Small fine line constellation of dark ink stars on the upper back between the shoulder blades, seen from behind.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Star constellation on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A photograph from behind of a person's upper back, showing a scattered group of small five-point stars and dots in dark ink. The linework is fine and the stars are solid, with no shading, and the arrangement runs diagonally from near the neck towards the shoulder blade. The image is in colour, but the ink is a single dark blue-black tone against pale skin, with a blurred indoor background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ceiling at the Palais had been painted the summer I started, a dark blue wash with a hundred brass bulbs pressed into it. Mr Dunning swore the arrangement was the true sky over Lowestoft on the night his father was born, and nobody checked. We were too busy dancing to look up.

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Frank was the electrician's boy, all elbows and borrowed spectacles, and he came in on Thursdays to fix the bulbs that failed. He told me the seven he had wired closest together made the shape of a plough, if you stood by the bandstand and squinted. I said I had never once stood there. He said that was exactly why he'd shown me, so I could try it from the cloakroom, where the light came in sideways and the dots threw small shadows on the coat hooks.

On a Saturday I stood at the cloakroom hatch with a camel coat over my arm and tilted my head until the stars lined up, the way you tip a photograph to find a face. There were eight of them, not seven. One pale bulb sat off to the side like a stray. I told Frank, and he grinned and said the stray was his, that he'd put it there so I'd have to look for it.

The Palais was flattened for flats in the sixties, and the blue ceiling went with it. Even now I catch myself tipping my head at night, counting that one stray light that nobody else would think to find, and hearing the old band playing somewhere underneath it.

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