Full colour leg sleeve tattoo of a grinning Cheshire Cat peering from a tree, running down the thigh and calf.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cheshire Cat leg sleeve

Thigh · Colour · Photo

A large leg sleeve tattoo shows a grinning cat face with a striped, toothy smile above a twisted tree trunk, with further illustrated scenes and figures below. The linework is detailed and painterly, with soft shading and blended areas of teal, blue, green, red and yellow. The leg is shown from behind against a green garden with yellow flowers, and a blue skirt with white lace trim covers the top of the thigh.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You are halfway through the Tuesday lost-property tally when the grin turns up on the platform bench, two feet of striped fur with no cat attached. Nobody else at Thornley Road has noticed. The 4.12 is eleven minutes late, the tea urn has been wheezing since breakfast, and the signal lad is asleep under his cap. You put down your biro and walk out to look.

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It hangs above the third bench, wide as a coal shovel, with teeth in neat white rows and a gold stripe along the jaw. Each time a goods train rumbles through the cutting the smile widens a fraction, as though it has heard a joke it intends to keep. You ask it, politely, what it wants. It says, in the tone of a man reading the small print on a timetable, that it is waiting for the branch line to Wonderland, which closed in 1962 and which it considers a personal insult.

"There is no branch line," you say. The grin replies, "There is a tree at the end of it, and a tree is all a branch ever needs." Then the sign above the ticket hatch, which has read THORNLEY ROAD since before your mother was born, blurs like wet ink and reads THORNLEY ROAD FOR ALL WHO ARRIVE LATE. The old survey map is in the bottom drawer under the spare lamps. You unroll it on the counter and trace a dotted line nobody has ever surveyed, while the grin hums something with a great many verses.

The 4.12 pulls in on time for the first time in years. Its doors open onto a carriage full of teacups and a driver with the wrong number of hands, and the grin settles itself into the luggage rack, winks at you once and goes. Behind it, through the slats of the bench, a single yellow flower is growing, and it is not, you notice, on any timetable.

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