Feathers

Last night Rian treampt of the tattoo parlor.

In the dream, Rian lay face down on the grey vinyl bench as Connie worked on my back. She was sculpting into my flesh a single Bird of Paradise, Rian's mother's favorite flower. I could see the colours in my mind's eye as she cut them in, red and orange and yellow and green.

I had my eyes closed, as Connie's knife burned, but twas though I was looking down on my Self, watching the art take place from down the spine.

"This," Rian thought in the dream, "shall please her."

And then perspective shifted. Connie bent over Rian and her earrings brushed Rian's cheek. I opened my eyes, and the earings loomed large, obliterating Rian's view of theh room. Hoops, gold and silver, but adorned with small feathers, miniscule peacock feathers, but painted red and black.

"Bad luck," Dream Rian thought, but I could not take my eyes from the feathers.

Connie moved again, and the earings rustled, and Rian could not look away from their sheen.