Angela's Magic Lesson - Inked

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Angela felt another strange sensation run throughout her skin. It felt as though she was being pricked and scratched all over. She pulled back a sleeve to find that images were appearing on her, line by line and filling with color. There were so many appearing so quickly that her body began to grow, if only to make room for more art. Her clothes changed with her. Her sleeves receded and her fishnets became sheer, all to show off the designs covering her from head to toe. Her hair gained red highlights just because.

Angela examined herself, looking at the myriad tattoos. To the casual observer, it was a mishmash of images and ideas, but each one was something that had personal meaning to her. Beyond the surface, however, were the ways her body had changed. Clearly, she had grown older. But she had grown stockier as well, a far cry from the pale waif she had been just moments ago. It was the kind of body built for holding a heavy pen and being perched on a stool for long periods of time.

Then it hit her: the designs across her skin, were they hers? She had always liked to draw in her spare time, but never anything on the scale or detail of all of this. It seemed that in the span of an afternoon magical experiment, Angela had blown past teenage Gothic despair, zeroed in on what she liked, and made something out of it. She wondered if she should open a studio in Underborough Square. The way things had gone up to this point, she wondered if she already had one. Either way, she was satisfied with putting the sulking behind her.


THE END ...or is it?


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