Collage of black cross flash designs around a black and grey photo of a small thin cross tattoo on the back of a neck.

Cross designs with a small neck cross photo

Neck · Black and grey · Flash

The image is a collage of fifteen solid black cross silhouettes in varied gothic and ornate shapes, with a black and grey photograph in the centre. The photograph shows a small, thin, straight-lined cross tattoo on the nape of a neck, partly framed by loose hair. The lighting is soft and the background is a plain light fabric, with the focus on the tattoo.

Neck Cross Crosses Flash sheet Hair

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Shut that door properly, Albert, the sea gets in through every crack in this house and it finds the letterbox first. Sit yourself by the range where the lamp can reach you, because this is the story of the cross on the back stair, and I'll tell it only the once, the way my mother told it to me, and not a word of it to the lodgers.

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In the spring of nineteen twelve there was a clerk in number seven called Thomas Vosper, who wore his collar high and came down to breakfast only when the kippers had gone cold. Every morning he walked the cliff path with a stick and a paper sack of nails, and every evening he came back with gorse caught on his coat. Nobody asked his business. You don't ask a man his business in a boarding house, you just count his sheets and keep your nose out of his drawers.

Then my sister found the crosses. They were on the harbour wall, dozens of them, painted in tar, thin and straight as a ruler, every arm the same length, and beneath the last one, in small careful capitals, the word ENOUGH. Thomas had gone with the Tuesday tide and left his rent paid to the end of the month, and the only thing he took was the stick. The fishermen said he'd been marking the places where boats went down, the widows said he'd got the count wrong, and the vicar said nothing at all.

There was one thing he left behind. On the sill of number seven I found a bent nail, twisted into a cross no longer than my thumb. I kept it, and every time I hang my keys on it I think about how a plain thing done often enough turns into a kind of prayer. Mind the third stair on your way up, Albert. It still creaks for him.