Blue UV-reactive tattoo of the word Lumos with a star burst on the back of a hand, shown glowing under blacklight, in a lettering style.

Glowing UV lettering reading Lumos on a hand

Lettering · Hand · Colour · Photo

The photograph shows the back of a hand with the word Lumos in a flowing script, with a small star burst beside the final letter. The ink glows bright blue under ultraviolet light, so the linework is smooth and solid with no visible shading. The composition is close and slightly angled, with a dark background and a strip of tape or dressing at the wrist.

Lettering Hand Lettering Star Sunburst Uv ink

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lamp on Scarrow Head has run by itself since 1979, but you still climb the hundred and twelve iron steps every dusk, because the old inspector said the sea does not read timetables. Tonight the fog lies so thick on the Ness that the rocks have vanished and the gulls sit on nothing at all. Your nephew Tomas waits at the foot of the stairwell with a torch he has been told not to point at anyone, and he is sulking about it.

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Tomas has been reading a library book about a boy who makes light out of a single word. He asks, not quite joking, whether the tower still has any magic left in it. You tell him about the door at the top, the one your father painted the year the tower was declared safe for visitors. He bought a tin of glow paint from the chandler's on Harbour Row, and the lettering only shows under the blacklight bulb hung beside the stairs: a looping Lumos, with a little sunburst kicked off the last letter like a spark.

In the lamp room the glass is beaded with damp, and the great lens throws its sweep across the water with the same patience it has always had. You do not need a spell. You need the switch on the backup panel, which has been sticking since March. You press it once, then again, and the lamp stutters into life, and the blacklight on the stairwell comes up with it. Tomas says the word under his breath, the way children say things they only half believe. Out in the murk a diesel engine coughs, then steadies.

The door at the stair-head turns blue, the whole star at once, and its glow falls through the fog like a line someone has drawn across the sea. The engine note bends towards it. Tomas grins at you, then at the door. "That's not magic," he says. "No," you say, wiping the glass with your sleeve. "It's paint. Mostly it's paint."