Flesh is Leah’s canvas, although she practises designs on the recently deceased. Those already gelatinizing are just billowing cushions destined to spill their contents.
It is true plein air work, but she makes deals with the undertaker to avoid much of the later decay.
She glances up from within her outdoor work shed, watching hunters traipse down the snow-packed road. The leader carries a gingered crimson bundle. She must hurry, for she’s inking his departed son.
He spots the clothing bundle, his son’s tattered jacket.
With a roar he’s upon her, inking her neck beyond the dermis, down deeper where vessels bleed scarlet into the pulsating black walnut ink.
Copyright © 2016 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Microcosms:
http://microcosmsfic.com/2016/02/19/microcosms-8/#comment-438
