Black fine line tattoo of a stag head with antlers on the upper chest, below the collarbone, in a black and white photo.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Stag head tattoo on the upper chest

Fine line · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A small stag head with branching antlers is tattooed on the upper chest, just below the collarbone, and is shown from the front. The linework is thin and sketched, with light hatching on the antlers and muzzle and a dark, tapered beard at the base. The photo is black and white and cropped below the neck, with a black top strap visible on the right shoulder.

Fine line Chest Stag Deer Antler Animal Head

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The register at Gull Rock House has a stag drawn in the margin beside October, so faint you have to tilt the page to the lamp before the lines come up. Mrs Ashdown says the last lodger sketched it while waiting for the kettle and never once finished a cup of tea in the parlour. You sign underneath anyway, because the room at the top of the stairs is the only one with a working radiator, and the wind off the Channel has been trying the windows since dusk.

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Upstairs the room smells of damp wool and somebody else's soap. In the washstand drawer you find a pencil stub sharpened with a knife, and a tide table folded into quarters. On its back is the same stag, larger this time: branching antlers in quick strokes, the muzzle shaded with hatching so fine it looks like breath on glass, and a beard that tapers to nothing like a wick going out. Beneath it someone has written, Don't let her take the north field. You read it twice and decide it is a joke about the landlady's cat.

At breakfast Mrs Ashdown sets down the porridge and asks whether you have found the stag. She speaks of Mr Corran the way people speak of weather that came once and stayed: a man who walked the cliff path each morning with a sketchbook and came back with his hands blue. He drew the same animal in every notebook he owned. When the lifeboat crew found his bag on the shingle, the last page was open, one antler broken off, the pencil lines running over the edge of the paper.

You take the tide table and walk the cliff path before the rain. Where the grass gives way to chalk, a stag stands against the grey sky, exactly as drawn, watching you with the patience of something that has already decided what you will do next. You reach into your coat for the pencil and find you are already drawing.