Traditional style flash drawing of a pin-up woman in goggles and denim shorts, holding a wrench, with bold black outlines and flat colour.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pin-up woman with goggles and wrench

Traditional · Colour · Flash

A full-length pin-up woman stands with one hand on her hip and a wrench raised in the other, wearing aviator-style goggles, a knotted halter top, a belted pair of denim shorts and heels. The design uses bold black outlines with smooth, flat colour fills in skin tones, black hair, yellow gloves and blue denim, with minimal shading. The figure is centred on a plain white background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Ferguson died at the top of Long Acre orchard with a sulky cough, and by the time I came up the rows, pushing my goggles up into my hair, the whole picking gang had put down their baskets to watch. It was the last week of August. Wasps hung drunk over the windfalls, and the air tasted of cider before a single apple had been pressed.

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"Can you fix it, Nell?" called Walt from the top of his ladder, as if the answer might be no. I pulled on my yellow gloves, took the big wrench out of my belt and slid under the chassis on a feed sack. Mice had nested in the air filter and chewed clean through the fuel line, and the smell of old diesel and mouse piss hung over everything. I spliced it with a length of rubber hose from the shed, tightened the clamp with three turns, and wiped my hands on my shorts, which only made the grease worse.

"Right," said Mr Hobb, who had been standing with his cap in both hands like a man at a funeral. "Right, then."

The engine caught on the second pull and the whole orchard cheered, wasps and all. Walt came down the ladder with a jug of last year's cider and offered me a tin mug of it, and I told him to keep it for himself and bring me the first bushel of Discovery instead, because I had a thirst that wasn't going to be quenched by a jug. I climbed onto the seat, tucked the wrench back in my belt and left my goggles hanging on the steering wheel, so the mice would know whose machine it was now.

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