Black and white photo of a fine line geometric hot air balloon tattoo with small square motifs on the inner forearm.

Geometric hot air balloon on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a forearm with a geometric hot air balloon tattoo. The balloon is drawn in thin black lines filled with angular stripes and triangles, with a smaller basket-like section and a few tiny square and dash motifs around it. The blurred background shows a desk, a laptop and a water bottle, with the arm resting in the foreground.

Fine line Geometric Forearm Hot air balloon Balloon Triangle Geometric shape Square

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the step, boy, and keep your hands out of your pockets. That's Dai Rowlands standing there with the rope, and he has been trying to get that thing off the ground since the Tuesday after the Whitsun strike. Nobody in Cwm Hafod had seen a balloon except in the Western Mail, which Mrs Pryce pinned by the chapel door. So Dai took three old tarpaulins the deputies had written off as spoiled and cut them into triangles. He would trust nothing curved. A curve, he said, is a lie a man tells himself when he has not measured.

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He stitched the stripes in black tar line, because that was the only ink the colliery had, and he hung a basket beneath made from lamp boxes, each with a square of tin nailed to its side. The little dashes were sparks, he said, the ones that jumped from the wire when the cage stuck halfway down number three. Emrys Pugh, who was twelve and too small for the coal face, held the guy rope and counted the seams aloud. Forty-one seams, and not one of them crooked.

On the last Saturday in August the wind came off the tips from the south, and Dai lit the fire pan under the mouth of the bag. Slowly the canvas filled. Men came out of the Institute with their caps in their hands, and the women stood along the chapel wall with their arms folded, not wanting to be seen to hope. The balloon lifted a yard, then two, then cleared the headgear of number three altogether, and its striped shadow ran down the slag heap like a ladder somebody had dropped.

Emrys let go of the rope. Nobody scolded him for it, and Dai never built another. The tarpaulins went back to the stores, and to this day a sharp-eyed lad can find a scrap of that canvas in the lamp room, a triangle with a tar line running off its edge, and a dash of black beside it where the spark jumped.