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There’s a shop hidden in the depths of the city. Three wrong turns down an alleyway to a dead end. Concrete stairs lead to a basement with a red metal door.
The Tattoo Artist is there, waiting for you. She’ll give you a way to fight the monsters in your dreams. If you want it.
The Tattoo Artist is there, waiting for you. She’ll give you a way to fight the monsters in your dreams. If you want it.
Ulrich finds the shop on accident, stumbles in from the bars in his lonesome.
The Artist asks what haunts him. Ulrich asks for a small pen. Says in his dreams he writes letters to his daughters overseas, but just before signing his name, runs out of ink. He sends them anyway.
The Artist asks what haunts him. Ulrich asks for a small pen. Says in his dreams he writes letters to his daughters overseas, but just before signing his name, runs out of ink. He sends them anyway.
The Artist debates dinner when Nico rushes in. Their hands are unsteady, breath shaky.
Nico urgently asks for a sword, one so powerful it will cut through steel. So powerful it will stop the advacing anger of their brother.
The Artist sketches from their palm to their elbow.
Nico urgently asks for a sword, one so powerful it will cut through steel. So powerful it will stop the advacing anger of their brother.
The Artist sketches from their palm to their elbow.
“In my dreams, my lover and I are the only ones left in the world,” Hanna says. ”We live on an island surrounded by a beautiful sea.”
“It sounds impossibly lovely,” says The Artist.
“It is.”
“And yet?”
“I’d like a boat. Something small. Something lonely. Something final.”
“It sounds impossibly lovely,” says The Artist.
“It is.”
“And yet?”
“I’d like a boat. Something small. Something lonely. Something final.”
“I would like the words ‘I’ve missed you’ please.”
The Artist preps the needle. She doesn’t ask why but Marie continues.
Sometimes, she says, she is lucky enough to see her grandmother. Joy overwhelms and she often forgets to say anything meaningful. A reminder is in order.
The Artist preps the needle. She doesn’t ask why but Marie continues.
Sometimes, she says, she is lucky enough to see her grandmother. Joy overwhelms and she often forgets to say anything meaningful. A reminder is in order.
The Artist wakes up in a small apartment and gets dressed. She decides to take a different route today. Instead of the door on the left, she takes the one on the right. Down the hallway, up the stairs and through two more doors.
And yet, she emerges here, in the shop, relieved.
And yet, she emerges here, in the shop, relieved.
“A key?” The Artist asks.
“With a key, I can escape the room.”
“The room?”
“Yes, the room with no windows. There’s a click, a whistle, and then water begins to fill. There’s a latch on the ceiling. It’s locked. I had locked it years ago.”
“Why?”
“What if I had gotten out?”
“With a key, I can escape the room.”
“The room?”
“Yes, the room with no windows. There’s a click, a whistle, and then water begins to fill. There’s a latch on the ceiling. It’s locked. I had locked it years ago.”
“Why?”
“What if I had gotten out?”
Manny asks for a compass, so he can navigate the sea of his mind.
Kris asks for rope, to climb out of the endless well she find herself in.
Lola wants a pair of scissors to cut off her lashes that won’t stop growing and growing.
Carver wants a hammer. For personal reasons.
Kris asks for rope, to climb out of the endless well she find herself in.
Lola wants a pair of scissors to cut off her lashes that won’t stop growing and growing.
Carver wants a hammer. For personal reasons.
Khadijah is soaked by the time she opens the metal door.
The Artist offers her a towel and helps her take a seat.
“I’ve never had a tattoo,” she says, looking at the Artist. “Does it hurt?”
“It can.”
“Then an umbrella, please. It too often rains when I close my eyes.”
The Artist offers her a towel and helps her take a seat.
“I’ve never had a tattoo,” she says, looking at the Artist. “Does it hurt?”
“It can.”
“Then an umbrella, please. It too often rains when I close my eyes.”
Victoria wants a harpoon.
“With an extra sharp tip, enough to break through wood.”
“Are you trying to reach something? Would you prefer a grappling hook?”
“No, I’m hunting for something lost at sea. Something final, something to drown.”
“I see. Love is an impossible thing.”
“With an extra sharp tip, enough to break through wood.”
“Are you trying to reach something? Would you prefer a grappling hook?”
“No, I’m hunting for something lost at sea. Something final, something to drown.”
“I see. Love is an impossible thing.”
The Artist wakes alone to the sound of nothing. She gets dressed and tries a different route, takes a different door, down a different set of stairs.
And just as always, the finale leads to a familiar shop, the signs already lit and waiting. Though, she no longer feels relief.
And just as always, the finale leads to a familiar shop, the signs already lit and waiting. Though, she no longer feels relief.
After Kevin gets comfortable, he asks for a suit of armor.
Says his sibling brandishes a sword so powerful in his nightmares, and swings it wildly.
“The armor will protect me. I want to stop running. I want to get close enough to speak to them.”
“Might I suggest a polearm?”
Says his sibling brandishes a sword so powerful in his nightmares, and swings it wildly.
“The armor will protect me. I want to stop running. I want to get close enough to speak to them.”
“Might I suggest a polearm?”
Diego has three requests. A shovel, some rope and a tree.
The tree to tie the rope around, he says. A shovel to dig deep into the earth.
The Artist asks for what. What is so deep within the earth?
“Myself,” Diego says. “Everything I’ve ever loved, I’ve buried. I’m alone.”
The tree to tie the rope around, he says. A shovel to dig deep into the earth.
The Artist asks for what. What is so deep within the earth?
“Myself,” Diego says. “Everything I’ve ever loved, I’ve buried. I’m alone.”
“How long have you been here?” A client asks one day.
The Artist shrugs. “All day.”
“More than that,” says the client. “You feel like you’re just another part of this place.”
“Is that so?”
“Is that why you’ll never close the maze? Never draw the last line? The dead end?”
The Artist shrugs. “All day.”
“More than that,” says the client. “You feel like you’re just another part of this place.”
“Is that so?”
“Is that why you’ll never close the maze? Never draw the last line? The dead end?”
Danny comes in looking to mark her skin with reminders. In her dreams, she never wakes as herself but she hopes that one look in the mirror will troubleshoot her mind.
“Who do you look like?” The Artist asks.
“My father,” Danny tells her. “The old bastard.”
“Who do you look like?” The Artist asks.
“My father,” Danny tells her. “The old bastard.”
I will return to this thread at a later time!
I commissioned the wonderful illustration from @sweatyandupsety!
If you like this thread, check out my other story threads here: https://twitter.com/i/events/1263834195740299269
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I commissioned the wonderful illustration from @sweatyandupsety!
If you like this thread, check out my other story threads here: https://twitter.com/i/events/1263834195740299269
Like my writing? Throw me a Ko-Fi!
https://ko-fi.com/bogboogie
