Fine line tattoo of five outlined stars in a diagonal row on the top of an ankle and foot, with white painted toenails.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Five outline stars on a foot

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

Bare feet are crossed on a brown suede surface, with the upper foot showing a small tattoo of five outlined stars arranged in a slanting row. The linework is thin and dark, with no shading, and the stars are open at the centre so the skin shows through. The palette is neutral, with the skin tones and brown background dominating the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You are nineteen and the fair has pitched on the green at Ashby Mere for the August bank holiday, all diesel fumes, frying onions and the tinny waltz of the gallopers. Your job is the star stall for Mr Varley, who owns the rides and nothing else he will admit to. Five tin stars hang on a wire above the counter, each one dented and painted with a number, and the rule is that anyone who knocks all five off with a wooden ball goes home with the star they choose. Nobody ever has. Varley says the stars came off a carousel in Scarborough the year the sea froze, and that they will stay on the wire until somebody plays fair with the sky.

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A girl in a yellow mac comes up the lane just before the lights go down. She has a pencil behind one ear and a shilling she does not want to spend. She asks whether the stars are real, and you tell her the truth, which is that you have never seen one come down. She misses four times, then hits the fifth star so cleanly that it spins on its wire and stops pointing north. She takes the star, leaves the shilling on the counter, and draws you a map on the back of a fairground ticket: a line along the coast, a field with no name, and five small crosses where the wind turns.

By midnight the rides have stopped and Varley is counting the generator fuel into jerrycans. You find the map under the till and realise the wire is bare except for four stars, and the girl's cross marks are the exact shape of the one she took. You fold the ticket into your shirt pocket, take the tin star you kept back for yourself from under the tarpaulin, and climb into the last wagon as the convoy pulls out. Behind you the fair goes dark one lamp at a time, and ahead of you, low over the marsh, the sky is quietly filling in the gaps.

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