Two black dotwork tattoos of mountain ridges under a moon, set within elongated geometric diamond shapes on the forearms.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dotwork mountains and moon on a forearm

Dotwork · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two matching tattoos show a mountain range beneath a pale moon, enclosed in tall elongated diamond outlines. The sky is shaded with dense stippled dots that fade toward the moon, while the peaks are built from crisp angular facets and fine hatching. The image is black and grey, with the larger tattoo on the nearer arm filling most of the frame and the smaller one on the other arm.

Dotwork Geometric Forearm Mountain Moon Sky Landscape

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Ruth,

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The moon over Carrow Street has sat low between the chimneys all week, paler than it ought to be, as if someone has been dotting it onto the sky one speck at a time. I stood at the window last night and tried to count the stars and gave up somewhere past forty. The lamps on the ring road take the rest. You would hate it here. Nothing rises to a point. Everything is flat, or stacked, or lit from underneath.

I took the postcard you pinned above my bed to the print shop on Mill Lane, the one with the snowline cutting the ridges like a sharpened pencil. Mr Okafor at the counter held it up to the light for a long time before he said he could enlarge it to fit a wall. It came back grey and grainy, the peaks gone soft, the sky a smudge of dust. I paid him anyway. It hangs above the radiator now, where the damp has started to lift the corner.

Last night the streetlight went out at the end of the terrace, and for a while the only thing lit in the room was the moon on the wall, which I had not expected. The photograph had caught it that same way, I think, the sky so dark that the little bright disc looked like a hole someone had punched through. I sat on the floor and looked at the ridges until my eyes ached, then I went out.

I have started walking the canal path after dark, counting lock gates instead of stars. Come at Easter. Bring the old map with the contour lines, the one you swore was wrong, and we will see which of us has been drawing the mountains badly all this time.

Yours, Nell