Traditional style tattoo of a black witch hat with an orange buckle band and a yellow broomstick, surrounded by teal sparkles, on a lower leg.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Witch hat and broomstick on a leg

Traditional · Calf · Colour · Photo

A black witch hat with a bent tip and an orange band with a gold buckle sits at the centre, with a broomstick crossing diagonally behind it. Teal four-point sparkles surround the motif. Bold black outlines define the shapes, the hat is shaded in grey, and the broom bristles are rendered in yellow and ochre against bare skin.

Traditional Calf Sparkle Star

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The broom has been propped against the Fenwicks' fence since Tuesday, and every time you walk past it on the way to the bakery the straw seems to lean a little closer, as if it has something to tell you. Nobody in Calder Bend has said the word witch out loud since the Ladies' Guild stopped meeting in the basement of St Agnes, but Mrs Oakes still crosses the road when she sees you coming, and the Pruitt boys have started calling after you in the picture-house queue.

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Your grandmother's hat hangs on the hook by the back door, where it has hung since 1938. The felt has gone soft at the brim, the tip bends over where someone once sat on it at a church social, and the orange band still shines because she rubbed it with lemon oil every Sunday before supper. 'Let the point fall where the wind wants it,' she used to say, 'and the wind will always tell you where to go.' You didn't believe her until the Sunday the wind came from the north and the hat tipped towards the water tower.

That evening little teal stars began appearing on the kitchen wall, four-pointed and fizzing, one above the sink and two above the radio. You lifted the broom off the Fenwicks' fence after dark, which felt like theft and also like the most honest thing you'd done all year, and rose over the rooftops just high enough to see the Pruitts' lamp still burning. Below, the cinema marquee dimmed and the church clock struck eleven.

Mrs Oakes was standing at her gate with a lantern when you passed over. For once she didn't cross the road. She simply raised her hand, the way you would to a neighbour who had finally got the hang of the bus timetable, and went back indoors.