Close photo of a coloured tattoo of a green-faced creature with tendril-like hair on the sole of a foot, set on a blue wash, against grass.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Green-faced creature tattoo on a sole

Other · Mixed · Photo

A small tattoo of a stylised face with wild, tendril-like hair sits on the sole of a foot. The face is shaded in grey and green with purple lips and eyes, and its outlines are fine and dark. A blue wash surrounds the design on the skin, and the foot is held up against a grassy background with green painted toenails visible on the other foot.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The starter had been sulking since Tuesday, and I was up at four with my forearms in cold flour, talking to it the way my nan talked to her hens. The bakery on Harrow Lane smelled of yeast and bleach. Nobody came in before half five, so the back room was mine, and the drain beside the proving cabinet had started gurgling again as if it had something to say.

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That morning something came up out of it. First a smell like pond weed in July, then a hand, long-fingered and the green of old copper, and then a face with hair that unspooled like wet bindweed across the tiles. Its lips were the purple of blackberries left too long on the bush, and its eyes were the same. It looked at the rising dough, then at me, and said in a voice like a kettle coming to the boil, "You've been feeding him wrong."

"Him?" It nodded at the starter jar. The starter was a lodger, it explained, a yeast spirit the drain folk had tended since this building was a dye works, and I had been pouring in tap water that had been through too many pipes. It wanted a cupful of rainwater from the butt by the bins, a pinch of nettle, and an end to wiping the bench with bleach, which was why the drain had gone quiet and then loud. I tipped the rainwater in, half expecting nothing, and the jar frothed over the rim like it had been waiting all week.

By six the loaves were blistering gold and the creature had gone back down the plughole. A trail of green footprints dried on the tiles, each with a faint wash of blue like the sea off Cromer. I still find them there in the mornings, and I don't mop them up. The bread has never risen so well.

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