Black ink tattoo on the side ribs of a skeleton standing within a bare tree with roots, with small red accents on the buds.

Skeleton in a bare tree on the ribs

Blackwork · Ribs · Mixed · Photo

A skeleton stands in the centre of a bare, branching tree whose roots spread across the lower part of the design, with the figure's skull near the upper branches. The linework is bold and dark, with solid black branches, fine twigs and shaded root forms. Small red dots on the buds and leaves are the only colour against the black ink and bare skin.

Blackwork Ribs Skeleton Tree Root Branches Skull

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The tanker's wheel bites the gravel and you let the engine idle at the last bend before Sallow Pan, because the tree is still there, a black hand held up against a sky the colour of old brass. Nobody at the depot would believe you if you said it had leaned further over the road since spring. Ruth at the fuel stop swore the well-keeper climbed it the summer the rains stopped, and that you can still make him out in the branches when the light is low, one bony arm hooked through a fork, watching the horizon for weather that never comes.

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You switch off the engine and the silence rushes in. Your boots crunch over a crust of salt. The roots break the ground in dark knuckles and run out beneath the road, and where they surface the soil is damp, which should not be possible. You kneel by the nearest root and notice the twigs are not bearing pods at all but small red berries, swollen and bright. You think of the tank bolted behind you, full to the lid, holding more water than a village drinks in a month.

You unscrew the valve. The first litre runs warm and tastes of iron, then cools as it sinks into the earth. Above you the old keeper's skull tilts, and you could swear the hollow eyes follow the splash. You stay there until the tank is half empty, palms stinging with grit, wondering what the desert is owed and who keeps the account.

When you pull back onto the road, the mirror shows the tree in full leaf, every twig beaded with red, and the figure in its branches has his arm stretched toward the far hills, as if he has finally seen the weather coming. You drive on with the tank lighter by half and the road ahead glittering like a blade laid flat across the pan.