Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Dragon and griffin thigh tattoos
Realism · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo
Two matching tattoos cover the upper thighs of a person wearing denim shorts. The left thigh shows a winged dragon rearing beside a cluster of crystals, and the right shows a winged griffin-like creature resting a clawed foot on a pair of pumpkins, with wheat stalks above. The shading is smooth and detailed, using soft greys and dark blacks, and the two designs mirror each other in composition.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Pemberton's tent has sagged since August, and by the first week of October the canvas smells of wet sawdust and the pumpkins you bought at Diss market with wages nobody has paid. You carry the second crate down the muddy row towards the wagons, past the stall where the dragon, Cinder, is already on her hind legs, banging her wings against the boards whenever the bell rings for the empty big top. Mo dug the crystals out of a Derbyshire quarry years ago, and in the lamplight they throw small cold lights over her scales like something stolen from a church.
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Lady Tallow waits at the far end of the lines. She will not eat until the pumpkins are set just so, one under her talon and one rolled a hand's width away, so that she can keep them from running off into the stubble. The old showmen used to say the griffin and the dragon were a matched pair, one facing left and one facing right, and that a crowd only believed in either of them when it could see both at once. You have spent three seasons stacking the feed so that their two shadows meet on the canvas wall. Tonight there is nothing to meet them but you.
Pemberton comes out with the ledger tucked under his arm and a buyer's letter from a zoo in Lincolnshire that wants the dragon and not the griffin. He says it the way he says the weather, without looking at either animal. You say nothing, because there is nothing to say that the ledger hasn't already decided.
You leave the lamp burning on Tallow's stall and set the last pumpkin on the straw. Cinder turns her long head towards the gap in the lines, where the other stall used to stand, and for a moment she holds still as if she is waiting for an answer.
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