Full colour tattoo on the upper arm showing Mufasa among clouds and stars above Simba sitting on Pride Rock at sunset.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Mufasa and Simba on Pride Rock

Upper arm · Colour · Photo

The design shows an older lion with a pale mane among clouds and a starry night sky at the top, with a younger lion with a darker mane seated on a rock ledge below. Smooth blended shading and soft outlines give the lions, clouds and grass a painted look. Bright orange, red and yellow sunset tones fill the lower sky, contrasting with deep blue and purple above, with black ink splatter marks scattered across the composition.

Upper arm Lion Cloud Star Sunset Night sky Grass

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The boy had been told twice to come down off the tip before the shift horn, and twice he had pretended not to hear. From the top of the spoil heap the whole valley lay open: the chapel roofs, the allotments gone to seed, the winding gear of the colliery black against a sky going the colour of marmalade. Ifan sat on a shelf of cinder with his knees under his chin and his father's old lamp beside him, unlit, its glass fogged with a year of dust.

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Below, the screens of the washery shook and rattled. Nobody on the tip could hear the men calling to each other, but Ifan knew the rhythm of it by heart. His father, Gwilym, had worked the face for twenty-six years and talked about the sky the way other men talked about horses. A red sunset meant the weather would hold, he said, or that the pit had been good to them that week. Ifan had never believed him, but he liked the story anyway.

Up in the smoke from the boiler stack, the clouds had started to pile into a shape he recognised: a broad head with a pale mane lit from underneath, the way his father's face had looked under the cage lamps when he came up grey and grinning. Ifan had tried to paint it once on the back of a fence board and made a mess of it. Now the first stars were coming out over the shape, one at a time, pricking through the blue like the lamps along the hill road.

The horn went. Ifan stood, brushed the cinder from his trousers and, for the first time, did not look back at the stack. He lit the lamp, held it up against the great orange glow of the evening, and walked down the path to where his mother was waiting at the gate with the kettle already singing behind her.