Two simple solid black cross tattoos on a person's forearm and wrist, with a black beaded bracelet on the other wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Two black cross tattoos on forearms

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two solid black cross tattoos sit on the forearm and wrist of a person whose hand is held open in front of a grey top. The larger cross on the forearm has crisp edges and flat black ink, while the smaller cross sits higher up the same arm near the wrist. The photograph is in natural daylight against a pale blurred background, with the subject's hands in sharp focus.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You find the crosses in the spring, when the wet has loosened the soil along the back fence of Ashdene Allotments. Two lengths of ash, painted black, one pushed deeper than the other where the ground dips. Mrs Okafor's marrows have swallowed the path, and she is already complaining about the slugs before you reach the gate.

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"Dad put those in," she says, not looking up from her trowel. "Forty years ago. One for the rhubarb, one for the plum that came down in the gale." You crouch and brush the grit from the larger cross. The paint is still crisp at the edges, which seems wrong for wood left out so long, and you say so. She laughs, a short bark. "He painted them every Easter. Said a garden needs something that doesn't die back."

You dig the smaller one free and find the rot is only in its foot. You carry both to the shed, and on the bench you sand the arms smooth while she tells you which tomatoes need staking before the rain. The rhubarb is still there, bitter and stubborn under the wall. The plum has long since gone to firewood.

At dusk you hammer the larger cross back in beside the rhubarb, level by a spirit bubble you borrow from her son. The smaller one you set by the gate, where anyone coming in will have to pass it. Mrs Okafor watches from the step, then nods once, satisfied, and goes inside to put the kettle on.

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