Black linework tattoo on a forearm showing a planchette with a moon, a hand resting on it, and the words YES and GOODBYE.

Ouija planchette and moon on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black outline tattoo of a planchette with ornamental scrollwork and a circular window, a hand resting on it, and a crescent moon behind. The words YES and GOODBYE in solid black lettering sit at the top and bottom, with small four-point sparkles filling the space. The design is shown in black ink only, framed by bare skin and a dark background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The board lived in a biscuit tin under the galley bench, wrapped in an oilskin so the damp couldn't lift the letters. Skipper Dunn had bought it from a Fleetwood pawnbroker the winter after we lost the Margaret Rose, and nobody on the Constance Ann would say why he wanted it, only that he kept it for the sea's sake and not his own. We called the little brass-rimmed pointer the planchette, the way men call a bad tooth a bit of bother.

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Tommy Kell and I took the middle watch with the lamp swinging on its hook and the moon hung over the Dogger like a cut lemon. Our fingertips rested on the glass, barely touching, the way you'd hold a sleeping cat. It moved first to the Y, then the E, then the S, and Tommy swore, because we'd only asked whether the weather would hold. It looped past the sun, past the crescent in the corner, and came to rest on the word I'd dreaded since Danny Ruskin went over the side off Iceland.

Tommy asked who was lying on the bottom of the Margaret Rose. It spelled DAD, then stopped. I asked if we'd be home for the Feast. It went to YES, quick as a gull, and Tommy laughed too loud. Then it slid, slow and certain, down the board to the bottom edge and sat on the word there. GOODBYE. Neither of us had moved it on purpose.

At first light the fog lifted off the water like a sheet off furniture, and the Constance Ann turned for the Humber with her hold full and her crew whole. The skipper lifted the board off the table without a word and put it back in its tin. Tommy never touched it again. Sometimes, when the wind backs and the timbers creak, I still hear the glass sliding on the varnish, and I answer it with the only word I've ever been sure of.

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