Close-up of a fine-line tattoo in teal-blue ink on the side of a neck, drifting from behind the ear down towards the collarbone in wispy, smoke-like trails.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Blue wispy smoke tattoo on the neck

Fine line · Neck · Colour · Photo

The tattoo is an abstract, smoke-like design in a single teal-blue ink, starting behind the ear and trailing down the side of the neck towards the collarbone. The lines are fine and feathery, with some strands fading and breaking apart, and the shading is soft and translucent rather than solid. The photograph is a close, slightly angled shot of the neck and shoulder, with loose dark hair framing the ear and a white strap visible at the bottom right.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The oil in the lamp at Skerra Head was the cheap kind, and it smoked whenever the wind came off the north. Old Bessie Lind kept that light for forty winters and grumbled every time she wiped the glass. The smoke rose from the wick in a thin blue thread, and by the time it reached the gallery rail it had come apart into a dozen strands, each going its own way like hair let down in a draught.

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The fishermen said a blue smoke meant the sea wanted someone. They said it on the quay at Brae, and they did not say it kindly. Bessie said the sea wanted nothing but herring and that the men could mind their own fools. Then in the February of the bad year, the Mary Ann and two cobles went out past the skerries while the sky turned the colour of slate, and the smoke from Skerra stood up off the lamp so thick and so blue that the boys on the quay swore it was the shape of a woman reaching.

Bessie climbed to the lantern with a rag and a bottle of spirit. She did not wipe the glass. She opened the vent and let the smoke go where it liked, and it went out over the water in long loose feathers, bending west, then east, then back again, the way a hand moves when it is feeling for a rail in the dark. The cobles saw the threads and turned for them one strand at a time, until they had the harbour mouth and the lamp both in sight.

Next morning the quay was full of wet men and quiet women. Nobody spoke of the smoke. Bessie cleaned the glass with vinegar and trimmed the wick, and the blue threads rose again every time the north wind came, and nobody on the quay complained of them after that.

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