A tattooed tale.

Tattooing was his life, all he'd ever known or cared to do. It was a strange world to live in, one that, so very often, was confined to dingy stores in darkened alleyways, yet alive with color and art, beautiful images on flawless flesh, a perfect fusion of dark and light.

Time had taken its toll though and, for the final time, his hand gripped the machine. It buzzed loudly, sending a shivering swarm of bees dancing up his arm and on through the rest of his frail body.

With rheumy eyes, he peered over his glasses at his final piece, a phoenix rising from the ashes, sprayed over the length of the customers back,  a blazing red fireball that seemed to light up the cramped, smoky interior of his workplace.

He etched the last drop of red and, leaning back woozily, admired his work, a smile playing across his tight lips.

Tired now, so very tired. He dropped his head onto his chest and watched as the red ink soaked into his jeans, the catheter attached to the machine having come loose. He flexed his hand and more of the crimson liquid oozed from the opening, the tube snaking up his forearm and into the protruding vein.

His work had been his life and now he had passed it on to his apprentice where, like the phoenix, he would rise again.

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