Teases

Sam is lying languid on yellow sheets. James will be home tomorrow which leaves little time for new lovers.

Sam reaches up and receives the glass and sips, as I drink from the bottle and look at scars on a wrist, tattoo marked and bled, bracelet often mislaid.

Bob Marley doesn't give a shit, while Sam Cooke looks dispirited at what yet will come. Joplin cries wild abandon from vinyl well-worn and well earned.

And James will return and for now Sam is here and I am here and the bottle is half full and Sam teases with a fingertip...

From Guest Contributor Michael Tyler

Michael writes from a shack overlooking the ocean just south of the edge of the world. He has been published in several literary magazines and plans a short story collection sometime before the Andromeda Galaxy collides with ours and...

The Paisley Tattoo

We couldn’t afford real tattoos – we were too young, anyway – so we borrowed a stick-and-poke kit and I let Jim attempt a yin-yang symbol on my back. Mom called Jim the artistic twin; said he needed an outlet – but that was the encouragement of a mother loving her son too hard. His sweaty hands shook and slipped; after an hour, he quit, and we never spoke of it again. On our eighteenth birthday I had my brother’s work converted to a paisley that I’d later recreate for a favorite tie; Jim spent his money on a different set of needles.

From Guest Contributor Rich Gravelin

Rich writes short fiction from the woods of central Maine.

Decree 349

Five naked women had been lined up against the wall. Something about the one in the middle caught the captain’s eye, whether a tattoo or the way she shyly covered her breasts with her hands. “May I offer you some candy?” he asked. It was only then she remembered that Kafka was buried in a plain wooden coffin, a stray fact that under other circumstances might have been interesting to share. That’s just the sort of place this is, no time for a chat, not even about who it was that tracked in blood on the bottom of their shoes.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Medic

As we flee the bank, I hear the sound of a gunshot behind me.

I’ve never been shot before but suddenly I’m experiencing a strange sensation and call out, “I think I’ve been shot.” Just my luck to take a bullet.

“I’ll get you tended to,” says Zac. I knew he would. Zac’s reliable like that.

Zac half carries me to our getaway car. I feel myself fading during the rough car ride. “Here we are,” says Zac.

“Tattoo parlour,” I moan in disbelief. “You’ve brought me to a tattoo artist?”

“He’s famous”, says Zac reassuringly, “For good body piercing.”From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

Barry O'Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry's other stories have appeared in Cyclamens & Swords, 50 Word Stories and of course here at A Story in 100 Words.

How These Things Get Started

The group staggered out of the party, swaying violently towards the next bar. “Wait!” Janet said. “I have the GREATEST IDEA EVER!” They emerged from the tattoo parlor an hour later, fingers oozing blood. “Now our whole lives are stache bashes!”

Future history textbooks would be filled with pictures of the sinister curled mark. Some were on pennants flying above military parades. Others adorned young officers, their fingers outstretched towards state enemies. But, inevitably, the tattoos made them easy to find. As nations were brought to account, some pleaded that they hadn’t known.

But how could they not have known?