Black and grey tattoo of a horned, long-tailed creature sitting on the lower abdomen beside the navel.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Horned monster on the lower abdomen

Other · Black and grey · Photo

A horned, long-tailed creature sits with its arms folded and one leg extended, drawn in outlined linework with soft grey shading. The tattoo sits on the lower abdomen to the left of the navel, with the creature's tail curling toward the waistband of a dotted black garment. The image is a close, straight-on crop of the torso against a plain skin tone and a dim background.

Other Creature Monster Horn Tail

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You told the doorman at the Pavilion Ballroom in Ramsgate that you were the wild thing from the travelling show, and he looked at the tail, a length of brown fur stitched onto a pair of cricket trousers, and waved you through for free because it was the last Saturday before the pier shut for the winter. The band is playing a slow number now, the saxophone sighing over the heads of the bakery girls doing their shuffle, and you are scanning the floor for Ivy Costello, who promised to waltz the last dance with whoever turned up dressed as a monster. She has since disappeared behind the cloakroom curtain with a sailor called Terry, and you can hear the two of them laughing through the velvet.

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So you stand by the pillar with your arms folded, the way the costume makes you stand, and you think about the back bedroom at home, where you once built a whole kingdom out of blankets and a broom handle and ruled it until your mother's voice came up the stairs and ended the reign. Nobody in this hall is asking you to go to bed. The lights are low, the glasses are sweating on the bar, and a woman in a green hat is laughing at a joke you didn't hear. You feel braver than you have any right to be.

The curtain parts and Ivy comes out with her lipstick smudged and her hair coming down. She takes one look at you, puts her hand on your furry arm, and says, 'Come on, then, you great beast, one dance.' You shuffle onto the floor with the tail dragging behind you, and for three minutes the whole Pavilion is a forest of other people's shoulders and somebody's aunt doing the foxtrot.

When the band finishes, the house lights come up grey and ordinary. You walk out past the stacked chairs and down the steps onto the wet promenade, the tail swishing over the planks, and the sea is the only thing left in Ramsgate still making any noise at all.