Traditional colour tattoo of an open umbrella with lightning bolts, grey clouds and raindrops across the back of a hand.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Umbrella and lightning on the hand

Traditional · Hand · Colour · Photo

A photograph of the back of a hand showing a colour tattoo of an open umbrella crossed by a blade, with grey clouds and yellow lightning bolts beneath it. Bold black outlines and green, yellow and teal shading give the umbrella a rayed look. Teal raindrops fall across the knuckles and fingers, and a small outlined black diamond sits on a finger against a dark, plastic-wrapped background.

Traditional Hand Umbrella Lightning Cloud Raindrop Blade Diamond

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The school reunion was held in the sports hall, and nobody could say afterwards who had propped the umbrella by the door. It was black and open, its ribs fanned out like a tired bird, and a long blade had been pushed through the canopy and out the other side. The caretaker said it was not his. The dinner lady said it had been there when the trestle tables went up.

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Old Mr Dunstable, who had taught them all maths and never once smiled, walked round it three times. Then he took the handle in both hands, drew the blade free and held it up to the strip lights. It was the penknife Jack Corran had been sent home for in 1979. Everyone remembered Jack, who had gone to sea and never written, and whose mother still kept his drawings of lightning bolts in a biscuit tin. Outside, the sky over the car park turned the colour of wet slate, and the first drops ran down the high windows like careless paint.

The old saying was that if you raised a blade under cloud and it came back to you, the storm owed you one thing. Maud Pritchard had heard it from her gran and never believed it. Mr Dunstable opened the umbrella slowly. Lightning cracked over the car park, and the whole hall went quiet. When the light faded, a small cut diamond of ice lay on the parquet at his feet. He picked it up and put it in his waistcoat pocket without a word.

Nobody asked him what he had wished for. Jack's mother was there, ninety years old and sharp as a pin, and she said only that the boy had always been good with weather. Maud took the umbrella home that night, and it never rained on her again.