Black ink flash design of a woman with long hair embracing a skeletal punk with a mohawk and eye patch, above a banner reading I AM YOURS.

Skull punk and woman with banner design

Neo-trad · Black and grey · Flash

A black ink drawing shows a woman with long straight hair and blunt bangs, her eyes closed, held in an embrace by a skull-faced figure with a spiked mohawk, an eye patch and a bandana. A ribbon banner beneath them reads I AM YOURS in capitals. The linework is bold and clean, with dense hatching and cross-hatching in the hair, clothing and shadows, and the composition is centred and symmetrical around the banner.

Neo-trad Woman Skull Banner Lettering Long hair Bandana

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The roof went first, the winter after the band split, and by March you were sleeping in the chapel with the wind coming through the window where the saint used to be. Kit had nailed a sheet of corrugated iron across the gap and painted on it in tar, the letters fat and wobbly, and every morning you read them before you read anything else.

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The man from the council came up the track in a grey hatchback on the second Tuesday of April. He had a clipboard, a lanyard and a face like a shut shop. He stood in the gatehouse arch and said the word unlawful four times, and you felt the old cold of being twenty-two with nowhere to go. Kit didn't say anything. He walked out across the wet grass with his bandana knotted tight over the bad eye and stood beside you, close enough that his shoulder knocked yours.

"Lovely spot," the man said eventually, looking up at the broken walls as though they had been his idea. "Shame about the state of it."

"It's not the state," Kit said. "It's the history. A thousand years of people promising to look after it, then leaving it to the sheep."

The man wrote something down and drove away. That evening you sat on the chapel step with a bottle of cider between you while the sky went the colour of a bruise. You asked him why he hadn't argued. He handed you the bottle, dipped the brush in the tin, and under the crooked words on the iron he painted something small and neat, the way you'd sign a letter you meant to keep.