Page 15 - Nihil Alchemia CRUCIBLE Issue One MAY 2020 Flip Book

J.M. Hemmings is as avid a reader as he is a
writer. He reads slightly more non-fiction than
it would not be my first tattoo hearted question, asking if I’m okay fiction, but enjoys spending many hours losing
either; that was a three-hour piece as he beautifully mutilates me.
done on my upper arm a few months Nostrils flared, teeth clenched himself in both, and particularly enjoys books
prior. The pain of the mechanised against the raging petrol fire about history, animals, the environment and
devouring the entire left side of
needle-weapon was different then; my chest and upper ribs, I nod and ecology. Originally from South Africa, he lived
a mild taster of what was to come, gasp out a strangled “yes” every in Taiwan for almost a decade, travelled in

the first freebie a sly-smiling drug time he speaks, even though every Asia and now resides in England with his wife
pusher hands out, knowing you’ll fibre of my being silently howls and and a feisty cockatiel. When he’s not reading,
be back for a real hit soon with beseeches me to get up and flee, writing, or thinking about writing, he loves
a fistful of cash and a zealous cursing me for the short-sighted playing the drums, listening to music, drawing,
look in your eyes. That ink had idiocy of choosing to sit through cinema, being outdoors in nature, and riding
been seared onto my skin in a quiet a five-hour torture session. Towards motorcycles. His environmental-historical-
studio, where I was spared the gaze the end I am counting every second, urban fantasy novel Path of the Tiger is available
of thousands of eager eyes. my trembling fingers digging into from Amazon and other online ebook retailers.
the faux leather of the chair in a
Now my marathon of pain is a death grip. Reality and the realm of
public spectacle, my half-nude nightmares and dreams have melded
body spread across a pleather- in a surreal blend. The ceaseless
backed dentist’s chair. In addition crowd flows by like a river of souls
to the fiery stabs of the hammering bound for the underworld. I feel as
needles, I must contort my body if the pain will never end, that I’ve
and hold it in an awkward position been plucked from the present and
to allow the tattooist to work thrust into some sort of purgatory
comfortably; his living canvas must realm … but then, abruptly, Shefu
not shift and wriggle, regardless Tsai gets up, steps back, looks at
of how much dull aching and sharp the blood and ink on my chest and
bursts of agony are throbbing in nods with satisfaction.
my muscles.
He turns off his tattoo gun;
it is done. Finally, the elusive
Shefu Tsai works tirelessly. His endorphins return to me. I am back
hands have been on my bare skin in the present, and it has been
for hours now, and his tools have worth it; every precious, agonising
broken my skin and extracted my second. Fresh ink, dark and stark
blood without pause for an entire and sticky with blood … and despite
afternoon. I am little more than the lingering burn, I already hunger
an inanimate canvas to him; every
now and then he grunts out a half- for more.