Two people in black trousers and black shoes on dark steps, with black and grey skull-style tattoos on a forearm and a small script tattoo on the other arm.

Dark skull tattoos on a forearm in black trousers

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A person in a white t-shirt and black trousers sits on dark wooden steps with one arm extended, showing black and grey tattoos on the forearm, including skull-like designs and a thin line tattoo near the wrist. A second person stands on the left, shown only from the waist down in black trousers and shoes. The muted grey wall and dark steps keep the focus on the tattoos and the black clothing.

Forearm Skull Script Line Wrist band

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The oven had been lit since three, and Mrs Hale still hadn't come up the lane with her eggs. Tomas Vey wiped his hands on his apron and looked at the tray of dark rye he had not meant to make. Nine small loaves, each with a skull pressed into the crown using the box-wood stamp his grandmother kept for the parish dead. Nobody had ordered them. He had simply woken with the dough already rising under his palms.

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Outside, the frost on the cobbles had gone the colour of pewter. A cart rattled past without stopping. Tomas heard the bell of St Agnes strike the half hour and counted the strokes on his fingers, the way he had as a boy when his father went out on the fishing boats and did not come back on the tide. People said bread baked before dawn carried the names of whoever the baker thought of while kneading. Tomas had never believed it, and he had thought of nobody at all.

The back door opened. A girl of about ten stood on the step with a shawl over her head, breathing hard from running. 'Mother says the black loaves are to go to Cutter's Row,' she said. 'She says it's today.' Tomas looked at the tray. The house on Cutter's Row had lost a husband, two sons and a daughter-in-law that winter, and only one of them lay in the churchyard.

He wrapped the loaves in clean linen and counted them twice. Then he took a sliver of brown paper, wrote a name on it in his tidy hand, and pressed it into the last loaf before the crust set. 'Which one is for my father?' the girl asked. 'Whichever one you can carry,' said Tomas, and he opened the door on the grey light.