Colour tattoo of a Darth Vader helmet with a starry background and blue and purple watercolour splashes, on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Darth Vader helmet in watercolour on upper arm

Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A large tattoo of a Darth Vader helmet, shown from the front, fills the upper arm and sits against a starry background. The helmet is rendered in dark grey and black with soft highlights, while loose blue, purple and teal washes and paint-like drips surround it. The image is a close crop of the arm against a plain white top, with the colour ink dominating the composition.

Upper arm Darth vader Helmet Star wars Star Space Splatter Drip

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The paint was meant for the bulkhead, not the ceiling, but Mags had the tin open before I could stop her. Cobalt first, then violet, slopping over the lip of the tray and running down the steel in long fingers. We were four days out of Hull with a hold full of pipe and a skipper who wouldn't let anyone touch the heating, so the galley was the only warm room on the Maud Ellery. If it was going to be blue, that was the galley's business now, and I was the one who had to live under it.

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Above the sink hung the old welding helmet nobody had worn since the yard fitter walked off in Grimsby. Black, dented, its two lenses blank as a shut eye. When the extractor fan kicked over, its grille breathed in and out. At two in the morning, with the porthole gone black and the potatoes waiting, I'd talk to it. It never answered, which I counted in its favour.

Mags dipped a brush in the violet and flicked it across the helmet's dome, then across the ceiling, and every speck became a star. By the fourth watch the whole galley looked like the sky over the North Sea with the rig lights switched off. I stood on a crate with a rag, meaning to wipe it before the skipper came down for his tea. Instead I left the teal drips running to the floor, because the crew had stopped swearing at the cooker and started sitting still to look.

We docked on the Tuesday and the fitter came aboard to strip the place. He found the helmet on its hook, one lens glinting with a single white dot where Mags had dabbed the brush. He didn't take it. Nobody did. I still turn the old stockpot lid over on cold nights, and the grille fogs, and the sky on the ceiling comes out to meet it.