Close photo of a black and brown frog-like tattoo with four splayed limbs on the inner forearm, shaded softly in the body.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Frog-like figure on a forearm

Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A dark, frog-like figure with four splayed limbs is tattooed on the inner forearm, with the limbs in solid black lines. The body is shaded in soft brown and reddish tones with a blurred edge, creating a loose, smudged effect. The design is centred on the skin with plain, out-of-focus background.

Forearm Frog Animal

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the third stair, it gives. Sit where the lamp can reach you. Now, the frog. It came up the Scarrow Point lighthouse in the wet March of 1911, and it climbed all two hundred and six steps, which no frog in its right mind would attempt, and that was the first thing Arthur Pell held against it.

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Arthur kept the lamp lit by hand that winter, the clockwork having seized with rust. Every night he wound the weights and polished the glass, and every night the frog sat on the iron rail below the lantern room, four long legs splayed flat against the cold, watching the beam go round. Its back was the colour of wet bricks, darker where the salt had got into it. It never blinked when the light swept over. Arthur swore it was counting.

On the last night of the month the fog came in thick as porridge, and the fishing boat Marion Rae lost her way somewhere off the reef. Arthur climbed to the gallery with a flare in one fist, and the frog hopped after him, step by step, the whole way up. Out in the murk he heard oars, then a man shouting for a light. He turned the lamp by hand, slow, slow, the way you would count a heartbeat, until the bow nosed out of the white and found the channel.

When the boat had gone in, Arthur looked down and the rail was bare. He went down to the cottage and found it sitting on the kettle, warm as a coin. He never learned where it went. Some nights, when the wind is in the north, I still hear a small wet slap on the stone behind me, and I do not turn round. Drink up now. The tide is turning, and so is the lamp.