Black line drawing of a spider web with radiating spokes and curved concentric rings on a white background, shown as a tattoo design.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Spider web design

Black and grey · Flash

A single black line drawing of a spider web, with a dense centre and long straight spokes that extend outwards to pointed ends. The rings between the spokes are drawn as curved, evenly spaced arcs, with the lines of varying weight. The design is shown in black on a plain white background with no shading or colour.

Spider web Web

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lift at Calder Court had been broken since the spring, so the stairs were where people met, and where the webs were. Mrs Oyelaran swept them every Friday with a yard brush and a bucket of cold water, the way her husband had before he died. Only the one on the ninth floor landing she left alone. It was the size of a cartwheel and hung between the window frame and the fire door, its long spokes running out to the corners like the hands of a clock that had forgotten the hour.

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The children on the ninth floor said the spider lived in the centre, where the threads were thickest, and that it counted everyone who went up and down. If you climbed past without saying good morning to the window, it would miss you on the way back down, and you would find yourself on the wrong floor with the lights out. Mrs Oyelaran thought this nonsense, but she always said good morning to the glass anyway.

In February the council sent men with a cherry picker to clean the outside of the block. One of them, a boy with a red hat, leaned in through the landing window to tear the web away with his gloved hand. He stopped. The spokes were still there, every one, but the middle was empty, and a single thread ran from the centre down the stairwell, past the sixth floor and the fourth, out through the bottom door and into the car park where his van sat idling.

Mrs Oyelaran followed that thread down the stairs that afternoon with a torch, though she did not need one. At the bottom, tied neatly to the railing by the bins, was a small silver key and a note in her husband's handwriting that said only: count me in. She went back up and said good morning to the window, and this time a draught came through the gap in the frame that smelled of rain.