Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Red constellation tattoo on an arm
Fine line · Upper arm · Colour · Photo
A small constellation of fine red linework connects dots of varying size into a branching star pattern. The lines are thin and even, with each star marked by a tiny dot on smooth, light skin. The red ink stands out clearly against the black backdrop and the grey knitted fabric.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
No, don't touch the glass, the salt gets into the hinges. Sit where I can see you. That shape up there, the one that looks like a bird that's forgotten its legs, my husband called the Tuning Fork, because it hummed when the wind came off the North Sea. He drew it on the back of every rent book in this house in red ink, because black never showed up on the cheap paper he bought by the ream.
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The bright star at the foot of the stem was where he put his thumb when he sighted across the water. Seven years he steered the Margaret Ann by that little branch. Then one October the fog came off the bank so thick you couldn't see the bow from the wheel, and he went out for one more haul and didn't come back in.
The coastguard said he'd have drifted over to the Dutch side. I don't believe that. What I believe is that he kept to the stars, the way he always said he would, and somewhere out there he's still keeping them. The sky doesn't sit still, you know. Every spring I take the ink and shift the dots a finger's width, so my drawing never quite matches the old rent books. That's why.
Now go on up, the light's on in number four and the stairs are steep. Leave your curtain open. If you see the Tuning Fork over the water tonight, you'll know the way back from anywhere, and you'll come down and tell me so over breakfast, won't you, love.
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