Lumos script and star on a wrist
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A close photograph of a small black tattoo on the inner wrist, showing the word lumos in thin, handwritten-style script with a four-pointed star to the right. The linework is fine and even, with no shading or fill. The image is in colour, but the ink is solid black against pale skin, and the dark sleeve at the bottom edge frames the composition.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The sign over the chip shop on Duke Street had been dead since Easter, and Ruth Kinnear was the only person I knew who would climb a wet ladder at two in the morning to fix it. I held the torch while she worked a cracked tube loose with pliers wrapped in gaffer tape, the rain dripping off the peak of her cap onto my shoes.
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Her father had taught her a word for light, half a joke from a film he loved, and she said it over everything that refused to work. The kettle. The bus shelter bulb. The cat's collar, once, which he never forgave. "Lumos," she would mutter, flicking a switch, and nine times out of ten the thing would hum back into life out of sheer embarrassment.
Tonight nothing answered. The whole south side had gone out an hour before, and the streetlamps stood black down both pavements like broken teeth. She came down the ladder, wiped her hands on her trousers, and looked up past the dead sign to where a single star had come through a gap in the cloud above the cathedral spire, small and steady as a pinhead of solder.
"Your turn," she said, and handed me the torch. I didn't understand until she held the cracked tube up so the star sat in line with the broken glass. "Go on, then." I said it, feeling foolish. Somewhere behind the shutter a relay clicked, and the sign flickered back one red letter at a time until the chip shop's name stood over Duke Street again, and the first lorry driver of the morning slowed down to read it.
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