Sketch-style tattoo of Jack Skellington in a striped top hat on the forearm, with black and grey shading and purple watercolour washes.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Jack Skellington on a forearm

Forearm · Mixed · Photo

The tattoo shows the cartoon character Jack Skellington standing with his large round head, striped top hat and spiky collar, drawn in loose, sketchy linework. The skull and hat are shaded in black and grey, while soft purple wash splashes sit behind the figure and a few small droplets add a painterly finish. The composition is centred on the forearm, with the figure's feet resting on a curled purple ground line.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The moon had come unhooked again, and by the time Jack reached the reed bank of Lesser Mere it was lying face up in the shallows, wobbling like a dropped plate. The mayor's wife had sent word at dusk. Nobody else in Mossend Hollow would wade out after it, so Jack tightened his striped hat, rolled his trousers above his bony ankles and stepped into the cold.

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The water turned violet as it deepened, the colour of bruised plums and old lamplight. Something long and patient lived down there, and it had been tangling the moon in kite string and the handlebars of a drowned tricycle for as long as anyone could remember. Jack found it coiled in the silt, a grey eel with a face like a retired schoolmaster. It wanted a story before it would let go. So Jack told it about the night he had first put on the hat, how the crown had been too tall for the doorway and he had walked into the town square bent double, with his head poking out of the top like a candle in a bottle. The eel laughed until its whiskers bubbled, and the moon, startled, slid free.

He hauled it up the bank by the scruff of its silver rim and hung it back on its hook above the church spire, where it swung for a moment and settled. It was lighter now, and paler, the way things get when they have been laughed at by someone who did not mean it unkindly.

Jack stood on the purple-stained grass with mud clinging to his feet. Across the mere the last of the violet still spread outwards in soft rings, as though the lake had not yet decided to let the evening go.

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