Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Small pine tree on a forearm
Dotwork · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small pine tree is tattooed on the inner forearm, close to the wrist, with a narrow dark trunk and tiered branches. The tree is built from fine stippled dots and short strokes, giving it a textured, shaded look. The ink is black and grey against pale skin, and the tattoo sits centrally in the frame with a dark, blurred background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mind the step, it's loose, same as the rest of this county. Now where was I. Ah, the bailiff's boy and the cone seed.
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Hallam Greave came up the Tor road the spring the castle's last roof came down, carrying nothing but a tin of pitch and a seedling in a wet sack. He was the sort who talked to trees. The old lord had forbidden anything green inside the walls, said it cracked the mortar, so Hallam planted his in the one bit of courtyard the masons had left open, between the well and the tumbled gatehouse. Nobody thought it would live. The wind came off the moor like a blade and the goats took every shoot they could reach.
But the tree kept its single leader pointed at the sky, and every winter it put on another tier of branches, flat and dark as a stack of slates. By the time the lord's grandson came to sell the stone, the pine had pushed a root under the chapel floor and lifted the altar step by a hand's width. The surveyor wanted it felled for the timber. He stood at the bottom of the courtyard with his measuring chain and called it a fire risk, a hazard, a nuisance.
Hallam was dead by then. The surveyor went home and the tree stayed, and that autumn the lad sent to cut it found a blackbird's nest in the crown with four blue eggs, and he walked back down the hill without his saw.
So if you go up there at dusk, the shadow crosses the chapel wall like a hand laid on a sleeping man. Count the tiers. There's one for every winter it survived, and nobody has ever got to the top of them.
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