Black and white photo of a fine line rocket tattoo with small planets, stars and dots on the inner wrist and forearm.

Small rocket and planets on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small rocket with a pointed nose cone, a round porthole and two fins is drawn in thin, single-line black ink. A ringed planet, a small circle, two star bursts and scattered dots surround it on the inner wrist and forearm. The photograph is monochrome, with the tattoo centred against a plain grey background.

Fine line Forearm Rocket Planet Star Space Dot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The telescope at the end of Mrs Pargeter's boarding house had been pointed at the same patch of sky since the war, and nobody had ever asked her why. You want to know what I think? I think she was waiting for a rocket to come down out of the Clevedon fog and tell her the coast was clear. Gerald, the lodger with the bad chest, swore he saw a light go up over the pier one February night, a thin silver thing with a bulb at the top like a pin. Nobody believed him, least of all the vicar.

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But the old woman set a saucer of milk on the windowsill every evening after that, and by Easter the saucer was always empty. Strange, that. The cat was dead by then, so either the milk was going to something else or it was going somewhere else entirely. The children on the front said the planets came round each night to drink it, three little rings on a string, and that the Pargeter girl was the only one who could hear them humming.

She died in the spring with the telescope still aimed high. When they cleared her room, the sill was dry and a child's chalk drawing lay under the bed: a rocket with two fins and a round window, and a ringed planet beside it, and a scatter of dots that were stars, or maybe just milk spilt on slate. The lodgers said it was a fair likeness. Gerald said the window was looking back at us.