Several temporary tattoo designs on a wooden table, including a dreamcatcher with feathers, crossed arrows, an anchor and script lettering.

Temporary tattoo sheets with dreamcatcher and script

Lettering · Mixed · Flash

A flat lay of several temporary tattoo transfer designs on a dark wooden surface. The largest sheet shows a dreamcatcher with feathers and teal beads in black linework with light shading, while smaller sheets show crossed arrows, an anchor, a moon, Roman numerals and script lettering. The lettering and numerals appear reversed, as on transfer sheets.

Lettering Dreamcatcher Feather Bead Moon Arrow Anchor Script Roman numeral Lettering Temporary tattoo

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You are sweeping the sprung floor of the Pavilion at Hollin Bay at half past one, after the bunting has come down and the band has gone across the road to the Bell for chips. Under the stage someone has left a dreamcatcher, hung from a coat hook by its loop of waxed cord, the net gone grey with dust. The teal beads knock softly against the feathers whenever the draught from the sea door finds them.

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Mrs Oakes, who ran the cloakroom for forty years, told you once that the hoop was for catching bad dreams before they got into the sleeper's head, and that it only worked if the night air could move through it. So you carry it up the back stairs to the little room above the bar where the old band kept their spare reeds, and you hang it in the window beside a square of card that still has a moon pencilled on it, and the crossed arrows somebody scratched into the sill in 1962 when the hall was still called the Palais.

On Saturday a sailor from the depot sat on the edge of the stage with his cap in his lap and asked the bandleader to play the one about the moon over the harbour. Nobody knew it. The trumpet man hummed a version that wandered off the tune halfway through, and the sailor nodded as if that was right, as if it was the only way anyone had ever sung it. It was the only request anyone made all summer.

Downstairs the chairs are stacked and the lights go off one by one. Through the window above the bar the hoop turns slowly in the draught, catching the last of the streetlamp, the feathers lifting and settling like something breathing in its sleep. You lock the sea door and leave it hanging there, because the hall has its own dreams to keep, and you are not sure yet whose they are.