Black and grey realism tattoo on a forearm showing a woman's face with closed eyes, wisps of smoke and a glowing orb with lightning near the wrist.

Realistic woman's face and lightning on forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A large tattoo covers the forearm and shows a woman's face with closed eyes and parted lips, framed by wispy, smoke-like lines. Below the face, branching lightning or crackling lines lead down to a dark, spherical form with radiating strands near the wrist. The shading is smooth and highly detailed, with soft greys and deep blacks, and the design fills the arm from elbow towards wrist against a black background.

Realism Forearm Woman Face Lightning Smoke Orb

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Tom, the glass has been falling since Tuesday and Mr Pascoe at the chapel says the sea has gone quiet the way a dog does before it bites. I have kept the observatory book as you asked. Every hour I have written the barometer, the wind off the cutting, and whatever the sky chose to show us. Last night it showed us more than I wanted.

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At a quarter to two the air above Gull Stack began to hum, a sound like a kettle a long way off. Then the lines came down out of the cloud in threads, branching and branching, white on black, and they knotted over the old beacon like hair being combed. I counted seven strikes before I stopped counting. The eighth did not touch the rock. It hung in the air, a ball no bigger than a cabbage, dark at its heart with its edges spitting light, and it turned slowly towards the window where I stood.

I will not pretend I was brave. I laid my hand flat on the glass and thought of you, and of the tea going cold on the sill, and something in the ball seemed to pause, the way a person pauses on the stair when they hear their name. Then the strands drew back into the cloud all at once, and the room smelt of hot iron and wet wool. The needle on the barometer had stopped at 28.1 and would not move again. I have tapped it three times. It is still there.

I know what Pascoe will say, so I am setting it down in ink so that it exists somewhere other than my head. Come home with the relief boat and bring the spare brass gauge. I will be on the cliff path at six, watching the water and the cloud, with the book buttoned under my coat. Your loving wife, Margaret.