Black and grey fine line and dotwork tattoo of stars, branches and snowflake motifs, mirrored symmetrically on the lower leg above the ankle.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Symmetrical star and branch motif on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A symmetrical design of stars, snowflake-like rosettes, branching stems and leaves, linked by dotted lines that run from a vertical central stem outwards. The linework is fine and precise, with stippled dots adding texture to the star shapes. The tattoo is rendered entirely in black ink on a black and white photograph, and it is centred on the lower leg just above the ankle bone, with a black shoe strap visible at the bottom of the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Maren,

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The relay mast went dark again on Tuesday, and Oyelaran swears it was the same fault that took out the ice-drill last winter, though he said that about the fuel line too. I've started keeping the logbook in pencil. Pen freezes in the hut by the second hour of the night shift, and the ink goes thick as treacle, so I've taken to writing with my back to the heater and my gloves off, which is a foolish thing to do at minus forty, but there it is.

You asked in your last message whether the constellation charts still make any sense out here, now that the sky above Halvik is nothing but the glow of Saturn and the grey pinprick of the supply tug. They don't, not really. So I've been drawing my own. Every evening I walk the perimeter line with the old theodolite and sight three stars through the dust, then mark where they fall on a sheet of squared paper. The map is symmetrical, which I didn't intend. Each star throws out a dotted line, and the lines meet at a branch of little pointed leaves, the sort my grandmother stitched onto tea towels. I suppose the eye wants balance even when the sky doesn't offer any.

The last sheet I finished looked so much like the frost pattern on the inside of the window that I held it up to the glass to check. Your initials were the first thing I thought of, which is absurd, but I've kept it. I'm sending a copy with this letter, folded small. Put it somewhere it won't be crushed.

Write soon, and tell me the orchard frost came through without taking the late plums.

Lotte

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