I quite literally took Sylvia’s advice and had Joey Singleton at Ethos Tattoos in Saline, Michigan etch hearts into my skin.
There is an intimacy to tattooing. I let Joey touch me in places that no one but lovers and doctors have ever been. I trust him completely. Our conversations during my appointment range from sarcastic jokes to secrets I wouldn’t share with anyone else. He holds my words in his heart, they travel down his arm into the needle and under my skin. They are trapped there forever. Sometimes I hear them whispering to me in the middle of the night.
The act of tattooing is therapeutic. A gentle buzzing that sets me on edge, but somehow brings peace. I like to see the redness of my raised skin and the stippling of blood. How it runs down my arm. Joey rinses it off and softly wipes it away. His needle bites my skin and more of the design emerges. Its beauty and pain, and I want more of both.
Frequently, I remember what it was like to sit in Joey’s chair, I hear his voice and feel the adrenaline course through my bloodstream. My skin becomes covered in goosebumps and I wish I could see him one more time. Have him keep tattooing me till I feel normal. Whatever in the hell normal is. I’m done with tattoos for now though. My story continues, but in the written word. For the time being anyway.
The work I had done is an original. No one will ever have it. Andi Schoenbaum is the artist that graciously shared her work with me. Please check out her website. I’m honored to have her art tattooed on my skin. The print spoke to me in ways you can’t imagine. It’s a part of me now. Forever. Thank you Andi. Thank you too Joey. You both are fabulous artists and individuals. I’m proud to know you both.
“For what? Clowns? I’m frightened of sharks and deep water, you idiot.”
“I thought you said clowns.”
“You know, this just proves that you do not listen to me.”
John touches her arm, “I’m sorry.”
Maggie pushes him away, “no, you’re not.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Even if you’d gotten my irrational fear correct, I’d never agree to this shit!”
Maggie’s words still hung in the air, and John knew their relationship was over. She didn’t want to get better, and he didn’t want to help her anymore.
100 words/Genre: general fiction
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Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. Please be sure to go to her page and read the stories from other writers. We are a rather eclectic group. I welcome kudos and criticism. Bring it on!
Love the world and yourself in it, move through it as though it offers no resistance, as though the world is your natural element. -Audrey Niffenegger
Trigger happy, gun shy, and a horse named Trigger. I always thought my triggers for addiction were shame, boredom, sadness, and a host of others that aren’t coming to mind as I write this post. Turns out my trigger, my worst damn enemy, was plain old guilt. For my past, present and future. I keep trying to squash it, with humor, food and booze. I keep failing, miserably. Then, everything turns around. I try to control it with healthy eating habits, exercise and abstaining from alcohol. Fuck not being humorous. Being a sarcastic shithead is my forte!
The truth didn’t come easily. Lessons freshly learned, no matter how important they are, will piss us right the hell off. As the dust settles in our hearts, we become comfortable with the truth. That lie you’ve been telling yourself, will become your saving grace. My moment came, in a confrontational argument with my Adam Boy.
Mom, sometimes I think you wish you didn’t have me.
Son, that is not true. You and your sister are the best things I ever created. Better than any story I could write. Any food over-eaten or drunken bender I’ve been on. You are of my heart. My soul. I would die for you.
I gave my children the strength to speak out. I never wanted them to be afraid of the repercussions. To feel guilt or shame. I wanted them to know that I loved them even when they were confronting me about my shortcomings. Call me on my shit for the love of God, so I’ll stop being a dick!!!! My son did that. Dear God, I know he’s going to be a great lawyer some day!
Roger Darling left Adam and me outside so we could argue. I kept looking at the back door, feeling, guilty. Guilty because I was talking to my son and not hanging out with him. Guilty because I hadn’t finished the upload of Meggie’s wedding photos on my flickr account. Guilty because I hadn’t scrubbed the bathtub for two weeks. Guilty for not doing the fucking dishes after dinner. Guilty because I don’t act like a typical grown up.
Guilty, guilty, guilty. Blah, blah, fucking blah!
I believe in the Divine. That there are powers bigger than ourselves at play. We have epiphanies and revelations. Moments of clarity, that speak volumes without one word being exchanged. Sometimes they come to us in an argument with another. A blog post written by a dear friend. The tears of a loved one. Or a simple email from a co-worker. These divine moments happened to me, in a span of 24 hours. I can tell you, I have not felt this much peace-in years. Words are finally flying around my head and there is a smile upon my silly face.
Today, is a good day. Tomorrow, I pray is even better. If it isn’t, that’s okay. I can’t let guilt be my trigger. To over-eat, drink to excess, not write or reach out for help. Realizations, be they divine or otherwise are valuable teachers. We must heed the lessons they bring us. If we don’t we’ll never truly live.
Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration. ~Charles Dickens~
Penny, teddy bear in hand, stood in the hallway painted an industrial gray. Helen, the case worker, handed her the worn suitcase packed with clothing, issued to her by the state. Though 17 years old, Penny felt trepidation about her new family. John and Marsha, her adoptive parents walked up to her, eyes and hearts brimming with love. All that was left of their long journey to become a family, was their short car ride home.
What it’s all about: Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. Each week I will post a one word inspiration, then anyone wishing to participate will write a five sentence story based on the prompt word. The word does not have to appear in your five sentences, just use it for direction.
Last winter, as I stepped out the door of my local Starbucks I stopped and took in the surroundings of the street where my office is located. It was early. About 7:45 a.m. The air was damp and chilly, but I didn’t notice. All I saw was, my city. I grew up here. Roamed the streets as a young wild child and drank illegally in as many bars as I could. My old haunts are all closed now. Or the names have changed. That’s neither here nor there. What I want to write about, is how I felt that morning….
With my trusty iPhone at the ready, I captured a moment in time. I’ll never get it back, but I’ll remember what it felt like to stand outside on a dreary morning. I was happy. Smiling from ear to ear, because of story I’d written. Or a text I’d received. Or maybe, I was just happy to be alive and employed.
There were paper plates strewn all over the sidewalk from the folks that closed the bars at 2:00 a.m. I can imagine them, standing there. Holding pizza in their hands and wobbling from the beer they’d consumed at the Brown Jug or the Blue Leprechaun. One should experience closing time on Central Campus at least once in their lives. I would now, but I’m sure the young people would look at me and think I was a freak for intruding on their ritual. I’m in bed before midnight most of the time now anyway.
The trees were illuminated with Christmas lights, but it was long after the holiday. It tickled me to see them though. I can’t explain why. I could hear the crackle of electricity in the air. The constant humming gave me a kind of inner peace. It’s something that I seek every day. In the few moments I stood in the street, I felt it. I think I even owned it. Then it was gone.
Shaken from my reverie, I checked the time on my phone. It was getting late and I needed to make my way to my office, just a few blocks away. I placed the phone in my bra and began to walk down the sidewalk (yes, it does make my boob look square, but I’ve no where else to put the damn thing). I needed to focus on work and real life.
Fortunately, I get to take a few moments every morning and take in the beauty that is South University. Even with litter strewn about, I still love it.
(My words have been lost lately, due to a myriad of things going on in my life. Please stick with me my sweets. I promise to be back in rare form soon. I might even say the F word from time to time.)
Some children have security blankets. They suck their thumbs and caress the silk piping till it’s left in tatters. Screaming and crying ensues when ‘blankie’ has to be washed. God forbid it’s lost at bedtime, because no one will sleep.
My ‘blankie’ was Goggy Bear. A stuffed tiger that my cousin Eddie had outgrown. Mommie told me she had no idea how I came up with his name. He became so loved, he fell apart.
Santa brought me a new one, which I promptly tossed aside. Though ripped up and dirty, the toy was mine. He was love.
100 words/Genre: Memoir
Thank you Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers. It is such a joy to be a part of such a versatile group of writers. Please folks, comment and give constructive criticism. Happy Friday.
Words escape me these days. I’m tired, but can’t sleep. Not hungry, but never full either. Gotta keep moving. The words will return and with them, my smile. Along with a host of other things….
Well sleepless nights and endless days,
Mini skirts and serving trays,
Waking up from rain delays,
And selling sex for pocket change,
And living off the alcohol,
With no one but a cab to call,
And lost inside a bathroom stall,
This carbon copy life withdrawal,
And I need, Someone to believe in.
And driving cars we can’t afford,
Just a making sure were never bored,
Living off our own accord
Between coffee grinds and corner stores
Limousines and cigerettes,
Chasing dreams with fishing nets
And long weekends with out regrets
Well no one here is taking bets
And I need, Someone to believe in
Yes someone to fill this space, with grace
To look into my eyes and touch my face
To make me feel alive today
Someone to make me strong
Someone to make me belong
Someone to make it all right
Someone to make me feel alive, yeah
And stretching out like rubber bands
To kiss the cheeks and shake the hands
And pool halls and wonderlands.
With strong arms and no legs to stand
And getting by on hand me downs
With your tips, your drinks, your buying rounds
It’s back to my old stomping grounds
Like children in the lost and found
And I need, Someone to believe in
Yeah someone to fill this space, with grace
To look into my eyes and touch my face
To make me feel alive today YEAH
I fell off my pink cloud with a thud. – Elizabeth Taylor
Jen leans on the railing, cigarette in hand. Smoke hangs like dragon’s breath around her. The window screeches on the track as Tracy opens it. Walking behind Jen, she kisses her gently on the neck.
Nice dress.
Gee, thanks.
Your mom thinks she can still turn you straight huh?
With crinoline, it seems.
Tracy grabs the cigarette from Jen’s hand, mashes it in the plant.
I hate when you smoke.
I hate when she sends me dresses.
We’re okay, you know.
I know, Honey.
Jen removes the dress from the railing, letting it fall. Descent, prolonged by the springtime breeze.
100 Words/ Genre: Hell, I don’t know.
Thank you Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers. It is such a fun, crazy, and sometimes discouraging exercise in discipline. I enjoy it immensely. Kudos and criticisms are most welcome. Bring it on!
Photo courtesy of filmcamera999
