Writing Challenge - Day 13
To all who are reading this,
Posting the thirteenth post on Friday the 13th? Will this be an unlucky post? I certainly hope not!
Let's rock this blog!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 13. - INK
I had heard common conceptions about tattoo parlours since I was a little kid, but I had never let it bother me. I was always fascinated with the body art that littered peoples bodies, and whenever Uncle Paul, or Uncy Paul as I used to call him, came over, I would trace the tribal lines on his forearm. I would follow the intricate details of the pin up girl on his upper arm, not knowing what her saucy smile and winking eye were truly telling us. I learnt to read and spell with the words on his wrists and knuckles - MUM, DAD, FAMILY, LOVE and HATE.
I would draw all over myself in felt tip marker pens. My arms would replicate Uncy Paul's, whereas my legs were a canvas of childish scribbles, like caterpillars that I had traced around a penny to give it that perfect roundness. Butterflies with intricate dotted wings. The faces of cats, dogs, rabbits, and other drawings that came to me. My mother would go spare when she saw the state of me, and haul me off to the bathroom to scrub the indelible ink from my skin.
I was seven when I got my first temporary tattoo. It was a Hello Kitty design, the happy cats face so bright and colourful. The bow looked plump and her cheeky expression brought a smile to my face. My poor frustrated mother had caved in and chosen me a girlie design, and we promptly applied it to my arm. I was so proud of it, and wore a cap sleeve t-shirt to show it off to everyone in town that we passed. The trouble came when the design had fully removed and I went to school with it still on. I was told off my the Headteacher, and I kicked up such a fuss that I was excluded for the rest of the day, and my furious mother had to bring me home. She blamed Uncle Paul, her brother, for putting such silly notions in my head, but I became even more curious and impassioned.
Whenever I walked past Cal's Parlour on the way to secondary school, the shutters would be up. I would spend a good ten minutes picking out my ever changing favourite designs from the window displays, and hurrying along when I realised I would be late to meet my friends. I'd hurry along, and take part in my lessons, all the time doodling on the back of my hand and books. You would imagine that my art lessons were fabulous with my skill, but I wasn't a great artist and I never will be. I appreciate it more than you will ever realise, though.
I bought books of tattoo designs and read everything I could on the subject. I was determined to be well informed, and not listen to the rumours about watering down the ink, or reusing needles. Rumours I knew were fake and spread by other tattoo artists. I proudly defend Cal's Parlour to the extent that I did two weeks work experience with them when I was at school. I maintained the reception area and sold the hand crafted jewellery, framed designs and made tea and coffee for all involved, from the artist to the customer.
They took me on as a full time receptionist on my eighteenth birthday. I was always popping back to talk designs and offer my help. I was surrounded by what I loved on a daily basis and I had never been happier. And I kept my promise to my mum. I wanted to have ink of my own, but I waited. And waited. And waited.
Now the time has come. Mum and Uncy Paul, the man responsible for introducing me to this incredible art form, are dead. The car they were travelling was hit by a lorry driver, who was intoxicated whilst behind the wheel. I'm living with my Dad now, in the house I grew up in. I'm moving out soon though. My parents divorced when I was young, but I've never been bothered about my Dad. He never made an effort with me, and still can't be bothered now. I mean, I told him I was coming to Cal's to get my tattoo done, and he just said, "Have fun." Like I was still five and playing with dolls.
Now, I'm sat in the chair and I've never been more scared. Cal himself is sat beside me, ready to ink Uncy Paul and Mum's family crest onto my arm - a symbol of the love I feel for them. I know they are looking down on me. Uncy Paul is proud, while Mum still wears a frown. But I know she loves me, just as much as I love her.
Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal And Stigmatized Zealots And Cynics In The Process by Corey Taylor
Posting the thirteenth post on Friday the 13th? Will this be an unlucky post? I certainly hope not!
Let's rock this blog!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 13. - INK
I had heard common conceptions about tattoo parlours since I was a little kid, but I had never let it bother me. I was always fascinated with the body art that littered peoples bodies, and whenever Uncle Paul, or Uncy Paul as I used to call him, came over, I would trace the tribal lines on his forearm. I would follow the intricate details of the pin up girl on his upper arm, not knowing what her saucy smile and winking eye were truly telling us. I learnt to read and spell with the words on his wrists and knuckles - MUM, DAD, FAMILY, LOVE and HATE.
I would draw all over myself in felt tip marker pens. My arms would replicate Uncy Paul's, whereas my legs were a canvas of childish scribbles, like caterpillars that I had traced around a penny to give it that perfect roundness. Butterflies with intricate dotted wings. The faces of cats, dogs, rabbits, and other drawings that came to me. My mother would go spare when she saw the state of me, and haul me off to the bathroom to scrub the indelible ink from my skin.
I was seven when I got my first temporary tattoo. It was a Hello Kitty design, the happy cats face so bright and colourful. The bow looked plump and her cheeky expression brought a smile to my face. My poor frustrated mother had caved in and chosen me a girlie design, and we promptly applied it to my arm. I was so proud of it, and wore a cap sleeve t-shirt to show it off to everyone in town that we passed. The trouble came when the design had fully removed and I went to school with it still on. I was told off my the Headteacher, and I kicked up such a fuss that I was excluded for the rest of the day, and my furious mother had to bring me home. She blamed Uncle Paul, her brother, for putting such silly notions in my head, but I became even more curious and impassioned.
Whenever I walked past Cal's Parlour on the way to secondary school, the shutters would be up. I would spend a good ten minutes picking out my ever changing favourite designs from the window displays, and hurrying along when I realised I would be late to meet my friends. I'd hurry along, and take part in my lessons, all the time doodling on the back of my hand and books. You would imagine that my art lessons were fabulous with my skill, but I wasn't a great artist and I never will be. I appreciate it more than you will ever realise, though.
I bought books of tattoo designs and read everything I could on the subject. I was determined to be well informed, and not listen to the rumours about watering down the ink, or reusing needles. Rumours I knew were fake and spread by other tattoo artists. I proudly defend Cal's Parlour to the extent that I did two weeks work experience with them when I was at school. I maintained the reception area and sold the hand crafted jewellery, framed designs and made tea and coffee for all involved, from the artist to the customer.
They took me on as a full time receptionist on my eighteenth birthday. I was always popping back to talk designs and offer my help. I was surrounded by what I loved on a daily basis and I had never been happier. And I kept my promise to my mum. I wanted to have ink of my own, but I waited. And waited. And waited.
Now the time has come. Mum and Uncy Paul, the man responsible for introducing me to this incredible art form, are dead. The car they were travelling was hit by a lorry driver, who was intoxicated whilst behind the wheel. I'm living with my Dad now, in the house I grew up in. I'm moving out soon though. My parents divorced when I was young, but I've never been bothered about my Dad. He never made an effort with me, and still can't be bothered now. I mean, I told him I was coming to Cal's to get my tattoo done, and he just said, "Have fun." Like I was still five and playing with dolls.
Now, I'm sat in the chair and I've never been more scared. Cal himself is sat beside me, ready to ink Uncy Paul and Mum's family crest onto my arm - a symbol of the love I feel for them. I know they are looking down on me. Uncy Paul is proud, while Mum still wears a frown. But I know she loves me, just as much as I love her.
Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal And Stigmatized Zealots And Cynics In The Process by Corey Taylor
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