Organized by DonnaSharples
And the entries are in for our latest competition!
Priestess By DavidGibbs6
I wait patiently on a stool inside the shop for the tattooist to arrive. He is late to open the shop but I dont mind, when he arrives it will be worth the wait. I have already sent people ahead of me, testing his skills over the weeks and now I am prepared for the big day, no matter what happens this can only end one way.
Finally I hear the jangle of his keys as he unlocks his small shop, a modest place on French st New Orleans. I watch as the shock on his face galvanizes when he realizes I have somehow gotten in to his locked shop, the confusion brings me great pleasure as I lead his mind around like a doting puppy. Deflecting his questions, I put on a display of female charm letting my fit body and dark wild hair draw him into my net.
After we do the verbal dance, I lay back into his dark leather chair showing off my unfinished outline. I tell him I need to be filled, watching his mind dart into forbidden territory as he prepares his tools and goes about shading my symbols. As the work progresses he becomes fixated working over my body filling the veves with dark ink.
The pain is hot and satisfying, the blood rushing to the needle wounds and mixing with the ink. He is oblivious to my guttural groans as he works and the rhythm they begin to take on. I begin to feel his fascination, his obsession and eventually his panic. It fills me with a satisfying power.
He dosnt stop until the job is finished. He is unable to stop, powerless to me and when he is done, it is only because of me he can stop. He stands a shell of a man, my personal thing to use, empty of everything but what I choose. Inside me his soul hammers but i will not let him out, I will never let him out.
The Subtle Canvas of Skin by TheOrangutan
Human skin is a wonderful thing. It is also a canvas to those of us who dance ink under the skin. Pain and pleasure mingle in art to produce a life-long reminder of the tattooist's vision and the customer's fetish.
And yet the skin transmits as well as receives. I have practised the art over the long centuries of my penance, and in that time I have learnt to read those who come to me for ink dark absolution. I can feel the subtle pulses of muscle and skin, and read the darker thoughts contained therein.
The deep hidden fantasies of some of the customers provide my sustenance, the bitter stygian flow a nectar to my undying hearts: those I am allowed to keep, to draw on, to tap like a farmer draws rubber from the tree. I reap; yet also I sow.
In my darkened basement I inscribe hearts, draw leopards and spike barbed wire on muscled arms. The distant sounds of Jazz from the street above are juxtaposed by the dark rhythm of my tools. Eclectic notes carry a hint of the past, the superstitious musical derivative of Negro rhythm dancing needle sharp into the epidermis, while mad trumpet blasts French Street above with soul.
Dark magic: rooted in Africa, alluded to in rhythm, yet remembered by no-one else but me. I am an artist. I facilitate the skin deep architecture, adding to the loops and wires and metal implants of my clientele. Gang marks, lover's hearts, twining vines and Celtic designs: all are grist to my mill.
But the ones who provide me the darkness to match the liquid that flows from my hands are the treasure, my succour. I may harvest, but I also feed their desires, build their hate and add to the paranoia and treachery, subsuming their tendency for peace.
As ink whispers under their skin, the bile of ages infuses and locks to their souls. Patterns spread the wraith, the exquisite pain of the needle disguising the burn as it eats like a cancer into their being.
And they leave empowered, darker, more dangerous, only to return for more as I feed endlessly on their murderous memories and dine on their bitterness.
One day I shall be free. When the dark lord rises again, the whole human race will provide our succour. Until then the ink dark music pounds on...
Inked by jewel1307
As the needle makes its last stroke on the creamy flesh of her hip, I wipe the remains of my lifeblood from skin that is forever stained with the darkness of my soul. Our pact is complete; she is mine for the price of fame. I watch her leave, the tinkle from the bell over the door a final farewell to the last of my living customers for the day.
I must admit that New Orleans is panning out to be more lucrative than I first thought. Not only do I have a reliable source of food for the foreseeable future but the vessels serve for entertainment while I wait to collect on our bargain.
Tonight's harvest is perhaps the most enjoyable of them all. Christophe was so easily corrupted. A good boy, by today's definition, tempted by lust and bought for the price of a lover's kiss some ten years ago. He should have asked for more but who am I to argue over the cost one man places on his soul. Too bad that kiss cost the girl her life.
Drugs, alcohol abuse, theft, assault and tonight his best crime yet and the one that secures his fate. He presently lies in the local hospital with a gunshot wound to his chest, teetering on the verge of death. But his death will be by my hand and mine alone.
I walk quickly, the chill of the November air doesn't affect me as it does the homeless bum who sleeps in the alleyway. I hear him coughing from the shadows as I pass by.
"Please," he begs. "You're tossing it out anyway. What difference does it make if I eat it?"
His tone stops me; the sound of his pleading implying a perfect opportunity has presented itself. The restaurant door slams in his face and I see his silhouette slump back against the wall dejectedly.
"Hungry?" I ask, producing a wallet from my breast pocket.
He nods, his eyes widening with interest as I pull a twenty from the depths of the black leather. "I haven't eaten in three days. Please, Sir."
Waving the bill in front of his face, he follows the movement with his eyes. I can see him salivate. "What's it worth to you?"
He blinks. "Anything, I'll do anything for a decent meal. Please!"
"Will you sell your soul old man?"
All of our entries were outstanding this month, but since I have to choose the most fantastic of the bunch, I have to go with "The Subtle Canvas of Skin" by TheOrangutan for its poetic edge. This was a really hard decision and I hope to see much more of this brand in the future!
Now on to the next competition:
What little horrors do you witness on a daily basis? That poor spider you washed down the plug hole, the mildew on your shower you forgot to clean that could now sustain its own eco system? I want you to write me a short story about the daily horrors you see in your day-to-day life. Or the toast you burnt in a hurry that you left smoking in the toaster.
It must be no longer than 200 words and must be sent with a title to me in a PM. Please have your entries submitted by Wednesday, July 3rd to qualify.
And after this latest batch of brilliance, I can't wait to see what you come up with next.
YOU ARE READING
Dark Dimensions #14Non-Fiction
Dark Dimensions belatedly returns with reviews of Joe Hill's "NOS4A2" and "Wolf Hunt" by Jeff Strand. An interview with DemiLouiseBlackburn, an original article by EmMeiLei321, and the next installment of DonnaSharples's Competition Corner. Check...