Black and white photo of a small bold black scorpion tattoo on the back of a woman's neck, with her hair up in a bun.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Scorpion tattoo on the back of the neck

Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A small black scorpion sits on the back of a woman's neck, shown from behind with her hair gathered up in a bun. The scorpion is drawn in bold, solid black lines with simple filled areas and a curved tail. The photograph is black and white, with soft background shading and a hoop earring visible at the side of the head.

Neck Scorpion Hair bun Woman

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

At the end of August the wasps had given up on the plums, and Ada Penrose found the scorpion curled on the lid of the cider crate, its tail raised like a question mark. The crate had come up from the port with a load of Bramleys, and nobody on the farm could say how the creature had got in among them. Her grandmother, who had kept bees for sixty years, said a scorpion would sooner be carried than cross a field alone, so Ada lifted the lid with a stick and watched it climb onto her palm without hurry.

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The village said the orchard was cursed. The old tithe barn had been built from stone pulled out of a quarry where, the story went, three men had been stung and died in their sleep. Ada didn't believe it. She carried the creature to the south wall of the barn, where the flagstones held the sun until nine o'clock, and set it down in the warm dust beside the drainage gully.

Every evening after that she left it a dish of crushed windfalls and a saucer of water. The pickers came and went, the press groaned through the afternoons, and the scorpion grew bolder, climbing the rim of the saucer to drink while the swallows dipped over the trees. By October the frost had blackened the last of the leaves, and the lad from the next farm came asking for his crate back.

Ada gave it to him empty. The scorpion had gone under the barn wall into a crack no wider than a thumb, and she never saw it again. The next August she still left a windfall on the flagstone each evening, and each morning it was gone.