Two clasped hands with black dotwork stars, small symbols on the fingers and a large dotwork eye design on the back of one hand, with gold rings worn on several fingers.

Dotwork stars and eye tattoo across clasped hands

Dotwork · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

Two hands are clasped together, showing black tattoos on the backs of the hands and fingers. The largest design is a symmetrical eye-like motif surrounded by stippled dots and small star shapes, with simple symbols and marks on the fingers. The shading is built from dense dots and fine lines in black ink, set against a dark background with gold rings adding a contrasting colour.

Dotwork Hand Hand Eye Star Dot Symbol Ring Mandala

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The last train has gone and the lost property cupboard at the end of platform six smells of wet umbrellas. You sign the ledger with the pen on its chain, the way Mrs Okafor taught you before her knees gave out, and tip the Tuesday bag onto the counter. Gloves, a child's welly, a bus pass belonging to a man called Dennis. Then the rings, six of them, gold and heavy, knocking together like marbles in a tin.

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Nobody has claimed them in three weeks. The notice on the board by the ticket office is curling at the corners. You hold the widest band up to the strip light and its shoulders are worn smooth, as if a thumb has turned it a thousand times on a long wait. Taped inside the cupboard door is a photocopied map of the Eastern line, with a pencil circle round Ely that nobody has ever explained to you.

The tannoy clicks on above you and a flat voice announces the 23:40 to nowhere in particular. That is when you see the inside of the widest ring has been stamped with a tiny open eye, ringed round with dots and small stars, the same stars the council painted on the concourse ceiling before they stopped paying for the paint. You turn it until the light finds the stamp again, and you feel watched by a thing that is not looking at you.

You log them as found and bag them, and because the ledger has a column headed Collected by, you leave it blank and go home. In the morning the cupboard door is open a crack. The bag is gone. In the column, in neat capitals you do not recognise, someone has written your name, and beneath it, drawn in fine black ink, a small eye with stars around it.