Fine line black tattoo of footprints running down the side ribs, with script reading I solemnly swear that I am up to no good and a small snowflake near the hip.

Footprints and script quote on ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A line of dark footprints runs down the side of the torso, with fine script above reading I solemnly swear that I am up to no good and smaller script below reading Mischief managed. A small snowflake sits near the hip. The linework is thin and uniform, in solid black ink with no shading, against lightly lit skin and pale denim.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Ffion had the map folded in her coat pocket, soft as cloth from handling, and she did not trust it with the frost coming down. The lane behind the Co-op was glazed. Only the old pit-wagon track still held snow clean enough to show a trail, which was the whole point: whoever walked it last left their feet in the record for the deputy to read in the morning.

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Her brother Gareth wanted to go straight across the allotments. "Nobody sees across the allotments," he said, and his breath hung in front of him like a second boy. She told him that was exactly why they could not. The allotment men had dogs and grudges. The chapel steps had a light that came on by itself. So they went the long way, heel to toe, placing each print where a grown man would not think to look, down past the bank, the bridge, and the back of the Miners' Welfare, where the snow lay thin and blue under the lamp.

They reached the deputy's gate at ten to six. The sky was going the colour of weak tea. Gareth turned round and studied their line of prints, then the empty lane beyond them, the dark cottages with their curtains drawn, and he laughed so hard he had to hold the railings. Ffion unfolded the map on her knee and drew a small neat cross beside the gate with the stub of pencil. "Mischief managed," she said, and Gareth, still wheezing, said it back in their gran's voice, which made it worse.

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