Traditional style tattoo of a Ouija board with dripping candles, red flowers and a black widow spider on the forearm.

Ouija board, candles and flowers on a forearm

Traditional · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

The tattoo shows a Ouija board box with the word OUIJA lettered across it and a planchette-style window at the top, flanked by two dripping grey candles with orange flames. A black widow spider sits on the board, and red five-petal flowers with dark green leaves frame the design on both sides, with a dotted smoke trail curling to the left. Bold black outlines define the shapes, with grey and brown shading on the board and candles and solid red and orange fills on the flowers and flames.

Traditional Forearm Candle Flower Spider Smoke Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain had been coming sideways down Market Place since eight, and by eleven my tarpaulin sagged over the trestle like a wet hammock. Nobody browses in weather like that. So when the woman in the green mac stopped at my stall, I barely looked up from the tin of loose Monopoly money I was sorting. I only noticed the board when she set it down between a jar of buttons and a stack of Reader's Digests, its lid streaked grey with old wax.

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OUIJA, it said across the front, in letters worn almost to nothing, with a round window at the top where the little pointer slid about. Someone had painted a black widow across the wood, its red hourglass bright as a fresh cut. 'My nan's,' she said. 'Three days without power in the winter of seventy-six, her and her sisters and two candles and a saucepan of cocoa. They asked it who'd take the last of the coal money, and the glass went round and round until the candle guttered out.' She wanted twelve quid. I gave her ten and a cup of tea from my flask, and she didn't take the tea. She just looked at the lid as if it might say something.

That night I dried the damp board by the gas fire, and out of habit I lit a candle on the sill to keep the room warm. Smoke rose in a thin, looping ribbon and drifted toward the box. When I lifted the lid, the pointer was already resting in the window, and the glass had slid to a single letter, the first of my own name. I put it back in its box. The rain had stopped by morning and the market was dry, but when I went to close the lid again, the widow's hourglass had gone pale, as if someone had started counting.