Pseudopod 147: Orifice


By John F.D. Taff

Read by Kris Johnson

The needle touched skin, vibrated with the small hum of a person in deep concentration.

A smell, electrical, full of ozone with metallic undertones, crackled from everything in the cramped little backroom of the tattoo parlor.

There was a brief moment of contact, full of excitement and anticipation.

Jesse grasped my hand, squeezed it tightly.

Then, the needle broke the skin, punched through.

A dot of color, a bright, iridescent green, lay side by side with a perfectly circular dot of blood that had been coaxed to the surface by the tattooist’s instrument.

Jesse’s skin flinched, relaxed.

The needle approached again, penetrated.