my head. Duh. She wanted me to forget. Or at least to take the chill pills.
But who am I if I’m not that crazy artist girl?
No, if I take the chill pills, I’ll feel like my brain is swimming in pudding. I won’t see things clearly. I won’t think at the speed of light. Sure, the meds will quiet the hummingbirds; but then my ideas won’t buzz around in my head as if they had tiny wings, too.
A hummingbird would be a great tattoo. Grandfather won’t let me get one until I’m eighteen, though. He said he promised Mom long ago.
Anyway, I decided to work on the tattoo machine I’m modding for Jet, Sasuke-san’s best artist in his downtown shop. She’s into real old-school Japanese tats, like koi fish and big back pieces with lots of color. She always dresses in old, turn-of-last-century-style clothes, but like adapted to today—and with a lot of leather—which might look stupid on some people. It looks hot on her.
So I was modifying this tattoo machine—the gunlike thing that pushes the ink into the skin—to look as if it stepped out of the pages of Jules Verne. I used pieces of copper, distressed wood, and a few gratuitous gears here and there to make it look Victorian. I threw some analog dials and gauges on the power supply to complete the effect.
I’ve done some similar mods for Jet’s friends and mine. I’ve added copper pipe and an antique weather dial to Richie’s bass. And I’ve etched a few mobiles to look like scrimshaw—you know, those designs sailors scratched out on whale bones and teeth hundreds of years ago. I’ve also made a few keyboards look like old metal typewriters, the ones with the round keys. Jet’s friends call the style steampunk, which was this literary-pop art style about thirty or forty years ago. It’s all about making today’s technology look like it would if it had been invented hundreds of years ago. I don’t really see the point, but it’s something to do in the wee hours of the morning when I’m too brain-dead to work on my own stuff.
I like things to be what they’re going to be. Not what they were. Or could have been.
So, I finished the mod and wanted to test it out. It wasn’t any good if Jet couldn’t use it. I slipped an ink cartridge into the machine and tatted on the fleshy part of my left hand, between the thumb and the index finger. It stung as the needle jabbed into my skin. But it wasn’t bad. Actually, I kind of got into it. The pain focused me. I just did a simple circle. Sort of calligraphy style, like I’d done it with a brush and not quite closed it.
The tattoo was red and bleeding when I got done; I cleaned it off and bandaged it. It would heal in a day or so. When I was done admiring my work, I noticed that it was already 8:30. I’d be late for school, if I went. So I decided I’d just go to Grandfather’s shop to see Jet.
It doesn’t open until ten; but she’s always there early, cleaning, setting up her station, doing the books, etc.
“Damn, girl. That’s so glossy,” she said as I set down the machine on her table. She was wearing this leather corset thing and jeans. Like I said, she looked hot.
I dutifully groaned. It was a game we played. She knew I hated that word. She grinned.
“Seriously, Winter,” she said. “That is the coolest mod you’ve done yet. Almost as cool as your sculptures.”
“Sculptures?” a female voice asked from behind the dressing screen in the corner. I hadn’t realized Jet had a customer. A woman emerged with a sheet clutched to her chest. She still had on dress pants and heels. Her hair and makeup were sleek and polished. Very corporate. She looked vaguely familiar, like I’d seen her on a ’cast; but I hardly ever watched except for the news. And the news was mostly mind-numbingly irrelevant, corporate-owned crap.
“She does kinetic sculptures. Very nonglossy,” Jet said as she moved the steampunk machine to a side
But who am I if I’m not that crazy artist girl?
No, if I take the chill pills, I’ll feel like my brain is swimming in pudding. I won’t see things clearly. I won’t think at the speed of light. Sure, the meds will quiet the hummingbirds; but then my ideas won’t buzz around in my head as if they had tiny wings, too.
A hummingbird would be a great tattoo. Grandfather won’t let me get one until I’m eighteen, though. He said he promised Mom long ago.
Anyway, I decided to work on the tattoo machine I’m modding for Jet, Sasuke-san’s best artist in his downtown shop. She’s into real old-school Japanese tats, like koi fish and big back pieces with lots of color. She always dresses in old, turn-of-last-century-style clothes, but like adapted to today—and with a lot of leather—which might look stupid on some people. It looks hot on her.
So I was modifying this tattoo machine—the gunlike thing that pushes the ink into the skin—to look as if it stepped out of the pages of Jules Verne. I used pieces of copper, distressed wood, and a few gratuitous gears here and there to make it look Victorian. I threw some analog dials and gauges on the power supply to complete the effect.
I’ve done some similar mods for Jet’s friends and mine. I’ve added copper pipe and an antique weather dial to Richie’s bass. And I’ve etched a few mobiles to look like scrimshaw—you know, those designs sailors scratched out on whale bones and teeth hundreds of years ago. I’ve also made a few keyboards look like old metal typewriters, the ones with the round keys. Jet’s friends call the style steampunk, which was this literary-pop art style about thirty or forty years ago. It’s all about making today’s technology look like it would if it had been invented hundreds of years ago. I don’t really see the point, but it’s something to do in the wee hours of the morning when I’m too brain-dead to work on my own stuff.
I like things to be what they’re going to be. Not what they were. Or could have been.
So, I finished the mod and wanted to test it out. It wasn’t any good if Jet couldn’t use it. I slipped an ink cartridge into the machine and tatted on the fleshy part of my left hand, between the thumb and the index finger. It stung as the needle jabbed into my skin. But it wasn’t bad. Actually, I kind of got into it. The pain focused me. I just did a simple circle. Sort of calligraphy style, like I’d done it with a brush and not quite closed it.
The tattoo was red and bleeding when I got done; I cleaned it off and bandaged it. It would heal in a day or so. When I was done admiring my work, I noticed that it was already 8:30. I’d be late for school, if I went. So I decided I’d just go to Grandfather’s shop to see Jet.
It doesn’t open until ten; but she’s always there early, cleaning, setting up her station, doing the books, etc.
“Damn, girl. That’s so glossy,” she said as I set down the machine on her table. She was wearing this leather corset thing and jeans. Like I said, she looked hot.
I dutifully groaned. It was a game we played. She knew I hated that word. She grinned.
“Seriously, Winter,” she said. “That is the coolest mod you’ve done yet. Almost as cool as your sculptures.”
“Sculptures?” a female voice asked from behind the dressing screen in the corner. I hadn’t realized Jet had a customer. A woman emerged with a sheet clutched to her chest. She still had on dress pants and heels. Her hair and makeup were sleek and polished. Very corporate. She looked vaguely familiar, like I’d seen her on a ’cast; but I hardly ever watched except for the news. And the news was mostly mind-numbingly irrelevant, corporate-owned crap.
“She does kinetic sculptures. Very nonglossy,” Jet said as she moved the steampunk machine to a side
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