The tattoo began to grow. The ink wasn’t bleeding, as is usual of a tattoo. Something green seeped up and out of the black lines. It spread and it grew until she couldn’t ignore it anymore. This shouldn’t be happening. It was the middle of the night. She had been sleeping. The dark emerald substance clawed its way around her left shoulder, across her back, capturing her waist and neck. She watched it take her over in the mirror across the room and thought about screaming for her father. But she couldn’t. Not yet. When the wings appeared, she did.
A 100-word vignette that belongs to the world of my political fantasy novel.