Black and grey tattoo of a dreamcatcher with feathers beside the word Dreamer in script on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Dreamer lettering and dreamcatcher on wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey photograph of a wrist and forearm showing a tattoo of a dreamcatcher with hanging feathers on the left, with the word Dreamer written in a flowing gothic-style script to the right. The linework is solid and fairly bold, with simple grey shading in the feathers and the hoop. The photo is taken close up against a plain light background with a dark bag strap at the right edge.

Lettering Forearm Dreamcatcher Feather Word Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The wasps had found the windfalls again by the time Nan decided the packing shed needed a dreamcatcher. She bent a strip of willow into a hoop, wove it with baler twine until the middle looked like a spider had lost its temper, and tied two grey feathers from the pigeons under the gutter to the bottom. "Keeps the bad sleep out," she said, though she was up at five every morning and never once seemed to need the help.

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I was sixteen that August, picking Bramleys off the long row by the stream, and most of what I thought about was Bristol and the art school letter I kept folded in my back pocket. Every time the shed door opened the feathers swung and knocked against the hoop with a sound like someone tapping a cup. I started drawing it in the margin of the picking ledger, the hoop, the hanging feathers, the loose ends of twine, and Nan caught me at it and laughed in the way that meant she was pleased.

She wrote a word on the lid of the apple crate that week in thick black marker, letters with sharp tails and hooks, like the lettering on the old church board. DREAMER. "Daft word for someone who counts fruit," I said. She tapped the ledger with one finger. "You count what you're going to be, love. That's all a dreamer does." I had no answer, so I rolled my eyes and went back to the trees.

The train left from Taunton on the first Monday in September with the letter in my pocket and the ledger in my bag. Somewhere past Bridgwater I opened it and found my drawing traced over in pencil, the hoop gone heavier, and beneath it a single line in her cramped hand: Let the rest blow through.