Teal rosary-style chain anklet tattoo with a cross pendant wrapping around a woman's ankle, beside a white peep-toe platform heel.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Rosary anklet tattoo with cross

Ankle · Colour · Photo

A close photograph of a leg and ankle showing a tattoo of a chain with small beads encircling the ankle, with a dangling cross hanging down towards the foot. The linework is fine and the ink appears teal or blue-green with soft shading. The plain grey background and white heeled shoe keep the focus on the tattoo.

Ankle Rosary Cross Chain Bead Anklet

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Pell wants room four cleared before the Thursday carrier, so you are on your knees under the iron bedstead with a dustpan when the chain turns up, caught in the dust behind the leg. It is a thin silver thread strung with small teal glass beads, the colour of the shallows off the groyne, and at its end hangs a cross no bigger than a bramble leaf.

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Mr Aske took the room in June, paid in advance and left without a word. The ledger says he owed nothing, which is the only kindness the ledger shows him. You hold the chain up to the window and the beads catch the light off the Channel like sea glass worn smooth by a thumb. Downstairs the wireless plays dance music for nobody, and the gulls are working the bins. You know what this is. A rosary cut down, the decades gone, only the cross and a ring of beads left to be worn about the ankle, the way girls on the front wore them that summer, praying in secret while looking at nothing but sand.

The last letter to his address in Bermondsey came back marked gone away. You think about posting it again anyway. Instead you wind the chain round two fingers and carry it down the stairs, where Mrs Pell is at the hall table with her sleeves rolled, counting spoons into a tin. "Left in the room," you say. "Shall I put it in the lost box?"

She takes it and weighs it on her palm the way she weighs fish on a Friday. "There's no lost box for things like that," she says, and drops it into her apron pocket. All the way to the kitchen you hear the small chime of beads against her hip, like someone tapping at a door to be let in.