Mountain range with pine trees on ribs
Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo
A small tattoo of a jagged mountain range with pine trees at the base and a plain circle above the peaks, set against the sun. The peaks are outlined in fine line and shaded with dense stippled dots, with lighter areas left as bare skin. The image is black and white and centred on the tattoo, with the torso filling most of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The radio gave up its last crackle at half past nine, and after that the only voice on the ridge was the wind working through the pines below the tower. Marta kept the logbook open on the sill and wrote the hour, then the wind direction, then nothing, because there was nothing to report. Across the valley the range stood in the dark like a row of broken teeth, its highest peak catching what was left of the moon. She had counted those peaks every evening for three summers and never once got the same number twice.
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At eleven the stove ticked as it cooled. She thought about the man who had driven up with the supply truck in April, who had laughed at her for keeping a paper record when the district had a perfectly good tablet. He had asked whether the mountains ever looked different up close. She had told him they looked exactly the same, only bigger, and he had nodded like he was filing that away for later. He had not come back up after the thaw, and the tablet had gone to the depot with a cracked screen.
She went out onto the gallery with the lamp switched off. The sky over the north face had cleared, and a single round moon sat clear of the highest ridge, close enough that she could have covered it with her thumb. Below it the pines stood in their thin black rows, going down the slope like a question nobody had bothered to finish. She picked up the pencil from her pocket and wrote the moon's position in the log, along with the hour, the wind and the words, all clear, first time in weeks.
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