Black fine line spiderweb tattoo on the top of a shoulder, with long brown hair and a white off-shoulder top.

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Spiderweb tattoo on a shoulder

Fine line · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo

A black spiderweb sits on the top of a shoulder, with radiating spokes and concentric curved strands drawn in fine, precise lines. The ink is solid black with no colour, and the web is set against smooth, lightly lit skin. The frame is tightly cropped, with the subject's long wavy brown hair falling across the shoulder and a white off-shoulder top in the lower part of the image.

Fine line Shoulder Spiderweb Web

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The web had been in the lamp room longer than I had, Mr Pascoe told me on my first morning, and he was not a man who wasted words on things that did not matter. I was to polish the brass and leave the spider be. So each day I wiped the salt from the pedestal and watched the wheel of silk strung between the rail and the glass, its spokes running out like the rays of a lamp drawn by someone who had only heard of light.

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In November the gales came in off the western approaches, and a letter arrived in the supply sack, sealed in oilcloth but soft as cloth from the wet. It was addressed in pencil to Mrs E. Pascoe, Harbour Row, care of the Light. Mr Pascoe read it at the kitchen table, folded it twice, and slid it inside his coat without a word. He never posted it. Three weeks later the relief men carried him down the spiral stair, and the letter was still in his pocket, its corners gone to pulp.

The new keeper wanted the lamp room cleared for the optic that was coming on the next boat. I took the web down strand by strand with a wet brush, as I had been told, and found the letter caught in the outer ring, where Pascoe must have tucked it when he thought nobody was watching. The spider had wound silk round its corner like a bandage. I unpicked it slowly, and the paper came away in my hand.

I did not wait for the boat. I walked it across the headland to Harbour Row myself and knocked, and when a grey-haired woman opened the door I held out the damp envelope. She read the first line, sat down on her own step, and did not get up for a long while. Behind me the old lamp swung its beam out over the water, and I thought of that loose thread still hanging from the rail, catching the light.