Colour tattoo of a clock face with Roman numerals XII and VI and anime-style game characters on the inner forearm, in neo-traditional style.

Clock face with video game characters on a forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A colour tattoo of a crescent-shaped clock face with Roman numerals XII and VI, framing several anime-style game characters, including a red-haired figure, a green frog-like creature, a blonde character and a robot head. Bold black outlines define the shapes, with red, green, yellow and orange ink and a dark teal background behind the figures. The design wraps along the inner forearm and fills most of the frame against plain skin.

Neo-trad Forearm Clock Roman numeral Red hair Frog Robot Crescent

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The clock above Ashby Cross had stopped at twenty past eleven the winter the bakery burned, and nobody had thought to wind it since. Tess Corran found the key in her grandfather's coat lining on the first warm Saturday in June, rusted to a lump, and carried it up the tower stairs with a flask of tea and a paper bag of boiled sweets for the pigeons. Inside, the wheels were furred with dust, and a small brass frog had been wedged between two gears, holding them still. Tess eased it out with her thumbnail. It was warm, though the tower was cold, and it blinked at her with one lamp-bright eye. "Took you long enough," it said, in the flat voice of a man reading the shipping forecast. "Mind the spring. The robot's not finished sulking."

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The robot's head sat in a niche beside the escapement, its jaw hinged open as if it had been about to speak for seventy years. When Tess touched its brow, the green lamps flickered on. "Twelve and six," it said. "That's the trouble. Everything in this town is stuck between the two, and the hour in the middle is where the bakery burned." She asked what it wanted. It asked for the sweets.

She wound the clock that evening while the frog drowsed and the robot hummed to itself. At six the bells rang true, and the square filled with the smell of fresh bread from ovens that had been rebuilt. Tess found her grandfather's handwriting scratched under the dial, faint as pencil: Give the robot the sweets, girl. He never could say sorry. She sat on the step with the empty paper bag and listened to the town start breathing again.