Spiked band tattoo on a forearm
Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A pair of light-skinned arms crosses in front of a plain white wall, with the fingers of both hands interlaced at the top of the frame. A dark, solid band tattoo sits on the lower forearm, showing a row of spiked peaks above two parallel stripes, all in black or dark brown ink. A small, illegible line of script sits on the other forearm, and the photograph is evenly lit with soft shadows.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Dear Tom,
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The gale took the top rail off the north gallery on Tuesday, and Mr Lusk has had me on my knees all night with a wire brush, scraping the iron crown the lamp was bolted under. It came up black as a kettle, a row of spikes like the teeth of a comb, and under the rust, two bands of brass that nobody on the island remembers gilding. I sat on the step with my hands raw and thought of the bread van you used to drive, and how you whistled through your teeth when you were pleased with yourself.
I kept a length of it. Don't laugh. I asked Pell at the forge in Skerrow to hammer the band flat and bend it to fit my forearm, and he did it for a jar of your blackberry jam, the last one from the cellar. He said iron that has stood out in weather remembers its shape, and that the spikes would stay true if I didn't fidget. I've been wearing it to the lamp room ever since, and nobody has asked me what it means, which suits me fine.
At four, when the wick is trimmed and the great lens starts its slow turn, the spikes throw their shadow across the whitewashed wall of the kitchen, a dozen small crowns walking out over the water. I count them the way you counted the boats in from the Ardmore run. Eleven fishing smacks came home this morning. Your name is still scratched on the bell, below the crack, where you put it the summer you were nine.
Write when the post boat comes.
Maud
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