Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Six snowflakes trailing across the ribs
Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo
Six snowflake designs of varying sizes run diagonally across the side of the torso, from upper left to lower right. The linework is thin and crisp, with some snowflakes drawn as open outlines and others with more detailed interior branches. The ink is solid black on pale skin, and the plain background keeps the focus on the tattoo.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The telegraph at Greyfell Halt went dead at a quarter past four, the afternoon the snow came in properly. I was alone in the booth with the stove smoking and the timetable curling on its nail, and I had a notion that if I counted the flakes against the window I could tell how long we'd be cut off. Mr Pryce had gone down the line on foot to see about the points, and he had not come back.
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The first flake I caught on the glass was as big as a shilling, six-armed, the branches split like a fern. I drew it in pencil on the back of a waybill. Then I drew another, smaller, with a curl at its heart, and another after that, each one trailing a little lower and a little further right across the page, the way the snow was trailing down the valley towards the crossing. By six o'clock I had five of them and the pencil had gone blunt.
Pryce came in at seven with ice in his moustache and the lamp swinging from his fist. He looked at the waybill for a long time and said nothing. Then he took the pencil from my hand and drew the last one himself, the smallest, right at the edge where the paper ran out, and told me the line would be clear by Thursday if the wind dropped. I didn't ask him how he knew.
Thursday came, and the wind dropped. I still keep the waybill folded in my purse, and each time I open it the snowflakes look a little fainter, the way things do when they've been looked at too often by someone waiting for a train that is finally, after all that snow, coming.
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