We were comparing tattoos, grandad and me. His was a dot in the palm of his hand, charcoal grey.
“Two lessons,” he said. “One: never catch a falling pencil, especially when it’s just been sharpened.”
He paused, eyes distant.
“And number two?”
A grimace. “Not all mistakes can be erased.’”
Thomas Malloch began writing in retirement. Short stories and Flash fiction mostly. Sometimes, he even gets published.
Delicious. Well done.
Kind words. Thanks very much.
Well written, nice job. I never desired a tatoo, ever. Until I read your story. Good work.
Thanks Whit. Good to know the story had impact and I have no desire for tattoo either.
Nicely handled. Always told my grand kids, when asked if I had any ‘tats’, that I had plenty of ‘stupid marks’ to serve as recognizable characteristics. Including a grey dot … or two.
Thanks of commenting Michael. All too well, do I recognise your scenario.
This is magnificent, Thomas!
A rather similar situation happened to me that I, too, wrote a 50-word story about last fall. My blue dot, now 65 years old, has faded hugely from that much brighter blue that your grandad would recognize. It’s not really noticeable unless I point it out to people… but I know it’s there.
First Tattoo, Age 4
(a true story)
by Trevor
Vividly,
I remember:
balancing on the bathroom stool,
on tiptoes,
stretching, craning,
to see the permanent blue dot on my nose
in the mirror.
Laura,
angrily
throwing crayons at me,
hadn’t noticed
the colored pencil in the box:
the blue one
that missed stabbing my eye
by 1/4 inch.
Thanks Trevor and thanks for sharing your own piece.