Caila Lipovsky

Sandy’s at home and in bed, trying not to roll onto her shoulder, which stings.   She hears a whispering sound.  “sssss”

Where is that sound coming from? Sandy wonders aloud.  Nobody answers, because Sandy is alone.  Her husband is on a business trip.  Her 3 year old daughter is asleep.

Two weeks later, the tattoo is healed.  It’s a bright red snake with teeth sunk into a green apple and a glimmer in its indigo eye. Sandy’s baffled that the lady at the parlor gave her this tattoo.  She has no affinity for snakes.

“SSSSaaandy.”  The tattoo says.  She jumps.  That was where the whisper of two weeks ago had come from.

“Ssssandy!”  A tear slides down Sandy’s cheek, and she feels an odd sensation in her shoulder.  Her skin ripples.  Suddenly, there is a dimple in her arm where her shoulder use to be.

“Ssssandy, Caila has sent me here to eat you alive, so she can finish this story which she is tired of.”

Sandy weeps.  “nooo, please no.  I have a whole life ahead of me!  I have a family I love who loves me unconditionally! My parents worked hard for years just like their parents did to sculpt me into the generous, interesting, gorgeous, brilliant woman I am, and I have the skills to pass fine morals and strong character onto my children!  I am full of talent, drive, self-discipline, potential!  Do this to another character, someone with nothing to offer the world, somebody at the dregs of our culture who makes our planet a more, disturbed, miserable place! Not me!  Not me!”

“you should have known better than to walk into that placccce” the snake hisses. Sandy feels an odd sensation in her arm.  The skin ripples and suddenly, there is only a nub where her arm once was.

“I don’t know why I went in there, snake!  I never meant to!  Don’t Do this!  Don’t kill me!  Tell Caila people will think she’s a psycho for writing a story like this! Tell her I have a husband, children!”

Sandy feels a tingling in her feet, and falls to the ground, a stump.

“Tell Caila people will think she’s politically incorrect for writing this!  Making fun of the handicapped, what’s her problem-uh?!”

“Sssssandy, this has nothing to do with making fun of anyone.  Caila just doesn’t want to spend more time writing this story, as she doesn’t have the concern or attention span.  She created you, anyhow, at least you lived a moment.  Now shut up, or don’t.  I’m not listening to you, and nobody reading this story can save you.”

The tattoo continues to eat Sandy alive until there’s but one bloody speck left on the green apple.  The snake licks the speck off, gobbles it down.  Suddenly, it is no longer a tattoo of a snake, but a real snake, which gobbles the apple down in one gulp and melts into the grass, shining in the sun, no longer detectable.
THE END.

Here is another story–I am making it up now:

Sandy’s walking through the fog on a dark, cold night.  A neon flashing sign–pandora’s tattoos–2 blocks from her house.  Why didn’t I notice this place before?  There are curious little figurines on the window–3 little gnomes with pink noses warming their hands over a miniature campfire, a twirling skeleton ballerina, a yellow clay house with a locked out, wilted poodle curled in a ball on the doorstep. 

Though she needs to go home and wash her hair and get her schoolwork done, Sandy pushes the door open and walks into the tattoo parlor.

A woman with stylishly mangled black hair, a pleather crimson mini dress, psychedelic swirling tights, and purple reading glasses sits in a rocking chair knitting a long green snakelike article, too thin and long to be a scarf.

The door clicks shut.