Traditional style colour tattoo of a brown coffin with fishnet-clad legs and gold sparkles, framed by red flowers, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Coffin with fishnet legs and red flowers

Traditional · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A brown coffin sits upright on the forearm, with a pair of fishnet-clad legs visible inside its open lid. Four red five-petalled flowers with green leaves surround the coffin, and small gold four-point sparkles float on its black interior. Bold black outlines and flat, solid fills in red, brown, gold and green give it a classic flash-style look against blurred skin and a dark background.

Traditional Forearm Coffin Leg Flower Sparkle Star Leaves

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lid sticks again on the Tuesday matinee, so you lever it open with the heel of your hand while the pier crowd shifts on their folding seats. Vera lies inside with her knees drawn up the way she has for nineteen years, the fishnets laddered from ankle to thigh. Nobody in the cheap seats can see the holes. You can, from the wings, every night, and that is why you know the hinges want more oil than Mr Feld's budget allows.

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Afterwards the saw is blunt and the red paper roses on the painted lid have faded to the colour of wet brick. Feld stands in the sawdust with a letter from the council, folded into quarters, and says the season ends at Christmas whatever the box does. He says it to the bunting, not to you. You stack the garlands into a crate and count the gold foil stars the painter stuck into the black lining years ago. Twenty-two of them. You have never once counted them with the lid shut.

When the lights are down, Vera climbs out in her stockinged feet and sits on the edge of the coffin with the letter, reading it upside down the way she reads everything. She asks whether you still have the good oil. You say yes. She says leave the lid up tonight so the stars can look at the ceiling, and you tell her stars can't see anything from inside a box, and she laughs so hard she has to hold on to the wood.

You close the lid anyway, gently, and stand in the empty tent while the gold specks catch the single work light, small and stubborn on the black, as if somebody were still keeping count.