Black and grey realism tattoo of a wolf's head in profile in front of a full moon, with a feather hanging below, on the upper back near the shoulder blade.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Wolf head and moon on the upper back

Realism · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A wolf's head in profile faces right, with its ears up and its eye and muzzle rendered in detail. A large, softly shaded full moon sits behind it, with faint crater markings, and a feather with dotted detail hangs down the left side of the design. The tattoo is shaded in black and grey with smooth gradients, and it sits on bare skin across the upper back.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lights on Hollis Ring dim at the hour the moon climbs over the ice wall, and by then you have already fed the wolves. There are only two left in the greenhouse dome, a grey she-wolf called Ysolde and her son, who came up in a crate from the Svalbard vaults and has never once looked at a human without measuring the distance. You stand at the mesh with the bucket and wait for him to turn his head. He does, eventually, and the light from the viewport catches the ear that never lies flat.

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Your grandmother kept a feather in a biscuit tin on the shelf above the kettle. Nobody on the Ring was sure which bird it had come from, since the last birds died before the dome walls were poured. She said it was from a hawk that had flown over the old Yorkshire moors the year she was born, and that the wolves had been listening to that hawk ever since. You thought this was nonsense when you were small. You still think it, mostly, the way you think the moon is nonsense when it fills the viewport and turns the glass the colour of weak tea.

Tonight the signal panel blinks red. The transit crew up at the shuttle lock have gone quiet, and the supply manifest has a line you do not want to read: the vaults are ending the breeding programme, and the dome will be cleared by the next cycle. You open the tin, take out the feather and hold it against the glass beside his face, the two of you lined up against the pale disc. He lifts his muzzle. For a moment he looks at the moon as if it owes him something, and you decide you will not be the one who looks away first.

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