Two close-up photos of a chest tattoo: a solid triangle filled with a purple, pink and blue galaxy with scattered stars, placed centrally on the upper chest.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Galaxy triangle on the chest

Geometric · Chest · Colour · Photo

A solid black triangle sits centrally on the upper chest, filled with a nebula of pink, purple and blue with scattered white stars. The shading blends soft gradients into the dark edges, and the fill appears smooth with the triangle's outline kept crisp. The left photo shows the tattoo at a wider angle with the shoulder and a grey top in frame, and the right photo is a closer view of the design.

Geometric Realism Chest Triangle Galaxy Nebula Star

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ewe had been straining since ten, and by two in the morning all you could see of the lamb were two front hooves and the wet curl of a nose. Hamish held the storm lantern up while you worked in beside them, straw frozen stiff beneath your knees and the barn breathing cold through every gap in the boards. You eased the head round, felt the shoulders give, and the lamb slid out onto the straw in one grey rush.

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It lay still. You rubbed it hard with a fistful of hay the way Hamish had shown you, once, twice, and nothing. Then it sneezed, and the ewe lifted her head and started to talk to it low and rough. "Go on out," Hamish said. "Get some air. You've earned a minute." The yard was white with rime. Above the top field the sky had cleared to a black so deep it looked wet, and the stars were thick enough to make you squint. Over the gate, the three hurdles Hamish had lashed together for the orphan pen made a rough triangle against the wall, and somewhere inside it hung a faint haze of blue and violet where no light should have been.

Hamish came out with the lantern and stood beside you, looking where you looked. "My mother used to say that's where the lambs come from," he said. "Off up there, all that colour, before they get knocked down to the field." You didn't argue. Back in the barn the lamb had got its feet under it and was butting the ewe's flank as if it had always been there.

When you returned for the tally board, you chalked a name beside the pen number. Hamish read it over your shoulder and laughed, a white cloud in the cold. Nebula, you'd written, because it was the nearest thing to that sky you could think of.