possible in hopes that someone might take a moment to read some of them.
I guess I'll start flinging now.