Read Online Memento Nora by Angie Smibert - Free Book Online
Authors: Angie Smibert
Tags: General Fiction
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table.
“Extraordinary,” the woman said as she lay down on her stomach across Jet’s client table. There was the black outline of a tiger across her creamy white back. She was looking at the dials on the power supply of my mod. “Does it work?” she asked.
“Yeah, it does,” I answered, holding out my hand.
Jet took my hand and peeled open the gauze. “You did this?” she asked as she led me by the hand to her after-station. She cleaned off the tattoo with alcohol and rubbed something else into it. The black ink popped against my glistening skin. She studied it appraisingly. “That’s really good. It looks simple; but a perfect circle is really hard to do, especially if you’ve never tattooed before.” She put fresh gauze on my hand. “Girl, you can apprentice under me anytime,” she said with a smile.
“Hey, I thought that was my position,” the woman with the half-drawn tiger on her back said.
Jet smacked her on the rear. “And you better remember that, my love,” she said before she pulled on her gloves.
Figures , Jet has a girlfriend. I don’t know why I thought she could like me. I started backing toward the door.
“Did you use a stencil?” Jet asked.
“Stencil?” It hadn’t even occurred to me to use any kind of stencil or even to draw it freehand first. I just did it. Of course, I’d seen Grandfather and Jet work before. They usually drew up the design and then copied it onto a stencil, which they applied to the client’s skin. Then they inked over the lines.
“Don’t tell me you did that freehand.” Jet looked incredulous.
“Show me how to make a stencil,” I said, a new hummingbird flitting around in my brain.
Stencil. Ink. Paper. That just might work.
13
Now Who’s
Being Paranoid?
Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-11
Subject: JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15
Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42
Winter sent a message that she had a surprise for Micah and me after school.
Her surprise was set up on the low table in the pagoda at the center of her garden.
“It’s just the guts so far,” Winter explained. “But it works. Later I’ll fix it so you can feed the original into a slot and it’ll all print out.”
One part of the contraption looked like a scanner or copier. It was a wide, low box with a glass top and a slot below. The other part looked like a big tin can with a crank handle.
Winter pulled on some cheap disposable gloves and laid the comic facedown on the glass. She pressed a button, and a light scanned the image from below; nothing unusual, but instead of paper a shiny sheet of goo oozed out of the slot.
“Gelatin,” Winter said. “It’s a stencil.” The stencil had an impression of the comic. Winter lifted the glass and showed us, Micah mostly, how she’d put an old dot matrix printer, a piece of junk from the 1990s, under the hood to cut the stencil. This kind of printer used real pressure rather than ink or light to make an image. A roll of homemade gelatin-backed paper was also under the hood.
Winter held up the stencil to the light. “If you wanted to,” she told Micah, “you could freehand right on this with a stylus.” Then she put the stencil faceup on the tin can thing, clipping it in place with the tiny metal holders that were screwed into the can. She cranked the handle slowly. The contraption printed out a fresh black-and-white copy of Memento .
“The ink’s from Grandfather’s shop. He makes it himself. I had to tweak it a little for print.”
Micah snatched up the copy.
“It’s kind of messy,” I said, straining to look over his shoulder. Some of the lines weren’t that crisp, but it still looked good.
“I probably need to put more drying agent in the ink,” Winter said. “Plus, it’ll get better the more we do it.”
Micah held up the paper to the light. “I bet I can touch up the master with a razor blade.”
“Extraordinary,” the woman said as she lay down on her stomach across Jet’s client table. There was the black outline of a tiger across her creamy white back. She was looking at the dials on the power supply of my mod. “Does it work?” she asked.
“Yeah, it does,” I answered, holding out my hand.
Jet took my hand and peeled open the gauze. “You did this?” she asked as she led me by the hand to her after-station. She cleaned off the tattoo with alcohol and rubbed something else into it. The black ink popped against my glistening skin. She studied it appraisingly. “That’s really good. It looks simple; but a perfect circle is really hard to do, especially if you’ve never tattooed before.” She put fresh gauze on my hand. “Girl, you can apprentice under me anytime,” she said with a smile.
“Hey, I thought that was my position,” the woman with the half-drawn tiger on her back said.
Jet smacked her on the rear. “And you better remember that, my love,” she said before she pulled on her gloves.
Figures , Jet has a girlfriend. I don’t know why I thought she could like me. I started backing toward the door.
“Did you use a stencil?” Jet asked.
“Stencil?” It hadn’t even occurred to me to use any kind of stencil or even to draw it freehand first. I just did it. Of course, I’d seen Grandfather and Jet work before. They usually drew up the design and then copied it onto a stencil, which they applied to the client’s skin. Then they inked over the lines.
“Don’t tell me you did that freehand.” Jet looked incredulous.
“Show me how to make a stencil,” I said, a new hummingbird flitting around in my brain.
Stencil. Ink. Paper. That just might work.
13
Now Who’s
Being Paranoid?
Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-11
Subject: JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15
Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42
Winter sent a message that she had a surprise for Micah and me after school.
Her surprise was set up on the low table in the pagoda at the center of her garden.
“It’s just the guts so far,” Winter explained. “But it works. Later I’ll fix it so you can feed the original into a slot and it’ll all print out.”
One part of the contraption looked like a scanner or copier. It was a wide, low box with a glass top and a slot below. The other part looked like a big tin can with a crank handle.
Winter pulled on some cheap disposable gloves and laid the comic facedown on the glass. She pressed a button, and a light scanned the image from below; nothing unusual, but instead of paper a shiny sheet of goo oozed out of the slot.
“Gelatin,” Winter said. “It’s a stencil.” The stencil had an impression of the comic. Winter lifted the glass and showed us, Micah mostly, how she’d put an old dot matrix printer, a piece of junk from the 1990s, under the hood to cut the stencil. This kind of printer used real pressure rather than ink or light to make an image. A roll of homemade gelatin-backed paper was also under the hood.
Winter held up the stencil to the light. “If you wanted to,” she told Micah, “you could freehand right on this with a stylus.” Then she put the stencil faceup on the tin can thing, clipping it in place with the tiny metal holders that were screwed into the can. She cranked the handle slowly. The contraption printed out a fresh black-and-white copy of Memento .
“The ink’s from Grandfather’s shop. He makes it himself. I had to tweak it a little for print.”
Micah snatched up the copy.
“It’s kind of messy,” I said, straining to look over his shoulder. Some of the lines weren’t that crisp, but it still looked good.
“I probably need to put more drying agent in the ink,” Winter said. “Plus, it’ll get better the more we do it.”
Micah held up the paper to the light. “I bet I can touch up the master with a razor blade.”
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