Black and grey tattoo of an acoustic guitar soundhole inside an ornate scrolled frame on a woman's upper back, with a guitar leaning beside her in a grassy field.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Guitar soundhole tattoo on upper back

Back · Black and grey · Photo

A woman is photographed from behind, showing a tattoo of an acoustic guitar soundhole with strings and rosette, set within an ornate scrolled cartouche on her upper back. The linework is detailed, with shaded depth on the soundhole and soft grey tones on the scrollwork. The background is an outdoor field with trees, and a real acoustic guitar leans against her shoulder.

Back Guitar String Scrollwork Frame

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Snow had shut the Hollin Cross road for three days, and the eight guests were getting on each other's nerves. Nell Carraway counted the coal scuttles twice before she noticed the guitar propped behind the settle in the snug, its case gone, its neck furred with ash from the grate.

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The man who had left it, Anselm Vey, came in off the moor on the first night with frost in his eyebrows and a voice like wet gravel. He paid for two nights in coins and went out at dawn before anyone was up. Nobody knew which way he had gone. The guitar stayed. Its soundhole was round and dark, ringed with pale inlay, and someone had scratched a date inside the body, 1971, in a hand that pressed too hard.

On the fourth evening, with the power flickering and the Lacey brothers arguing over a card game, Nell tuned the strings by ear. The first chord came out flat and thin, and then the room turned towards it. She played what she half remembered from the wireless, badly at first, then better. Mrs Pryce cried into her sleeve and said nothing about it afterwards.

When the plough finally came grinding up the hill on the Sunday, the guests carried their bags out to the van, and the snow stopped as if someone had lifted it off the valley. Nell kept the guitar behind the settle. She told herself it was for whoever came back for it. Through the window the drifts lay smooth and blue, and the low sun caught the soundhole, a small round window with nothing behind it but the music she had made.