Colour realism tattoo of the Joker's grinning face with red hair and clasped green hands, on a forearm.

Joker portrait tattoo on forearm

Realism · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A large portrait of a grinning clown-like character with red jester hair, green-tinged skin, yellow eyes and a wide red mouth showing teeth. The hands are clasped beneath the chin, shaded in grey and green. Smooth gradients and detailed highlights give the piece a painted, realistic finish against the skin of the forearm, with a blurred room behind.

Realism Forearm Joker Clown Portrait Hand Skull

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The jester came up the lane on the last Tuesday before the snow, pulling a handcart with a cracked wheel that squealed like a pig. Mam said we couldn't afford a fool, and he said he didn't want paying, only a bed in the barn and the chance to watch us count our turnips. Red curls stuck out from under his cap, and the bauble on its peak was carved to look like a small skull. He laughed at everything, including the frost on the water trough.

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Winter got into the rafters that week. The ewes started dropping lambs in the dark, and Dad wouldn't leave a lamp lit in the shed in case it caught the straw. The jester sat with me at the gate each night, cracking walnuts with his teeth and telling me about the big house at Ashcombe, where the squire had lost his wife to a fever and his temper to a card game. He never said a true thing without grinning, and I never knew which of his stories to believe.

On the longest night the squire's man came up the lane with a lantern and a ledger, and the mortgage on Lower Farm fell due with the frost. Dad went white and began packing the good saddle. The jester rose from the gate, brushed shell from his green sleeves, and laced his long fingers together under his chin like a parson about to pray. "Tell him the sheep are spoken for," he said. "Tell him the snow is a bad debt, and bad debts have a way of melting."

Morning came hard and white. The squire's man was found sitting in the drift by the stile, grinning like he'd heard the best joke in the county, and he never said what it was. The ledger was gone. So was the jester and his cart, though his tracks led only to the hedge and stopped. Dad never paid the squire a penny after that, and I still find walnut shells in the coat I wore that night, each cracked neatly down the middle, as if someone wanted to see what was inside.