Colour tattoo of a seated fairy with green wings, orange hair in a bun and a green dress, placed on the lower back with small sparkles around her.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Seated fairy tattoo on lower back

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A cartoon-style fairy sits with one leg extended upwards, wearing a green dress and green shoes, with orange hair tied in a bun and translucent green wings. Small four-pointed sparkles surround the figure. The linework is clean and outlined, with soft shading on the skin tones, wings and dress, and the figure is centred on the lower back.

Back Fairy Wing Sparkle Dress Cartoon character

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fog came down on Wrack Island the week the herring boats were due home, and Tam Lundy's boat was still out past the Skerry when the lamp on the headland went dark. Everyone knew who kept that lamp. Sprig lived in the brass housing above the oil store, a fairy no taller than a kettle, with a bun of orange hair pinned up with a sea-thrift stalk and wings the colour of pond water. She had never once lit the lamp for nothing. She wanted thread, and cream, and a song sung badly on the harbour steps, and she always got them.

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That autumn the mending had gone to her. Net after net came up the cobbles in sacks, torn by rock and seal, and Sprig sat on the wall with a needle as long as her arm, humming, while the women argued over whose cod-end was whose. Nobody asked how a fairy could mend twelve nets in a night. They were glad enough of the result, and they left her bowls of cream by the wall and never thought to thank her properly.

When the lamp failed that night, the women came down to the harbour in their shawls and found the wall empty. Then Maisie Croy pointed. Out in the grey, something small and green was sitting up on the rocks at the end of the pier, one leg stretched high and straight. The tip of her shoe was lit, bright as a star, and each time she kicked it, a little burst of sparkle flew off across the water. The boat turned towards it. Tam Lundy told the story for years afterwards, how he steered for a toe-light no bigger than a coin and felt the keel grate onto the slip.

Sprig asked for nothing that night. The women left a spool of linen thread on the wall and a jug of cream, and in the morning both were gone. On still nights, when the sea is flat and the herring are running, you can still see her on the end of the pier, tapping one green shoe against the dark, waiting for someone to bring her thread.