Black and grey octopus tattoo with shaded tentacles wrapping around a man's forearm while his hand rests against his chin.

Octopus tattoo on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A man in a dark hooded top rests his hand on his chin, showing a large octopus tattoo on the forearm. The octopus has shaded black and grey body and curling tentacles with suckers, and a second, darker tattoo is partly visible on the other forearm. The composition is a close, slightly angled crop with a plain dark background.

Realism Forearm Octopus Tentacle Man

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The octopus is back in the bucket by the time you get the lamps lit, and it has already worked out the latch. You find it on the slipway at half five, pressed flat against the wet concrete like a dropped glove, three arms curled round the ice box as though you might carry it off by the handle. Mrs Penhallow has ordered twelve portions for the wedding breakfast at the Ship, and she has been very clear about what she expects from fish on a Saturday.

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You talk to it, because nobody else is up. You tell it about the bride, Nell Tregarthen, who sent a boy down twice to ask whether the fish would be ready before the vows. You tell it the vows are at two and the tide turns at four, which means nothing to an octopus but everything to you. It watches you with its sideways eyes, and you remember your grandfather saying they never forget a face, which he also said about the cod.

You lift it out with both hands. It wraps your wrist, cool and deliberate, testing each sucker against your skin the way the harbour reads weather. Then it lets go one arm at a time, pours itself over the rim of the bucket and down into the black water between the posts. The last thing you see is the pale ring of its suckers turning once in the lamplight.

You tell Mrs Penhallow the box was knocked over. She says the bride will be disappointed. At two o'clock you stand at the back of the Ship with a plate of crab sandwiches and watch Nell laugh through her vows, and you think the tide was right to take it. That evening, a single pale print sits on the wet stone beside your boot, and you leave it there for the gulls.