Books

The Power of Ink

by Julie M. Shea

     Sitting in the chair (which, appropriately enough is a dentist’s chair) watching the artist clean the needle, I’m struck with an intense fear so powerful I can barely keep from kicking her in the chin and making a break for it. Kind of in the same way a woman pregnant with her second child, forgets the pain from her first pregnancy, I forgot the pain from my first tattoo. But this time, it would be like having twins, because it was triple the size.

     I glance at Rick getting work done on the snake on his bicep. It annoys me that he’s happily chatting up the artist who is repeatedly poking him with a really sharp needle. Rick notices my apprehension and smiles. “Don’t worry about it. You’re fine. You’re in good hands with Donna.”

     “Yep, it won’t hurt a bit,” Donna says as she attaches the paint to the needle. Which, when you think about it, looks just like the drill dentists use to dig out cavities.

     I frown at Donna, “I know better than that.”

     She laughs, “Well it’s going to hurt more when we get down to the ankle bone. Not much padding there.”

     Great, I think, it hurt bad enough the first time when all the ink was in a more fleshy part of my leg. My best friend, Katie, is sitting in a chair next to me (wisely NOT getting a tattoo). “This is going to be fun.”

     I glare at her. “Nice way to be supportive.”

 

Find the rest in Chick Ink, edited by Karen L. Hudson 

 

 

Sweet Victory

by Julie Shea


     It was a bad one. Painful in a way it had never been before but would continue to be for several years after.

     He opened the door and peeked his head in, “Are you alright?”

     I open my eyes briefly and lift my head from the bathroom floor to squint in his direction, “I’m going to die.”

     He sighed, “You’re not going to die.”

     “How do you know? You aren’t the one whose head is about to explode.”

     “Did you take your medicine?”

     “Too late now. Doesn’t work once the migraine is full blown. I just need to be left alone here to die. Please turn off the light, it’s burning my pupils.”

     Wisely, he said nothing, turned off the light and shut the door.

Find the rest in Migraine Expressions, edited by Betsy Baxter Blondin