Colour realism tattoo of a blue TARDIS police box surrounded by a galaxy with orange spirals and stars, across the upper arm and shoulder.

TARDIS and galaxy on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A large colour tattoo of a blue police box, the TARDIS, shown in a three-quarter view with its lamp panels lit in warm yellow. Swirling light trails and a red outline curve around it, and the background is a nebula of blue, purple and teal with scattered stars and orange spiral galaxies. The shading is smooth and blended, with soft highlights on the door panels and the sky, and the tattoo covers the upper arm up towards the shoulder.

Realism Upper arm Shoulder Tardis Police box Galaxy Nebula Star Spiral Planet

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You are halfway up the stairs of Skerrin Nab light, counting the iron rungs the way your father taught you, when the fog outside the lantern room turns the colour of a bruise and a sound comes up through the rock like a cow with a bad chest. You know that sound. Nobody on this headland has ever admitted to knowing it.

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You reach the gallery with the oilcan still in your hand. Below, where the slipway runs out over the black weed, a box stands on the stones. It is blue, or it was before the sea got at it, with a lamp on its roof and POLICE BOX painted on its panels in letters the rain has nearly rubbed away. Its door is open. Warm yellow light spills from the panels in its upper half and lies on the wet rock like milk from a tipped jug.

Nobody comes out. Instead the ribbons start, thin trails of red and gold that loop from the doorway and curl round the box, round the lighthouse, round your wrist when you reach for the rail. They taste of salt and pennies. The fog thins to show a sky that is not the sky you left at six o'clock. It is deep and busy, violet and teal, with orange spirals turning slowly over the Solway like someone stirring cream into tea, and a bright planet hanging low over the water as if it had been put there to be looked at.

You have kept this light for thirty-one years, and the ships have never once asked you for anything you could not give. The box hums. The door swings wider. From somewhere inside a voice says, cheerfully and very far away, "Come on, then, we haven't got all night," and you realise, with oil dripping onto your boot, that you have been waiting your whole life to be asked.