Black and grey realism tattoo of pine trees fading into mist across a forearm, shown in two side-by-side photographs.

Misty pine forest on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two side-by-side photographs show the same forearm with a tattoo of tall pine trees rising from a dense band of dark foliage. The lower trees are shaded with sharp, dark grey detail, while the upper trees fade into soft, misty grey with faint reddish tones on the skin. The right panel looks more defined and saturated than the left.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mother said the trees at the top of the valley were the ghosts of the ones that had been felled, come back to see who was still counting. Ruth did not believe her, but she counted anyway, every evening, standing at the stile with the milk pail hooked on one finger.

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Dark trunks first, close enough to smell of resin: eleven of them, always eleven, black as boot polish where the light gave up. Above those came the ones that lost their edges, then the ones you could only guess at, grey as breath on a cold window. Past the seventh row the mist took over, and nobody in the village had ever counted higher before dusk.

The winter the storm brought the big ash down across the lane, her father went up with the saw to clear it and did not come down by dark. Ruth took the lantern and the pail anyway, because the cow still needed milking. At the stile she stopped and counted. Eleven black trunks. Then a twelfth, faint, on the far side of the mist, where no tree had ever stood. She did not go looking. She hung the lantern on the post and sang the tally rhyme until a whistle came back down the slope, two notes, his.

He came down at first light, grey to the eyebrows, with the saw on his shoulder and a story about a fox. Ruth did not tell him about the twelfth tree. She went out to the stile instead and counted again, and the mist had moved on, and there were only eleven, the way there always had been, one of them a little paler than the rest.

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