Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Cracked clock face on an arm
Neo-trad · Forearm · Mixed · Photo
A clock face with Roman numerals appears to be breaking apart, with cracks running through the dial and small black fragments scattering to the right. The linework is bold and the shading is soft black and grey, with loose red strokes sweeping diagonally across the design. The tattoo is centred on a close crop of skin with a dark background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The clock comes off its bracket as the ship rolls to starboard, and you catch it the way you catch everything in a galley, without deciding to. The glass has cracked clean through, a line running from the twelve down past the three and splitting the dial like ice on a pond. Black shards skitter across the deck in the lamplight. Somewhere forward, Hook is bellowing that the Captain's tea is due in four minutes, and the kettle is still cold.
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Ines says the clock has been losing time since Lisbon, a minute a watch, as if it were tired of counting. You tell her it was never the clock. Salt gets into everything, you say, and she laughs and hands you the tin of tacks. You pin the cracked face to the bulkhead beside the spice rack, nudging the hour hand back under the broken numerals with one fingertip, because that is how you have always done things: a little at a time, until the thing looks like it might keep going.
Through the crack, a shaft of red light from the emergency lamp falls across the flour bins and streaks them like a chart of somewhere nobody sails to anymore. You turn the minute hand until it sits on the four. The kettle begins to sing, and the ship, for the first time since the storm off Finisterre, seems to agree with you about the hour.
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