The tattoos would endlessly discuss amongst themselves what awaited them. Each would, sooner or later they knew, be plucked from the Great Artist’s mind, and with artistic judgement and skill, etched onto the skin of a human. How should they choose which human to be placed on? What location of the body? They felt trepidation, for the decision to reside on a person was so *permanent*.
The streets of Hell were littered with the wretched damned, whose sins were etched on their skin like tattoos.
Most were covered head to toe in the names of their misdeeds, drawn in heavy ink, that weighed them down, until all they could do was slither along the ground.
They were harmless and pitiful, my fellow warden informed me, as he handed me my new whip.
But the ones we really had to watch, were the miscreants who still had gaps to fill.
I was browsing science news this morning and stumbled across this fascinating article about ancient tattoos. This is a gift article I’m sharing with you.
That’s cool! Tattoos have an insane history. Japanese traditional style for example is hundreds of years old, and it was once viewed as the mark of wealth and royalty. Then it turned into a gang symbol and current Japanese society frowns upon them, but that’s a completely different story.
Deck planking creaked like polished leather as they closed in. Foul-breathed drunks who’d slit a man’s throat for a tot of rum. He saw madness in their eyes, morals loosened by the deprivations of weeks at sea. Rough men with basic needs who roared when the bosun bent him over the capstan, who murmured as the flannel shirt is ripped from his body. They clamour, desperate for their turn. They all want to believe the tales, to stare at the cabin boy with a treasure map tattooed on his back.
My phone pinged. A message from my daughter. She'd been in university a year so every message I opened with eager intrepidation. The caption to the photo read “my first tattoo”.
Without looking closely I sent back a smilie emoticon, a thumbs up and a heart as my heart own went through all the emotions of a mother letting go.
When I looked closer I saw there in blue ink for all eternity, daughter's first act of rebellious conformity, a geometrically incorrect cube. When would I point out the mistake?
Mio wasn’t expecting anyone in the water. She thought she’d made it clear to the bathhouse.
She glared at the pale and fragile woman climbing up from the bath. Was she trembling? Despite the steaming water? As she scuffled past to fetch the towel, she exposed her back filled with wound marks.
She had not seen anything like this. Her curiosity piqued.
‘If you want, I could arrange a revenge.’
The pale woman stopped.
Mio turned and took off her robe, exposing her own back filled with her family’s tattoo.
Stella had known the comfort of many loving hands. Pudgy and playful. Old and caressing. One day they were all gone and cold hands came to take her to a scary place filled with different hands. Some locked her in. Others brought her food. Stella felt lost until one day, the most beautiful color-filled hand reached down to scratch her ear. She couldn’t understand that
what she first saw was a rainbow tattoo, only that it belonged to the hand that would always make her feel happy and safe.
Her design was potent. Three monarchs, one for her and each daughter.
She described the tattoed tree she wanted to hold the glorious fragile creatures. Slanted to the left, from right hip to left shoulder. Gnarled and strong.
He, a Choctaw native, his work is sacred art. His tattoos carry the energy of the beings he creates.
The magic of Spirit was alive that day.
Her tree appeared on her back, the ancient willow, from the cottage of her youth.
The worst part of the stabbing, aside from the PTSD flashbacks, was the feeling of violation, and the constant visual reminder. She had a raised pink scar from the middle of her stomach to her left hip. She made the consultation appointment at the tattoo parlor with the idea that she would have the last word over the scar.
"So, you're thinking curling vines?"
"Yeah. Morning glories. They're survivors too."
The artist's eyes were shiny as they drew a mockup for several moments. The silence was a blanket around them.
The tattoos would endlessly discuss amongst themselves what awaited them. Each would, sooner or later they knew, be plucked from the Great Artist’s mind, and with artistic judgement and skill, etched onto the skin of a human. How should they choose which human to be placed on? What location of the body? They felt trepidation, for the decision to reside on a person was so *permanent*.
PROMPT: TATTOO
THE STREETS OF HELL
The streets of Hell were littered with the wretched damned, whose sins were etched on their skin like tattoos.
Most were covered head to toe in the names of their misdeeds, drawn in heavy ink, that weighed them down, until all they could do was slither along the ground.
They were harmless and pitiful, my fellow warden informed me, as he handed me my new whip.
But the ones we really had to watch, were the miscreants who still had gaps to fill.
For their sinning, was far from over… 😈😎😈
That’s a pretty cool depiction of hell you’ve got there Chris.
Thanks, Miguel! I'm glad you enjoyed it... 😎
I was browsing science news this morning and stumbled across this fascinating article about ancient tattoos. This is a gift article I’m sharing with you.
https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/13/science/mummies-tattoos-laser-peru.html?unlocked_article_code=1.pU4.lf2O.CMsWja_7UYeP&smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare
That’s cool! Tattoos have an insane history. Japanese traditional style for example is hundreds of years old, and it was once viewed as the mark of wealth and royalty. Then it turned into a gang symbol and current Japanese society frowns upon them, but that’s a completely different story.
Thank you Feasts and Fables for the like
Mutiny (90 words)
Deck planking creaked like polished leather as they closed in. Foul-breathed drunks who’d slit a man’s throat for a tot of rum. He saw madness in their eyes, morals loosened by the deprivations of weeks at sea. Rough men with basic needs who roared when the bosun bent him over the capstan, who murmured as the flannel shirt is ripped from his body. They clamour, desperate for their turn. They all want to believe the tales, to stare at the cabin boy with a treasure map tattooed on his back.
Sorry Terry nyc
Got your handle wrong
Put you in North Caroling when you are in New York City!
My bad.
Thank you TerryNC for the like
Thank you Diane for the like
This is based on a true story
======================================================
My phone pinged. A message from my daughter. She'd been in university a year so every message I opened with eager intrepidation. The caption to the photo read “my first tattoo”.
Without looking closely I sent back a smilie emoticon, a thumbs up and a heart as my heart own went through all the emotions of a mother letting go.
When I looked closer I saw there in blue ink for all eternity, daughter's first act of rebellious conformity, a geometrically incorrect cube. When would I point out the mistake?
Love yours Miguel. I could definitely see that happening
Thank you Diane! I unfortunately know many people who view the world and people through this lens so I had a lot of inspiration haha
Microdosing Fiction - 90mg of a Tattoo
===
Mio wasn’t expecting anyone in the water. She thought she’d made it clear to the bathhouse.
She glared at the pale and fragile woman climbing up from the bath. Was she trembling? Despite the steaming water? As she scuffled past to fetch the towel, she exposed her back filled with wound marks.
She had not seen anything like this. Her curiosity piqued.
‘If you want, I could arrange a revenge.’
The pale woman stopped.
Mio turned and took off her robe, exposing her own back filled with her family’s tattoo.
Love this … elegantly unfolded!
Thank you!
Stella had known the comfort of many loving hands. Pudgy and playful. Old and caressing. One day they were all gone and cold hands came to take her to a scary place filled with different hands. Some locked her in. Others brought her food. Stella felt lost until one day, the most beautiful color-filled hand reached down to scratch her ear. She couldn’t understand that
what she first saw was a rainbow tattoo, only that it belonged to the hand that would always make her feel happy and safe.
Good human. 😊
90 mg dose of Tattoo
Her design was potent. Three monarchs, one for her and each daughter.
She described the tattoed tree she wanted to hold the glorious fragile creatures. Slanted to the left, from right hip to left shoulder. Gnarled and strong.
He, a Choctaw native, his work is sacred art. His tattoos carry the energy of the beings he creates.
The magic of Spirit was alive that day.
Her tree appeared on her back, the ancient willow, from the cottage of her youth.
Tho it has fallen now, it lives still upon her
Thank you Bill, Jeannine, and Logan for the likes
Thank you Miguel, Scott,and Ken for the likes
The worst part of the stabbing, aside from the PTSD flashbacks, was the feeling of violation, and the constant visual reminder. She had a raised pink scar from the middle of her stomach to her left hip. She made the consultation appointment at the tattoo parlor with the idea that she would have the last word over the scar.
"So, you're thinking curling vines?"
"Yeah. Morning glories. They're survivors too."
The artist's eyes were shiny as they drew a mockup for several moments. The silence was a blanket around them.