Back of a person's neck and upper back showing a fine line fleur-de-lis tattoo with blue watercolour wash, and a thin black line running down the spine to a dot.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Blue fleur-de-lis with a line down the spine

Fine line · Neck · Mixed · Photo

A fleur-de-lis style ornament with delicate black linework and swirling scrollwork sits at the base of the neck, with soft blue wash splashes and drips in the upper part of the design. A long, thin black vertical line runs down the centre of the spine and ends in a small solid dot. The composition is centred on the back with plain skin around the tattoo, and the colour is limited to blue and black.

Fine line Neck Back Fleur-de-lis Ornament Swirl Watercolour Dot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The frost had got into the pump house overnight, and by the time you reached the yard the handle was furred white and the sky over the top field had the colour of skimmed milk. Your uncle had sent you with the plumb line and nothing else. "Measure it before the pipes go," he said, not looking up from under the tractor, and you took the coil of cord from the nail by the door as though it were an ordinary errand.

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The well sat under a lid of weathered boards behind the barn. The iron cap still carried the ornament somebody's grandfather had cast into it, a fleur-de-lis gone soft with rust, its scrolls curling at the edges like frost on a windowpane. You lifted the boards, swung the lead weight out over the dark, and let it go. The cord ran through your gloves, slower and slower, until it went slack with a sound too small to be a splash.

Then you hauled it back hand over hand, counting knots. Eleven. The lead came up dripping, and the water on it was not black but a thin clear blue where the light caught it, the same blue that had stained the cord to the wrist. Nobody had told you the well would still be full, or that it would be that cold.

You knotted the cord at the lip, wound it on the nail, and crossed the yard carrying the number like a coin in your mouth. Your uncle was still under the tractor. "Eleven," you said. He slid out, looked at your blue-stained fingers, and nodded once, as though you had handed him something he already knew. It was enough to get the pipes lagged before dark.