Fist with radiating lightning bolts on an ankle
Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo
A clenched fist, shaded with fine hatching, grips a central point while zigzag arrow or lightning-bolt lines burst outwards to both sides. The linework is thin and even, with soft grey shading on the knuckles and wrist. The tattoo is in black ink on pale skin and sits centred on a plain, softly blurred background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Nobody on the Ouse would say how old the chain was, only that it ran from the bow of the Marigold to an iron ring set in the lock wall at Barrow Ferry. When the storm came up over the fen that August, Tom Wragge was ashore arguing with the lock-keeper about the toll, and it was his sister Agnes who stood on the deck with the chain in her two hands.
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The sky split above the reeds. The bolt came down the wet links like a dog down a rope, and Agnes shut her fist on the iron and did not let go. She felt it run up her arm and through her teeth, a hum that filled the hold and the cabin and the bones of the barge. The Marigold rocked but did not pitch. The bolt went out of her fingers in threads, four, six, a dozen zigzags fanning off across the flat black water, and each one hissed into the reeds and went quiet.
Tom found her later, sitting on the hatch with her palm blistered in a neat square. The lock-keeper had watched the whole thing from his doorway and never once come out to help. He came down the towpath now with his cap in his hands and asked, very politely, whether she might hold the chain again next time the sky turned sour, for the lock gates were rotting and nobody else could stand it.
Agnes looked at the river. "Pay the toll," she said, "and I'll think about it."
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