Honourable mention in the 7th Annual Geist Literal Literary Postcard Story Contest.

Blue was the tattoo guy—his real name was Bill but you called him what he wanted you to call him and what he wanted you to call him was Blue, so you called him Blue, we all called him Blue, Blue even called him Blue, he’d say, Blue’s gonna fix you up right, and he’d stick the needle in your shoulder/back/ankle/wrist and fix you up right—you’d walk right outta there fixed up right, fixed right up, or just plain fixed if you were the kind who took painkillers (a girl or a sissy), so Blue fixed everyone right up, and you were part of that which meant he fixed you up too that time you walked in, walked right into his parlor—back in those days you had to make an appointment, but you didn’t (make an appointment, I mean, not didn’t have to, we all had to, Blue’s brother had to, but that meant nothing, Blue wasn’t the kind of guy who had a brother or at least the time of day to give a brother if he had one which anyway we weren’t sure he did), you walked right in, right through the door of Blue’s parlor and the floor was tiled and Blue looked up, he was a big guy, you know, but the guy under the needle was bigger, but the guy under the needle was crying, the needle going thunkthunk into his back, and Blue looked up at you and stood up and looked at you and said, Get the hell outta here, and you ran tripped over the doorstep ran and came back the next day, walked right back in one day right after you’d first walked in and said, Whatever you were doing to him you do it to me, you said, I can take it, you said, no problem—then Blue looked at you and kicked some acne-kid out of the chair with his piece half-finished and you sat down and Blue said, You want the same picture as him, and you said, Whatever you did, okay, whatever you did and Blue shrugged, just kind of shrugged, and started fitting a cartridge into a gun, he had his Celtic circle around his wrist—you could see it twitching from where you were lying, your back exposed, head to one side, face pressing the plastic headrest of the chair—then Blue’s hands disappeared and something came down thunkthunk on your back like a wasp sting made of lead but it wasn’t so bad really not so bad not worth crying not worth biting the plastic seat you relax your jaw breathe remember to breathe then the tattoo guy—Blue, name’s Blue—stood back sort of grunted so you took a breath—breathe—got to your feet blinked took a step, another, blues—blue, Blue is—frowning, the world’s bleaching turning someone said everyone has gravity you fall toward the earth falls back




Lucia Corak lives in Montreal, where she is studying theatre design and creative writing at Concordia University. “Blue’s” is her first published story.

Virginia Star established a successful name as a press photographer for ten years with one of Australia’s most prestigious media companies, The Fairfax Newspaper Group—working on The Australian Financial Review, The Sun-Herald & the Sydney Morning Herald newspapers as well as BRW, Shares, Personal Investor magazines and as the Picture Editor of the Fairfax Annual Report for 6 years.

Star lives in Melbourne, Australia. She works freelance, travels extensively & contributes images to




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