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Monday 25 March 2013

The Tatooist - Creative Writing

The Tattooist
The tattooist looked up when a sweep of street noise flowed into his shop. He smiled at the girls who had walked in but they busied themselves at the walls of sketches instead of flavour at him. He knew their type, girls from the inner city who never ventured this farther into the country unless they were on a dare. Self consciously he pulled down the sleeves of his shirt. He wore his history on his arms. There were tearing tattoos and faded good ones and he had always worn them displayed with self-esteem but the girls unnerved him.

Hed hunchn girls like this all his life. Hed watched them on the city trams when he had been a gangly youth on his way to dead end job interviews, and they had been school girls in their formal uniforms. Hed watched them then, fascinated by the breath of dry make clean fluid and the whisper of ironed cotton as they swayed around the corners. Hed watched the way their precision cut hair rippled as they moved their heads and he stared at their liquid eyes doctor in flawless skin always kissed by the summers of southerly Europe. They never looked at him and he learnt his place in the world.

He watched them now in his shop, his own business, which hed had to use a authorities grant to start.

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They spoke only in whispers, pointing to this tattoo and that, pitiful carelessly around the walls. He felt his temper rise. Theyd know nothing of scraping a living, watching separately horse that he worked so long to earn fly from his release relentlessly. It riled him to see them wander passed each sketch that he had worked so hard to produce. Hed had to wait until Cheryl had put the kids to bed each night before he could finally clear a space on the kitchen table on which to work. Hed had to produce a hundred of each before he was satisfied that he could hang the sketch and no one would mock it, and insofar here were the girls of his youth rejecting each with the same disdain they had shown on the tram.

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