Colour tattoo of a purple cat with a yellow bow and a crown-like shape, set among ornate black ornamental patterns on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Purple cat with yellow bow on forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A seated purple cat with large eyes, a yellow bow at its neck and a small crown-like shape on its head sits at the centre of the design. Above and below it, intricate black and grey ornamental patterns of fine dots and lace-like motifs frame the cat. The purple and yellow ink stands out strongly against the greyscale shading of the surrounding pattern, and the piece wraps the forearm with the subject placed in the middle.

Neo-trad Dotwork Forearm Cat Bow Crown Ornamental pattern Lace Mandala

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Your uncle sends you up the temple steps before the lamps are out, a pot of ochre in one hand and a soft rag in the other, because the bronze cat by the eastern gate has lost its gilt again. The priests say a sparrow pecked it, but you have seen the mark: a thumb-shaped rub, low down, where someone leans in to whisper. The court smells of myrrh and cold limestone, and the sacred cats lie along the colonnade like loaves, pretending not to watch you.

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You kneel at the base and start with the bow, because the yellow ribbon at its throat is the easiest thing to ruin and the hardest to mend. Above you the crown sits on its head like a small sun. The pierced stone screens either side throw lace-shaped shadows across your forearms, dots and curls, and for a moment you feel the pattern is printed on you rather than on the wall. You count the dots as you work, the way your mother counted prayers, and you lose your place at twenty.

Someone is behind you. It is Tamit, the girl who sweeps the offering hall, and she has a question she is too proud to ask. You tell her the cat is not mourning. It is listening. She asks to whom. You shrug and dab the last ochre onto the ribbon, and it catches the grey light like a new coin.

When the high priest passes at dawn he stops, touches the bow with one finger, and says nothing. The rag is still warm in your fist. You go down the steps believing the bronze has winked at you, and you do not tell Tamit, because you are not sure whether it was the sun or yourself.