Black dotwork tattoo of a geometric icosahedron on the outer thigh, shown below rolled denim shorts.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dotwork icosahedron on a thigh

Dotwork · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a three-dimensional icosahedron, drawn as a hexagonal outline with interior triangular facets. The faces are shaded with stippled dots that build up darker tones in some areas and lighter tones in others, giving the shape depth. It is black and grey on a man's upper leg, with the rolled denim hem framing the top of the image.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow had sealed the Fell Gate Inn since Tuesday, and by Friday the only thing left to argue about was the coal. Dorothy Pryce set the grey die on the bar between the two stranded travellers and said whoever rolled highest would fetch the scuttle from the shed across the yard. Nobody had seen a die like it. It had twenty faces, each a small triangle, and the surface was pricked all over with tiny dots, so the lamplight sank into some sides and slid off others.

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Tom Ashby, a carrier who had lost his lorry in a drift near Cold Harbour, rolled first and got a four. He muttered that it was a dead man's die and dead men cheated. Dorothy said her husband had never cheated in his life, only in the matter of pudding. The schoolteacher, Miss Huw, rolled a fifteen and looked so pleased with herself that Tom demanded to see the bottom of the die for lead. She turned it over in her palm and found nothing but dots, close as frost on a window, shading darker where the shadows of the room fell.

The last roll was Dorothy's own, though she had sworn she would not take it. The die left her fingers, bounced twice on the oak, and came to rest with one face up that none of them could have named. Dorothy looked at it for a long moment, then got up, took the empty scuttle, and went out into the yard herself.

When she came back, her cheeks were red and the coal dust was grey on her sleeves. The wind had dropped. Through the small window the sky had cleared, and the stars were sharp over the drifts. Tom pocketed the die without asking, and nobody stopped him.

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