Black and grey realism tattoo of a skull wearing sunglasses, set in smoky shading on a forearm, with a partial eye tattoo at the bottom edge.

Realistic skull in sunglasses on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A large skull wearing aviator-style sunglasses is the central subject, rendered in soft black and grey shading with highlighted bone edges. Dark smoky shading surrounds the skull and fades into the surrounding skin, with a faint tattoo fragment visible at the upper right and a partial eye tattoo at the lower right. The photograph is taken close up against a dark leather surface.

Realism Forearm Skull Sunglasses Smoke Eye

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

My dearest Hester, the north tower has finally given up its last stone, and I write to you from the window seat that still holds the castle's damp better than any of us. Mr Abernethy came up from the village this morning with his theodolite and his bad temper, insisting the old keep was sound enough for a survey. I told him the ghosts had been asking for a proper roof for two hundred years, and he laughed, and then he looked at the skull we found in the cellar drain and stopped laughing altogether.

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It was a man's skull, or the remains of one, and somebody had wedged a pair of tinted spectacles across its brow with a loop of copper wire. Lenses still in the frames, the frames still bent to the shape of a face that had certainly squinted at the sun. Mr Abernethy wanted to send it to the museum in Durham. I said it had clearly chosen its own company for a century and would not thank us for a label. We put it back in the drain, wire and all, and laid a flat slate over it, the way you would close a book that was not finished being read.

I am not superstitious, as you know, but I took a candle down at dusk to check the slate was square, and the smoke from the wick went sideways across the stones and hung there in the shape of a grin. I stood very still and waited for it to pass. It did not, not until I had said good night to it, which I am aware is absurd. Come up at Easter if the coach roads are dry. Bring your good ink, and I will show you where the wall has crumbled and the dark comes through like weather.

Your loving sister, Margaret