Black ink tattoo of gothic cathedral spires and a crescent moon inside a large geometric triangle on the outer thigh and hip.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Gothic spires and crescent moon in a triangle

Blackwork · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A black ink tattoo shows a silhouette of gothic cathedral spires and a crescent moon, set inside a large triangle with bold geometric lines beneath it. The spires are finely detailed with solid black fills and small windows, while the surrounding triangle, circle and horizontal bars use thick, clean strokes. The black and white photograph is framed from the side, showing the tattoo on the hip and upper thigh against a dark background.

Blackwork Geometric Thigh Crescent moon Triangle City Geometric line

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You take the service lift to the sixth floor at ten to three because the night porter has gone for his tea and the linen trolley will not push itself. The corridor lights have been turned down to the colour of weak tea. At the far window the city has rearranged itself into the shapes your grandmother used to draw for you on the backs of prescription pads: a huddle of spires above the roofs of Ashgrove, their needles pricking the dark, and a thin crescent moon hung over them like a clipped fingernail.

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In bed twelve, Mr Okafor is awake and asks whether the bells have stopped. You tell him the cathedral clock has been run by a motor since before either of you was born, and that nobody climbs the tower to wind it any more. He says that is a shame. You say it is. You tuck the sheet tight under the mattress the way the ward sister taught you, hospital corners, and while he sleeps you find yourself counting the points on the skyline through the glass, the way other people count sheep.

Around four a radio crackles in the stairwell and somebody swears about a bed that won't lock. You go back to the window and the spires are still there, black on grey, cut sharp as paper. Then a delivery van's headlights swing across the car park and the cathedral slides out of focus into ordinary flats with ordinary washing lines, and you realise you have been standing there long enough for the trolley to go cold.

You push it on down the corridor. At the station you tear the top sheet from a pad, sketch three spires and a moon in the margin, and pin it to the board beside the rota. On your way out, the light from the open door of bed twelve lays a triangle across the lino, and you step over it carefully, as if it might bear your weight.