Small solid black Mickey Mouse head silhouette tattoo on the side of a pointing index finger, photographed outdoors.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Mickey Mouse silhouette on a finger

Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A small solid black silhouette of a Mickey Mouse head sits on the upper side of a pointing index finger. The ink is a single flat fill with no visible shading or fine detail. The hand is photographed against a pale pavement and grey background, with a silver band ring on the middle finger.

Hand Mickey mouse Cartoon Silhouette

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lock at Haddon Weir had stuck half open since the spring floods, and Dad would not pay the Trust to fix it, so each morning he sent me along the towpath with a tin of grease and the long iron pole. I was eleven and thought myself too old for cartoon things, but I had the mouse. Cousin Ruth had pricked it onto my forefinger behind the wheelhouse with a sewing needle and a bottle of Indian ink, and it had swollen to the size of a shirt button before settling into a neat black silhouette, two round ears and a head like a dropped plum.

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Ruth said a finger that points is a finger that gets things done. Whenever the Mary Ellen drifted toward the reeds, I jabbed it at the bank and Dad steered where I showed him. He never once thanked me, but by the second summer he had stopped calling it silly.

The night the water came over the sill, the top gate chain snapped and the barge swung broadside into the lock wall. Dad was on the lockside with the pole, his boots already in the flood, and the spray hid the far mooring from him. I did not shout. I held up my right hand and pointed, straight along the line of the black mouse, and kept it pointing until he followed my arm to the rope and hauled us clear.

Morning came grey and the lock was still stuck, but the tin of grease sat on the step where I had left it. The ink had blurred at the edges from all that wet work, and the ears looked softer, as if a thumb had rubbed them. I pointed it at the sun coming up over the weir anyway, and Dad, drinking tea on the roof, lifted his cup to it.