Small black fine line fox tattoo on the inner wrist of a raised hand, set against a blurred background of stacked firewood.

Small fox on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small fox sits in profile on the inner wrist, drawn with thin, even black outlines and no shading. The hand is raised with the fingers loosely curled, and the background is a soft, out-of-focus stack of firewood in warm browns. The tattoo is a small, centred detail that stands out against the pale skin.

Fine line Forearm Fox Animal

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain had been at the market since six, and by ten the firewood stall had given up pretending the tarpaulin kept anything dry. I stacked the split ash and oak against the side of the van, bark out, the way my father taught me, so the water would run off the rounded ends instead of soaking in. Nobody buys firewood in the rain. They buy it in January, when the frost has got into the bones of the town. I was counting coins into a biscuit tin when the fox came along the kerb.

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She was thin in the way of foxes who live on what people drop, and she moved as if the market belonged to her and we were only renting pitches. She stopped at the edge of the woodpile and looked at me sideways, one forepaw lifted, her tail held low like a dropped scarf. The other traders had stories about foxes that take a sandwich from your hand or follow a child home. I didn't believe them. I believed she was hungry, and I had a sausage roll in my coat pocket that I had been saving for lunch.

I broke it in half and set one piece on the wet bark. She ate it without taking her eyes off me, neat and quick, and then she did something I haven't stopped thinking about. She walked the length of the woodpile, stepping over the logs as if she were reading them, and sat down again exactly where she had started, facing the van. I gave her the other half.

When the rain finally eased, a woman in a green anorak asked whether the ash was seasoned. I looked at the log in my hands, then at the place on the bark where the fox had sat. 'Dry as a bone,' I told her, and wrapped it in newspaper. It was the first thing I'd sold all day that I was sure of.