Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Fine line vine tattoo on an ankle
Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo
A small sprig of vine with tiny leaves and a few short offshoots runs in a gentle diagonal arc across the ankle. The linework is thin and solid black, with no shading, and the leaves are simple filled shapes. The skin tone is pale against a dark blue-grey backdrop, and rolled grey denim sits at the top of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Ruth had the last of the fair's pennies in her apron when the wind dropped and the lights along the Dene went out one by one. Her father had packed the ghost train the night before, and now he sat on the step of the lorry with a cutting of bramble in a jam jar, turning it to the lamp like a jeweller. "It'll root in the Abbey field if we're lucky," he said. "Nobody's ever been lucky in that field."
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She had been told the vine came from a cottage garden in Hexham, where a woman had asked them to take a sprig to her son, who had gone to the sea and not come back. Ruth didn't believe it, but she believed in the jar. The fair moved every spring, and every spring the jar came along, wrapped in a tea towel, riding on the dashboard between the cash tin and the dog.
On the last night at the Abbey field, a boy from the next pitch came over with a torch and asked whether the coconut shy was rigged. Ruth said it was. He asked how she knew. She pointed at the vine, which had put out three new leaves overnight, curled like the ends of a violin.
They pulled up the stakes at dawn. Her father left the jar on the grass by the gate, its water low, the sprig trailing its small green arc over the lip of the glass. Ruth looked back once from the cab and thought she saw the boy crouch beside it, then the lorry turned onto the road and the field was only a field.
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