Black fine line pine tree tattoo running vertically along the middle of a person's bare upper back, with long blonde dreadlocks over one shoulder.

Pine tree tattoo on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A tall, slender pine tree is tattooed in black ink down the middle of a bare back, with a straight trunk and sparse, feathery branches that taper towards the top. The linework is fine and the branches are shaded lightly, giving the tree a silhouette-like look against the skin. The warm, sepia-toned photo is framed from behind, with the tattoo placed centrally and the wearer's dreadlocks falling over the left side.

Fine line Back Pine tree Tree Conifer Silhouette

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The king's letter came up the valley on the second day of thaw, sealed in green wax and asking for one pine for the new flagship. It had to be mast-length and straight as a plumb line. I was warden of Hask Ridge, which meant I was the one who walked the slopes with the surveyor's rod and said which tree would do.

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There was one. Below the scree, a single pine stood apart from the others, its trunk clean for forty yards and its branches thinning as they rose, so the whole tree looked like a pencil stroke drawn against the sky. Master Corran wanted it measured before the frost. I climbed the lower limbs with a rope and a tally stick, and the wind went through the needles above me like someone reading out a list of names.

I came down with the stick still in my pocket, unmarked. Corran asked why. I told him the ridge had lost its last true pine to the river fleet in my grandmother's time, and that the valley had been quieter since, and that the crooked tree at Vell would serve for a mast if they were willing to live with a bend in it. He wrote that down, frowned, and said nothing.

That night I entered it in the warden's ledger: Pine above the scree, one tree, standing. Beneath the words I drew its shape as I had seen it from the rope, the thin trunk and the branches fading upward into nothing. In spring the king's men came, cut the crooked tree at Vell, and went home. Some clear mornings I still climb up to the scree just to see the other one against the light, a single black line on a page nobody else reads.