Black and grey Mickey Mouse playing a guitar on one forearm, beside a colourful neo-traditional Halloween sleeve with pumpkins and a green creature on the other arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Mickey Mouse and Halloween sleeve on forearms

Neo-trad · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A person leans forward on a wooden bench, showing two tattoos on their forearms, with their head and face cropped out of frame. The left forearm has a small black linework Mickey Mouse playing a guitar, with simple shading and plenty of white skin around it. The right forearm carries a full colour sleeve in bold greens, oranges and blacks, featuring glowing pumpkins, a stone wall and a green creature against a dark background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The pumpkins had been carved by Mrs Ottoline Greave in 1952, the year the lamplighter's boy drowned in the cattle trough behind the Crooked Bell, and every October since, the children of Little Haddon had been made to set them out along the churchyard wall before dark. Nobody had ever explained the orange light that came up from inside them. Nobody had asked.

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Wilfred Ashdown was nine and had decided that he would not be frightened of anything with a grin. He crept along the wall on the Thursday before All Hallows with a jam jar and a torch wrapped in his mother's scarf, meaning to catch one of the glowing faces and prove it was only a lantern. The green thing on the far side of the wall was already watching him. It had a long grey coat and a pair of spectacles held on with string, and it was tuning a small black guitar with the careful patience of a man who had all the time in the world, which, as Wilfred would later tell his sister, was the most frightening part.

It did not chase him. It played him a tune, a jaunty little thing that got under his ribs, and asked, very politely, whether he had brought a jar big enough for the spider. Wilfred said he had not. The creature sighed, plucked one last note, and tipped its hat towards the stone wall, where a single pumpkin had begun to laugh.

He ran home. His jam jar was never found, but on the morning of All Saints the wall was clean, every pumpkin gone, and pinned to the gate was a sheet of sheet music with a little drawing of a mouse in the corner, grinning, and a line in careful pencil: Mind the trough, Wilfred, you were nearly in it.

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