Black and white photo of a fine line geometric unicorn head tattoo on a person's ribs, with a black top pulled aside by one hand.

Geometric unicorn head on the ribs

Geometric · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A unicorn head is drawn in thin black lines built from angular, faceted triangles and polygons, with a single horn pointing up and a flowing mane. The linework is crisp and even, and the design is filled with simple flat outlines rather than shading. The black and white photograph is framed close on the side of the torso, with the tattoo placed on the ribs and a dark top held to one side.

Geometric Fine line Ribs Unicorn Horse Geometric Polygon

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fiddler at the White Hart never played the same tune twice, but every Saturday he finished with the one about the horse that came down off the hill. Nobody danced to it. They stood still and let it run through them, the way rain runs off a slate roof.

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Oswin Dray had laid every board of that hall's floor himself, cut on a slant so that the dancers' feet would never settle into a rut. His daughter Ada counted the angles for him while he sawed. The February the snow froze hard, the unicorn came to the open door. It was made of straight edges only, every plane cut clean, and nobody could say where its shoulder stopped and its mane began. Its horn was a single point lifted towards the rafters.

Oswin tried to measure it with his rule and got a different number of sides each time he counted. Ada asked it plainly what it wanted. It lowered its head and touched the fiddler's bow with the tip of its horn. The fiddler, who had been drinking since noon, drew the bow across the strings and played a reel with no bends in it, sharp as folded paper. The dancers moved in straight lines and turned only at the corners, and nobody's boots scuffed the floor.

When the lamps guttered out, the unicorn was gone and the snow in the yard was unmarked. Next morning Oswin found a border of angled boards running round the edge of the hall floor, boards he had never cut. He could have pulled them up. Instead he left them, and on Saturdays the fiddler still ends with the horse from the hill, and the dancers still turn at the corners.