Realistic tattoo of a black hockey puck with a red and white winged emblem, appearing to break through torn skin on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hockey puck with winged emblem on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A close photograph of a forearm showing a hockey puck tattoo with a red and white winged wheel emblem on its top face. The puck is shaded in black and grey to give a three-dimensional look, and thin red lines around it suggest broken skin. The tattoo sits centrally on the forearm, with the wrist and a dark sleeve visible at the edges of the frame.

Realism Forearm Wing Emblem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Hector Vane had kept the rink on the mere for thirty winters, and every March he swept the last pucks off the reeds and dropped them in the tin bucket by the boathouse door. That spring there were eleven. Nobody could shoot that far. The wind came straight off the fells with nothing to stop it, and the pucks that went wide always stayed on the ice until the thaw cracked it and let them sink.

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The one that came up on the eighth of March had a red winged wheel across its face, the paint bright at the edges. Hector knew that wheel. He had painted the same one on the boards of the old village hall as a lad, before the hall burned to the ground. He turned the puck over. A thin red seam ran along one side, split and opened, as if the rubber had been cut and the cold water had got in.

He carried it to the bench and set it down. Out on the grey ice, past the middle of the mere, a skater in an old dark jersey was going slowly toward the far shore, stick trailing, never once looking back. Hector knew that skate too. Ruth Penrose had skated the mere every winter until the year the ice took her brother, and she had left the village on that same March morning without a word to anyone.

Hector did not go out to meet her. He tipped the puck into the bucket with the others, where it knocked twice against the tin and went still. When he looked up the skater had gone, and the far shore was empty except for a single red mark in the snow, round and neat, where someone had dropped a thing they had finally decided to give back.