Sketched black and grey hands reaching towards each other with orange and turquoise watercolour washes and a red triangle outline, tattooed on the upper arm.

Reaching hands and red triangle on upper arm

Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

Two sketched hands reach towards each other across the inner upper arm, drawn with loose black and grey pencil-like hatching. Behind them sit soft orange and turquoise watercolour washes and a thin red triangle outline, with a few short dark strokes below. A partial tattoo of a flower is visible at the top left edge of the frame.

Upper arm Hand Triangle Circle Watercolour splash Flower

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, sit down, the wasps have found the windfalls again, and you'll not hear the end of it if you swat at them. Right. Where was I? Ah, the wall at Pennock's orchard, the one with the red three-cornered board nailed to the gatepost that said trespassers to the village and stay out to the old man. Tomas Greaves kept the Worcesters on the south side of that wall, and Ellen from the cottage over the brook came every late August for the russets he swore were not for sale.

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They never spoke above a mutter. He'd be up his ladder with the pruning hook, she'd be on her toes with her palm flat against the old stone, and each of them reached across the top of the wall the way you'd reach for a cup someone else was holding. The light came through the leaves and lay on the sill in pools, orange and green, and below them the brook ran blue-grey over the stones. Forty summers of that, near enough. Nobody remembers who first put a hand over the wall, and nobody cares, because it was never the apple they were after.

One August the big branch cracked clean off in a gust, and the Worcester dropped into the wall's shadow, rolling out to the middle of the flat stone where neither of them could reach it without leaning. Both hands went out at once. Both stopped a finger's width apart, hanging over the fruit like two kites on the same string, and neither budged. The wasps came down and sat on the apple's shoulder, and still neither moved.

So what happened? Ha. The apple rotted in the sun, that's what. Wasps had the lot by Michaelmas. Mind your fingers on that jar, it's sharp.