Black and grey dotwork and geometric tattoo on an upper arm showing a classical bust with flames, a galaxy band across the eyes and a single tear.

Classical bust with flames on upper arm

Dotwork · Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A classical stone-style bust with a moustache and a tear below one eye sits on the upper arm, with flames rising from its head and a galaxy-filled band covering the eyes. Fine engraved hatching and stippling shade the face and drapery, while faceted geometric shards and dotted triangle lines extend around the design. Orange and yellow ink appears in the flames and the galaxy band, with the rest in black and grey.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the step, that third flagstone rocks, and don't lean on the urn, it was my grandfather's and it has opinions. Now. You've come about the head in the box hedge, the one with the moustache. Everyone does. Old Mr Lacey, who had the house before the war, used to say it had been a senator, or a bishop, or a baker who lied about his bread, depending on the year and how much cider he'd had.

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The truth is plainer and sadder. A carver from Lucca came up the drive in the summer of 1911 with a block of pale stone and a commission to make a likeness of Lacey's son, who had gone into the sea off the Cornish coast and not come back. The carver worked six weeks. On the last morning he struck the stone once too hard, and a crack ran through the brow. Lacey, half mad with the telegram still in his coat, had the bust dragged to the bottom lawn and set alight with the hedge clippings, so the grief would burn out of it. It did not burn out. The stone blackened and the flames went up through the crack as if they had somewhere else to be.

Night came, and a sky settled over its eyes, the soot lifting into a band of cinders that glowed like the Milky Way seen from a boat. Every morning after that, the carver came back with his folding rule and measured the pieces that had fallen from the brow. He never finished. The gardeners and I have counted them since: twelve shards, sharp as cut paper, laid out on the gravel in a loose triangle, as though somebody meant to build a house out of them and kept losing the plan.

So mind the step on your way out. If you see a tear on that cheek, don't wipe it. The rain puts it there, mostly.

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