Abstract Plane

Humor and satire from an abstract plane


The Raven Tattoo

Lisette proudly looked at the raven tattoo on her forearm with a smug smile. It was only three o’clock and she’d already had three tattoo compliments that day. The raven was small, but vivid and lifelike, about the size of a quarter, shown in profile as if staring at something happening near Lisette’s left elbow.

She’d wanted a raven tattoo for weeks, since hearing that song about a sobbing raven at that club where she drank vodka tonics. She couldn’t get the image of a crying raven out of her mind. She saw it huddled under a sad willow tree, in an abandoned cemetery, crying its raven eyes out like a desperate outcast.

Trent had argued against it. “It’s bad luck,” he said, making a peppermint licorice mocha at Mochanation. “The raven’s a creature of dire omens and evil portents.”

“Says who?” Lisette stopped wiping down the counter to listen.

“Says anyone who knows anything about symbols.” Trent used his most maddening, condescending tone. “You clearly know nothing about dark birds and their related mythic motifs.”

“I don’t care. I just like how it looks,” she answered in a stubborn whine. “Plus that sobbing raven song was cool. ‘Cry on raven, cry on.’”

“Jesus, Lisette. You’re as shallow as a bacterial petri dish.” Trent shot her an impatient look with his somber grey eyes.  “Aren’t you familiar with Native American belief systems? They thought ravens could possess people.”

Continued: https://vocal.media/fiction/the-raven-tattoo



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