Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Octopus line drawing with curling tentacles
Black and grey · Flash
A black ink drawing of an octopus with its tentacles curling across the frame, with the head and eye at the upper right. The linework is fine and detailed, with suckers and tentacle folds shaded by dense stippling and hatching. The design is shown in isolation on a plain white background, with no skin or body part visible.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The octopus had got into the scullery before the bride did. Ruth Tremayne found it at half past eleven, folded in the copper pan like a wet umbrella someone had left to dry, its arms spilling over the rim and its eye, pale as a boiled gooseberry, fixed on her.
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The ring was the trouble. Daniel had dropped it off the harbour wall at dawn while fumbling with the tide tables and his cufflinks, and it had gone down through the green water in one bright wink. Nobody else had seen it go. Ruth suspected the old one from under the weedy stones at the Cove, the creature the boatmen blamed for stealing bait and keeping whatever else the sea gave up. She lifted the lid. A tentacle unfurled, slow and deliberate, and laid something cold across her palm: a thin band, still smelling of brine.
"You'll want that back," she said. The arm tightened around her fingers, not hard, only enough to be considered. She understood the terms without being told. She gave it her grandmother's sapphire brooch, the one she had meant to wear at the breakfast, and the octopus let go of the ring and drew the brooch down into the pan's dark water without a sound.
Outside, the tide had crept over the slipway, and the wedding party waded out to meet it, Daniel shouting that the cake was going to float away, the vicar holding up his hat. Ruth slid the ring onto his finger at the water's edge, and somewhere beneath them a long pale arm lifted briefly from the weed, as if to applaud.
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