Realistic coloured tattoo of an Ewok with an orange hood on the upper arm, with a tribal design and a skull tattoo nearby.

Ewok tattoo on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A realistic tattoo of an Ewok from Star Wars, shown standing with its hood up and one arm raised, filling most of the upper arm. The fur is shaded in browns and blacks with soft highlights, while the orange hood adds the main warm colour. Partial tribal artwork in blue and red sits on the left edge of the frame, and part of a skull tattoo is visible at the bottom.

Realism Upper arm Star wars Hood Fur Tribal Skull

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fire door at the back of the Lido Ballroom had been propped open with a sandbag since spring, so when the little creature first came through it on the second Saturday in October, I assumed the damp had got into the hinges again. He came up to my hip, wrapped in a rust-orange hood that smelled faintly of woodsmoke, and he stood by the bass bin with his arms folded as if he had paid good money and was waiting for the band to earn it.

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Nobody else seemed to notice him. Mr Okafor was on the microphone singing Sinatra with his eyes shut, and the Pollard sisters were doing the Gay Gordons in matching cardigans. I kept meaning to chuck him out. Each Saturday he arrived after the interval, danced exactly one number, always the slow one, and slipped away before the lights came up. He never asked for a drink. He never trod on anybody's feet, which put him ahead of most of the men in the hall.

In November I finally followed him. He went out past the bins, across the car park where the puddles held the sodium light, and down into the dunes beyond the prom where nobody goes after dark. There was a tin hut out there with a stovepipe, and a ring of small figures sitting round a fire, all in brown and orange, watching a gramophone the size of a wardrobe. When the needle dropped, they stood up together, and I stood in the marram grass with my collar up, feeling like the one who had come to the wrong party.

He saw me before I could turn back. He crossed the sand, looked up at me with those unblinking eyes, and held out one small furred hand. I took it. For three minutes on the cold dunes we did the slow one together, while the gramophone crackled and the fire spat sparks at the stars. When I got home my shoes were full of sand, and the fire door at the Lido is still propped open with its bag, in case he needs somewhere to come back in.