Fine line dragonfly on a wrist
Fine line · Forearm · Colour · Photo
A single-needle style dragonfly with outlined wings, a segmented body and two curled antennae sits on the inner wrist. The linework is thin and even, drawn in one reddish-brown tone with no shading. The tattoo is centred in the frame, with silver bangles stacked above and below it against a soft, warm-toned background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The mule refuses the last switchback, so you unload the salt yourself and leave it on the shoulder of the pass where the cairns stop. Above you the wind hums through the bracken like a kettle no one is watching. Your father used to say the dragonflies crossed the high passes only in the years the snow went early, that they kept to the wet hollows and came down to the valley to die in the sun. You had taken that for one of his stories. Then, at the tarn below Scarrow Gap, something lifts off the reeds and hangs in front of your face, four wings held flat as if it were reading the rock.
Keep reading
It is nearly transparent, its body the brown-red of rowan bark. Its two antennae curl like the ends of a letter you have not yet finished reading. It turns once, twice, and then heads north over the ridge, where the snow still lies in blue hollows. You understand it is waiting for you to follow rather than to be caught.
You follow. The path is nothing but scree and a line of white stones someone laid long ago. Each time you stop to breathe, the dragonfly circles back and hovers at the height of your shoulder, patient as a schoolmistress. By dusk you reach a col where the valley below lies blue and full of lamps, and the insect settles on your sleeve, its wings closing in one slow fold.
In the morning you go back down with the empty mule and tell the village nothing. Some things a pass only shows you once.
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