Black and grey realistic tattoo of tall pine trees fading into a shaded base on the thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pine forest tattoo on a thigh

Realism · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A cluster of tall conifers, with one large central tree flanked by smaller ones, is tattooed on the thigh. The trees are drawn with feathered, layered black linework and soft grey shading that thickens toward the bottom, where the forest dissolves into a dark band. The image is a black and white photograph with a plain background of bedding and a floor.

Realism Botanical Thigh Pine tree Forest Conifer Tree

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The count was always eleven, and every October you walked the wood with the estate ledger under your arm and made it eleven again. Tall ones at the middle, the big spruce Mr Alder's grandfather planted for a mast that never got built, and the smaller ones crowding in at the edges like children behind a coat. Mist came up off the Sound in the afternoons and ate the bottom of the wood first, so by four o'clock the trunks simply ended in grey, as if the island had been cut off at the knee.

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This year there were nine. You found the gap on the north slope, a clean stump sawn low with the chips still pale, and fresh tracks in the peat too small to be a forester's boots. You knew whose they were before you knew why. Morag's boy had been going out to the skerries since midsummer, and the old cutter in the boathouse was an inch from rotten. Somebody had needed a keel more than the estate needed a count.

You stood there a long time with the pencil in your hand. The ledger wanted a number, and the number was a question you could answer two ways. Down the slope the mist was rising through the lower branches, so the last few trunks seemed to stand on nothing at all, and you thought how little anyone would miss one tree on a hill that was already mostly sky.

That night you wrote nine in the book and then, underneath in smaller letters, the two names of the people you had seen at the wood's edge with their hands in their pockets, watching you not say anything. In the morning the slip was empty. The stump had already gone grey at the rim, and the mist kept coming up from the bottom of the wood the way it always had, filling in whatever nobody wrote down.