Sign of the Times by Sylvia Stevens

It wasn’t painful, a gentle tickling feeling as the needle pierced the flesh of my upper left arm. The only noise penetrating the silence was the rhythmic buzzing of the needle not unlike the sound of a dentist’s drill. The composition gradually took shape. Small droplets of blood appeared and were wiped away by the Tattoo artist.   I fell asleep and was woken by a whisper “All done.”

Too late to change my mind.  A scab formed, eventually falling off revealing the design for posterity. A carefully crafted wreath of flowers enclosing the immortal epigram.


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