By Tonya R. Moore
Copyright © Tonya R. Moore
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Rastaman gone somewhat astray, the devout artist had adopted flesh for his canvas. Everything about him was dark, from the curl of his brows to his countenance when he eased back and stood studying his handiwork.
The silent woman in the claw-toed tub sat leaning forward. The thick braid of her hair was twisted into a samurai's knot. Like his hand, the bathwater was muddy with her blood and neat little slivers of her skin. The pattern three quarter ways carved into her back was Yggdrasil with gnarly roots coiling deep down into the core of the earth, knotty canopy cradling nine heavenly blossoms.
"What you crave," he hummed along with the radio absently. "What makes a body move...?"
He twirled the scalpel between his sticky fingers. The floor boards creaked as he slowly left the center of the studio. He went to the far end. Something thin and metal clattered around inside a stainless steel sink. The tap spluttered and began to flow. He spent nearly a full minute there, carefully washing his hands.