Black line drawing of a howling wolf head built from angular geometric facets, shown as a tattoo design on plain paper with no body part visible.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Geometric wolf head line drawing

Geometric · Black and grey · Flash

A wolf head is drawn in the air with its muzzle raised, built from straight black lines that divide it into triangular and polygonal facets. Solid black fills mark the nose tip and the eye, and the rest of the drawing is thin, unshaded line on a pale grey background. The composition is centred and fills most of the tall, vertical frame.

Geometric Wolf Animal Geometric Line drawing

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Right, sit down by the stove and mind the kettle, because this one's about the wolf on the Carrow Bridge signal box wall, the one you've all walked past without looking at. Nobody painted it. It was there the morning old Dunmore found the box locked from the inside and the lamp still burning. He said the lines were drawn in soot and spit, the way a boy draws when he's cold and has nothing else, and that the thing had its head thrown back like it was calling a train in off the moor.

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He never told anyone what happened next, but his granddaughter did, and she said he'd worked the night shift for thirty years and never once heard the wolf make a sound. What he did see was the points. Every morning the levers were set just so, the crossing gates were down before the bell, and the goods from Hallam came through on time with not one wagon lost. Dunmore said it was the wolf sorting the lines, cutting the sharp angles of the track into straight pieces the way its own edges were cut. He used to bring it a cup of tea and leave it on the sill, and the tea was always gone by dawn.

Then came the winter the signal failed in fog and the Hallam express came on too fast. Dunmore was asleep in the chair with his boots on. When he woke the lamp had gone out and the window was black, and on the far wall, where the soot wolf had always been, there was only a clean stripe of whitewash. He ran out with the red lantern and found the express stopped dead a yard short of the points, the driver staring at a grey shape loping off into the bracken. Nobody believes him about the shape. But the tea cup was on the sill, empty, and that was the last winter he kept a light burning for anyone.