By Max King Cap
Tattoos, by then, were just too lubberly. She required more. Both inside and out.
The arc of beads in her forehead had proved an intoxicating joy—the phases of the moon illustrated beneath her skin—a declaration of her kinship with the otherworldly; her name was Phoebe, after all.
Arcing across her frontal bone was the new Moon, waxing crescent, first quarter, waxing gibbous, full Moon, waning gibbous, third quarter, and waning crescent.
Each glance in the mirror delighted her, every stranger’s perusal—shocked or admiring, jealous or revolted—was an approbation of her choice to step beyond being merely human.
Hello Max,
Deliciously descriptive: every word chosen with exquisite discrimination and verve.
Thank you, Cathryn. Your response is much appreciated, especially because I’m more used to nonfiction. I particularly appreciate the elegance of your feedback.
Sincerely,
Max