Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Hot air balloon on a forearm
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small hot air balloon with a flag on its top and a basket beneath is drawn in black ink on the inner forearm. The balloon has finely hatched shading on its canopy, fine rigging lines and a slim basket, with clean, delicate linework. The design is in black and grey against a dark, blurred background, with the arm set in the lower left of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The wind came over the Crychan Gap at six, just as the old man had promised, and Idris Vaughan swore at it in two languages while he fed the last sandbags into the basket. Mina held the rigging lines with her gloves off because the knots would not tie in wool. Above them the canopy shivered like a held breath, striped and scalloped, its little pennant snapping at the top as if it wanted to be off without them.
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Nobody in the valley had believed the balloon would leave the field. Her father had built the burner from a brewer's copper and a length of pipe, and the village had come out to watch the first attempt the way they came out for funerals and the Easter fair, half sorry for them and half keen to see someone fall. Mina had stood at the rope with a notebook of weights and wind readings, pencilled in neat columns, and had not once looked down.
At seven the sandbags were gone and the burner roared. The ground let go with a small, stupid lurch, like a dog lifting its paw off a step, and then there was only the flame and the thin lines singing against the wind. Idris pointed at the pass. The cloud had split along the ridge and a farm roof glinted in a gap of sun, too small to be a home from up here, and Mina found she was laughing.
She wrote the time in the notebook, the height, the bearing, and beneath them, in the margin where nothing belonged, the word down. Then she tucked the pencil behind her ear and let the wind take the rest.
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