Wednesday, September 2, 2009

The ultimate cure for writing is... more writing.


Chapter one.

Ever since Caitlin Ciccone was little, she's wanted a tattoo. Nothing elaborate, just a simple pawprint in the small of her back in memory of Madonna, her childhood cocker spaniel--who had unfortunately had to be put down because like so many blonde cockers, she suffered from Rage Syndrome.

Today was her eighteenth birthday (Caitlin's, not Madonna's), and by God, she was getting it done. Despite all her roommate's cracks about tramp stamps and California license plates. She'd had the appointment for two weeks, and her dad was going to kill her if he ever found out--no bikinis in the swimming pool back home!--but she was going ahead with it.

As she lay face down on the brown vinyl bench, the tattoo artist was making conversation as he arranged the transfer paper over her coccyx. "You a Huskies fan? Women's basketball? I loved that Rebecca Lobo back in the day."

The cradle kept Caitlin from shaking her head. "Pawprints are a basketball thing?" be continued...

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