Post #790, wherein I tell of a story and of my own involvement in it coming to an end, for now

Once upon a time, in a land far away from mine, a lady wrote a story. This was no ordinary story, though, and the way in which it would be shared was also to be unique.

The story was called "Skin"; the author was called Shelley Jackson.

And the story was destined to be read by only a small number of people, seemingly just 2,095 in fact. Those 2,095 people would receive their copy of the story in the mail, in a yellow-brown envelope marked "Do Not Bend".

What must one do to receive such a rare and unusual literary work?, you might ask.

Aye, there's the rub...

I received my envelope about ten days ago. In it was my copy of the story, hand-bound, and with one word highlighted with a ring around it.

One word highlighted. One word in a story that contains 2,095 words.

Yes, in order to have received this very special prize, I, along with 2,094 other willing participants, had to "become" a word and have that word tattooed upon myself.

We, the 2,095 words, are the only people who will ever see the story in its entirety.

We, the 2,095 words, are the story.

This has been a long journey.

First, probably in late 2004, I applied to be part of the project, citing my interest in tattooing and my job being in publishing. I told Shelley that I thought this was an exciting project that combined those two worlds.

I was accepted, and I was sent my word, over which I had no choice, in March 2005. I had it tattooed in May 2005 and mailed my photographic evidence and model release back in July.

And now, finally... suddenly... it's all over.

Until I die. Ms Jackson has pledged to try to attend the funerals of all her words. Of course, I hope to outlive her. Is that wrong?

If you are interested in seeing some of the words' tattoos, go here. Mine is on there. Scroll down to "molt."