Colour traditional-style tattoo on the inner forearm showing a red gloved hand with a yellow star above two banners reading Don't mess with my funky flow.

Gloved hand and banner on a forearm

Traditional · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

The tattoo shows a red glove with black knuckles and a yellow star, held up above a red shape with a yellow and black detail. Two white banners with black outlines cross the design, with the text Don't mess with my funky flow, and small pink sparkles surround it. Bold black outlines and flat, solid fills give it a classic look, with the subject set against a plain, out-of-focus background and a raised fist above the wrist.

Traditional Lettering Forearm Hand Glove Banner Ribbon Star Sparkle Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The reunion was in the function room above the Crown, and by nine the buffet had been picked over to crusts. I'd come mainly to see Dev Lowther, who once taped a plastic spider to my blazer and then spent the next three years apologising in small, increasingly expensive ways. He was at the bar arguing with the DJ about the bass, and on his right hand he wore a red glove with black fingertips and a gold star stitched near the cuff, the same glove he'd worn every Friday in Year Nine when he did his lunchtime routine in the dinner hall.

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"You still have that thing," I said. He flexed the fingers, slow and serious, like a magician about to rip off a tablecloth. "Don't mess with my funky flow, Sadie," he said, and the whole old crowd by the crisps groaned in unison, because it had been his motto since the talent show that ended with the drama teacher in tears and a fire door propped open with a tuba.

Then he went quiet, which was new. He'd lost the glove that night, he admitted, and Mrs Okafor, who ran the show and never once let him forget it, had kept it in her desk drawer for twenty years. She'd posted it to him last month with a note that said only: Your flow was never the problem. He hadn't known what to do with that, so he'd worn it tonight.

He held it out to me. I pulled it on, a size too big, and the DJ, who had clearly been listening, dropped the bass and faded in the track we'd all once tried to dance to in the sports hall. Dev threw his hands up, the star catching the light, and we stumbled into the middle of the floor, where a few pink glitter flecks from a dead disco ball still clung to the carpet.