Tattoo design

Illustrator Layout

Photoshopped textures to flesh out colors

Dance

Her first view of the world is sky. Head tilted back, she gazes upwards, drinking in the wondrous sight of that wide expanse, of the limitless distance she could never comprehend. She arches her arm up, slowly, her hand climbing as far as it could go towards the light. 

She hears notes stringing together, soft. They rise up, surrounding her in a beautiful melody that seems to come from within her very being. With her eyes fixed to the sky, she knows what she must do. The music calls her, and she dances.

She brings her arm back to her body and stands on the tip of one foot, slowly turning. Her arms twine around her as she turns, faster, the music following her every movement. 

The song swells and she obeys. Her body slopes down, free leg rising into the air, forming a perfect line.

She wants to shout her happiness at everything, at living, at the music, and of the magnificent sounds and colors that spin around her as she dances. Doing so would ruin the moment, so she simply continues to express her joy with her graceful movements. 

She hears clapping, and her joy intensifies, knowing that she has pleased another with her own celebration.

The music slows, and she with it. Worry shakes her mind when her once flawless limbs begin to jerk along, uncontrolled. Her dance is no longer effortless. She can feel her joints creak. Her movements harden. The notes stretch out, chiming off-key. She is coming to an end.

With her last bit of will, she turns her head to the sky. The lights stop. The music ends with one long note. In her final moment, she is happy. Her last thought is how truly beautiful life is, and as her vision darkens, she smiles towards the loveliness of the sky.

“Mama, please let me wind it again!” 

“No, we spent enough time here. Let's go.”

The little girl glances back at the tiny dancer, then follows her mother home.

Character study

And in their eyes he saw something not unlike a quiet desperation, one that reached down inside of you and squeezed your heart just a little too tight. But there was nothing he could do for them. Not a damn thing.

So he walked by, his eyes sliding off of theirs, a whisper of forgiveness not making it past his lips. Again his mind turned, churning, to the other he couldn't save. But she was just one of many. He was a man of failures. Failures and unspoken apologies.

A darker storybook

Once there was a little girl who lived in a small town all by herself. She was a strange little girl, and did not play with the other children. The townspeople thought that she must be foolish to not want to play. So they all called her the stupid little girl.

The town was very hungry. The crops that gave them food died before they could be harvested. Everyone was hungry, except for the little girl.

The little girl liked to go to the forest. She knew where the good tasting mushrooms grew, and where the berries bloomed. She would go and gather all sorts of good things to eat.

One day the woodcutter saw the little girl carrying food. He was very hungry, so he asked her if she would share. The little girl saw how hungry he was, and she gave him all of her food for the day. The woodcutter ate quickly. 

"What a stupid little girl for giving away all her food!" He thought to himself.

The next day the tailor stopped the little girl as she was carrying more food from the forest. He told the little girl how hungry his family was, and how good the food looked. He asked if she would share it with him. The little girl thought about how hungry the tailor's family must be, so she gave him the food. The tailor left. 

"How stupid that little girl is! She gave me her food, and kept none for herself!" The tailor said.

The tailor and the woodcutter told the other townspeople about what the little girl did. The townspeople wanted the little girl's food, but did not want to go into the woods to look. So each day they asked the little girl for the food she had gathered, and each day she gave her food away to another towns person. 

As they ate, they all thought to themselves: "What a stupid little girl! She will give away everything if we only ask!"

After some time the crops came back, and the townspeople were happy they could eat as much as they liked again. They had a big feast to celebrate, and everyone in the town came out. Except for the little girl.

The townspeople thought she must have not been able to read the signs about the feast; after all, she was such a stupid little girl. So they went to her small house and opened the door to find her.

Inside, they found the little girl's skeleton. Scattered around her were rotting berries in baskets. The townspeople shook their heads and said to each other,

"What a stupid little girl! She had all this food and did not eat!"

They left the house and went to celebrate, all while thinking, "She really was a stupid little girl."

Memories: A short story focused on dialogue

"Memories! Memories for sale! We buy, sell, and trade!" 

The boy walked into the store where nothing was displayed on the shelves. The portly proprietor paused his sales pitch and smiled at the boy.

"Welcome! You came for memories, yes? I have the best selection, anything you could ever want! Perhaps a nice fishing trip on a lake? Victory in battle? First love?"

"You sell memories? Whose are they?" the boy asked, puzzled.

"Ah, your first time. They belong to no one now, but they could be yours. I take any memory you don't want any longer, and I'll give you a better one to replace it."

"But... they wouldn't really be mine."

Before the man could respond, the shop door opened, allowing an older woman in.

"Samuel, I need you!" she cried to the man, "I have had the worst day! Nothing worth remembering. Give me something interesting!"

"Of course, m'lady! Nothing but the best for you, my finest customer. Let me find something unique for you." The merchant went through a door behind the counter.

The boy watched the woman, who fussed with her clothes impatiently. Gathering his courage, he asked, "Ma'am? Did something bad happen today?"

The woman eyed the boy critically, then huffed. "Of course not! If something BAD happened, it would be much better than absolutely nothing! No, I just need a better memory to fill the day."

"But it wouldn't be really what happened," the boy ventured.

"And who would ever know? To me it would be what happened, and I would have the memories to prove it." The lady smiled.

"It isn't the truth. It's not real." 

"Who cares if it was really what occurred? To me, it is. That's all that matters."

The boy frowned and said, "Don't you have anything you like remembering?"

"Oh, I have so many wonderful memories!" the woman sighed, "I've seen my children grow up to be wildly successful. I've been the star of films, adored by millions! I have traveled to every country, been to space, conquered nations, and won championships in every sport!"

"That's impossible. You can't have done ALL of those things!" 

"Of course not. But I remember it like I have," the woman said, and shook her head. "My, you are a foolish little boy! This entire conversation has been entirely unsatisfactory. I believe I shall trade it in for something better. Perhaps a chat with a king."

The boy saw that the woman would no longer bother with him. He left the store and bumped into an emaciated man who was standing on a corner and drooling.

"Sir? Are you all right?" the boy asked with some concern. 

The man did not respond at all. As the boy began to try once more, a businessman stopped him.

"Don't bother, kid. He's gone."

"Gone?"

"Nothing left. Happens all the time. Guy probably wanted to forget everything, so he traded them all away."

"Traded what? His... his memories?"

The businessman nodded. "What else? Some people think they'd be better off. He'll get carted away soon." With that, the businessman went on his way.

The boy watched the man walk away, thinking. He decided to go home. As he walked back down familiar streets, he looked around at the people he passed. He wondered which of them had their own memories, if any.

"Mom, I'm home!" the boy called out, shutting the door behind him.

Silence was his only greeting.

"Mom?" The boy went from room to room, searching. He found her in the backyard, watering her garden.

"I have to tell you, mom. I found this weird store, and…" the boy trailed off when his mother failed to react to his presence. 

"Mom? What's wrong?" 

"Hmm?" His mother looked at him, frowning. "I'm sorry little boy, do I know you? Why are you in my backyard?"

The boy stared at her. "It's me, mom..."

She tilted her head. "I'm not your mother. I've never had children. I've never even been married! You must be mistaken."

"No, I live here with you! This is my home! Why don't you know me?" the boy cried out, tears filling his eyes.

"I'm sorry, but you're not my son."

"I'll prove it!" The boy ran inside, going to his room. He could show her, and this would all be a horrible mistake, a joke. He yanked open the door and stopped dead in his tracks. His bed, his posters, his toys... none of it was there. The room only had exercise equipment with some boxes against the far wall. 

"What did you want to show me? There's nothing here. Now, please leave my house, or I'll have to call the police," his mother said and pointed to the front door. The boy left slowly?, numb. The woman he knew was his mother shut the door behind him, locking it.

The boy plodded down the streets he thought he knew. Landmarks he had known while growing up threw him into question. He didn't know where to go, or what to do. But... maybe there was something.

"Memories for sale! We buy, sell, and trade! What can I do for you, my young friend?"

"Take them all. Please," the boy sobbed.

"Of course. If you'll just step this way… now sign here. Yes, good! Now come with me. You won't have to worry about anything ever again."

Short story: Bob and the Hole

Bob was not having a very good day. 

                Things started off well enough. He woke up and dressed for work. He fixed breakfast for himself; toast and eggs, as usual. He lived alone and he quite enjoyed his routine every morning. 

                It was when he went to brush his teeth that he noticed the hole in the wall of his bathroom. Not a large hole, but not one that was there when he woke up. Bob worried that he may have done something to create the hole. He was only renting, after all. But no cause came to mind.

                Well, he would have to think on it later. He was going to be late for work if he didn't hurry. He quickly finished his business in the bathroom and left.

                Bob enjoyed his work. He worked in middle management, which was really a fancy way of saying that he told the people below him what the people above him told him to say. So he didn't have to think, or deal with the rather difficult problems that may crop up. His company distributed the stoppers used for the backs of pins. Bob didn't care for pins, but he only had to deal with the backs of them, so that was alright.

                During lunch Bob decided he would buy a bit of plaster and fix the hole in his bathroom wall. He resolved to do this immediately after work, nodding to himself over his tuna fish sandwich and iced tea, his usual meal.

                Work went well enough after lunch. He only had to send out a memo about the new shade of pink they would use for the pin order - Mountbatten pink - and then send another memo out correcting his spelling of mountbatten. 

                Bob congratulated himself on a job well done and left work for the hardware store, picking out just the right shade of beige for his plaster. He went home and then straight to the bathroom with his purchase.

                The hole was bigger. That was odd. 

                It was also bleeding. That was very odd.

                It took Bob a minute to acclimate his mind around the fact that, yes, his wall happened to be bleeding. Bob's shock was quickly eclipsed by anger. How dare the wall ruin itself in such a disgusting manner?

                 He decided to continue with his original plan of plastering it. At least the blood was not too far down the wall. He wiped it up with a rag and sealed the hole with plaster.

                There. He tossed the rag out in the trash, satisfied. That'll show the wall.

                Bob, pleased with himself, ate his dinner and went to bed.

                The next morning the hole was back.

                He surprised himself by cursing aloud. This was not supposed to happen. Now the hole was not only bleeding, cracks were beginning to spread from it.

                Bob was not going to let this ruin his morning. He would just ignore it and go on about his day. He stuffed another rag into the hole to stop up the bleeding and took a shower. He refused to pay attention to even the frantic whispering the wall started to emit as he walked past to the kitchen and fixed breakfast.

                Bob relaxed considerably when he arrived at work. He settled into his normal morning routine while plotting ways to rid himself of the hole. Perhaps he should plaster and then paint over the wall. Beige again, of course. That would do the trick.

                His calm broke when he received a memo from one of his bosses about meeting him in their office. That was not normal. He could only recall it happening once before, in the pin crisis of '03, when he was informed that all of his new memos had to be preceded with a glaring red 'URGENT' stamp at the top. Bob shuddered at the memory.

                His boss sat him down and immediately began the familiar drone about what the company stood for and how the employees helped to achieve it. Bob began to resign himself to seeing horrendous red lettering everywhere, when he overheard his boss mention downsizing.

                He began to panic as his boss pushed a plain white envelope with Bob's name on it over. Not fired. Anything but that. He loved his job. It was safe. Secure. Easy. Bob could not be fired. He refused to let himself be. Absolutely not possible. It had to be a mistake.

                Bob was definitely fired.

                He left work with his things, knowing exactly what was to blame for this. Not his boss. Not the company. Certainly not him. No, it was quite obvious it was the hole.

                The hole was out to get him. It was that simple.

                It would have to be destroyed.

                Blood wiped off; plaster filling in, four coats of paint, and one rather plain painting of a grey seashell hung over the spot did the job quite nicely. Bob had beaten the hole. He passed out in bed, still splattered with beige paint, satisfied.

                The next morning, Bob got up, determined to return to his job and demand it back. The hole's curse was gone, and he was sure to be welcomed with open arms and a handsome check. He almost hummed to himself as he went to brush his teeth.

                The hole had eaten the painting.

                To be more accurate, when Bob stepped into the bathroom, it was in the process of eating the painting. This was not much better.

                Bob yelped and grabbed for the vanishing edge of the frame. It slipped out of his fingers and into the gaping maw that was now the hole. 

                Bob glared at the hole.

                The hole dribbled blood mixed with bits of canvas.

                Bob had enough. 

                This was war.

                Another trip to the hardware stop netted Bob a plethora of all the tools he would ever need to do battle with the malevolent hole. He returned home and armed himself with the most high tech – and expensive – home maintenance gadgets money could buy. Bob pulled on his heavy duty work boots and coveralls, and then switched on his new miniature concrete mixer. 

                It was time.

                Bob crept into the bathroom to see the status of his enemy.

                The hole had expanded rapidly in his absence. Now it was large enough for a grown man to crawl inside. A foul smelling fog drifted from its depths, making it difficult to see how deep it went. Cracks had spread to cover nearly the entire bathroom, including the adjacent walls. It had even broken his mirror. Bob ground his teeth with rage.

                With a war cry that would be the envy of any small mammal, Bob leapt into his bathroom, brandishing twin air fresheners. He sprayed with abandon until they were empty, then quickly reloaded and repeated until he could breathe nothing but pungent lilac.

                Phase one was complete.

                His second attack had him slapping plaster into the smaller cracks radiating out from the hole, ducking out every few minutes to gasp for breath. Maybe he overdid it on the spray. Now was not the time for questioning his tactics, however. 

Bob stringently avoided looking directly at the hole as he worked. He wouldn’t give it the satisfaction, no matter how many agonized screams it decided to hurl his way

.

Hours after the initial attack, Bob decided to step back and admire his work. He had cleaned up the broken mirror and repaired the majority of the cracks. A paint job would finish them off. Now, for the hole itself.

Bob looked at the hole and frowned. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps the problems with the hole had to be taken care of at the source; that is, wherever the hole had opened from. 

Well, it was large enough.

Maybe just a peek, so he could get an idea of the true nature of his enemy.

Bob stuck his head into the hole, and looked.

The next morning Bob woke up, skipping his usual shower. He dressed, left his apartment, and walked to a nearby diner, where he ordered a hearty breakfast of ham, steak, and pancakes. He washed it all down with a large mug of coffee and tipped the waitress generously. 

He left the diner and headed to his former workplace, whistling as he walked. It was a lovely day, and Bob had decided he was going to tell his boss exactly how he felt about being fired. 

Bob put his hands in his pockets and smiled, feeling the weight of the knives in them. 

Yes, today would be a great day. He could feel it.

Change was good.

Character drabble

    What was that you just called me, chap? Monster? Now see here, I am a gentleman! Sir Robert Fenwick the Third, born in 1812, of the distinguised Fenwick family, whose grounds lay just outside of Yorkshire. Quite lovely in the summertime. When I was young, the trouble I would get into... but that's neither here nor there.

    Sir, I would ask you to please stop attempting to run. It's rude to interrupt when one is speaking.

    Where was I? Ah, my youth. I enjoyed the usual gentleman's pasttimes, although a bit too much tomfoolery. It was quite the fashion for young men to dabble in the dark arts in my day. All in good fun, gent! By the by, what bloodtype did you say you were? You didn't? Odd, I like to take account of such things.

    It was through a tragic pistol accident that I transcended into my new state of life. Unlife, as it were. It seems the chaps down below took my dabblings seriously.

    Now sir, cease your carrying on! It isn't a very large bite. I always use proper manners at dinner.

    I am still a gentleman, after all.