Eratosphere - Competition: The Oldie

The Oldie Competition
by Tessa Castro

IN COMPETITION NO 129 you were invited to give 'The Tattooist's Tale, in verse or prose, from somewhere between the Old Kent Road and Canterbury. The prettiest entry came from Julia Edmunds, who enclosed her verses in a bold red heart. There were several tales of mistaken identity in the names indelibly tattooed. Gerard Benson gave a medieval- sounding tale of the Marie Rose. GM Davis had the tattooist falling for the Wife of Bath and becoming her number six. Roger Wright rued the modern decline of his art now that he is designated a Personal Decorative Services Consultant. Adrian Fry gave a truly weird 20th-century tale of Francis Bacon as a tattooist. Commiserations to them all and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the decorative and delicious bonus Taylor's of Harrogate tea and cake set going to James Brook.

'Do what you like,' she says. 'Something dramatic! I need to mark a new phase.' Her hair cascades like silk.
'Start with something small,' I say. 'Unobtrusive. Tasteful. A bird on the ankle, perhaps.'
'I've left the bastard,' she says. 'I feel empowered and zingy. A dragon breathing fire!'
'I do transfers,'! say.
'It was messy,' she says: 'a shouting argument at 3 am. I'm not sure I remember it all.'
'They wash off after a couple of weeks.'
'In fact he might have left me.' Her hand becomes a fist. 'The bastard, doing this to me.'
'They're cheaper too.'
'Can you do a nothingness over my heart?'
'No,' I say. 'Sorry.'
'Ha! Then you are of no use to me.'
'I'll do for you a butterfly,' I say. 'Emerging from a chrysalis!'
But she is already going. 'For nothing! For ever!'
But she has gone.
James Brook

Amidst my needles, pattern-books and dyes,
Tools of a craft designed to glamorise,
I'm sitting one day sorting out some junk
When who should enter but this Swedish punk
Of surly countenance, clad all in black
No doubt intended to deter attack.
Eschewing modesty, without a care
She strips her clothes off to her underwear
And there, embellishing her every part,
A showcase of the skilled tattooist's art
In every colour from maroon to jade
Save for a space upon her shoulder-blade.
Says she, 'I want a dragon done just here
To cast a spell on men who come too near.'
The rest you know - my work was used to fasten
An icon to the thrillers of Steig Larsson.
Tony Goldman

Some ask for Chinese characters, which may
Or may not mean exactly what they think.
Some want a lover's name they can display
As skin-deep homage to a soulmate link.
Some, after passion's early glow is lost,
Are keen to have an ex's name erased.
They meet with laser surgeons, count the cost,
Then come to me to have the word replaced
Instead with twining tendrils, sleeves of flame,
Roses, skulls, angels, eagles, butterflies,
And other shapes I coax out of a name
As letters morph into their own disguise.
Young sweethearts, heed each fleeting whim’s command.
Have 'Carpe diem!' permanently wrought,
And put your trust in my transforming hand
When love (like Chinese) isnt what you thought
Chris O'Carroll

I've done them all you know, the burly bloke
With arms like sides of pork who reeked of smoke
Who wanted fiery dragons from his wrists
Up to his shoulders, then down to his fists
Stars and moons so nothing would remain
Of pallid flesh - he never flinched with pain.
In contrast was the girl who’d like a flower
Inscribed upon her back. It was an hour
Before she steeled herself to have it done,
And when she did, she wriggled - not much fun.
But then there was a priest who thought a cross
Drawn on his forehead would impress his boss.
I don’t know why I did it, but instead
I put the devil's mark upon his head.
Repentant, I now wear a crucifix,
While the priest lives with his bar code, 666.
Katie Mallett