Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Small sun with a face on the wrist
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small tattoo of a sun with a stylised human face and long, pointed rays sits on the inner wrist of a pale arm. The outlines are solid black with clean, even linework, and the face is shown with simple shading. The image is black and grey, with the tattoo centred on a light background and a grey textured surface at the edge of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The brass sun above the lamp room had turned its face to the sea again, though I had polished it toward the land the night before. I put it down to the wind, which had been working at the shutters all week, and climbed the one hundred and fourteen steps with my father's tin of paraffin and a rag tucked into my belt.
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Father had built the thing himself, the year before his hands went. Eight rays of hammered copper, each filed to a point, and a face between them with a long nose and eyes half shut, like a man who had seen too many dawns. He said the rays were there so the boats would know which way the rock lay. To me it always looked like it was squinting.
Fog came in off the Minch at dusk and sat on the water like wet wool. At nine I lit the wick, wound the clockwork, and watched the beam swing out over nothing. Somewhere past the skerries the Ellen Rose was overdue, and the wireless on the cottage wall had gone quiet an hour before.
Near midnight a horn sounded, thin and far, then a second. I stood at the rail with the rag still in my hand and heard the engine catch and the bow push out of the murk, and I could swear the copper face caught the lamp's glow brighter than it had any right to. I took the nail from my apron pocket and scratched one more ray beside the others, a small mark for a boat home. Father would have laughed at me. The Ellen Rose came in past the rock with her lights burning, and the sun above me kept its face to the sea.
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