Colour tattoo of a skeletal Rosie the Riveter in a red polka dot bandana and blue shirt, flexing one arm above a 'We Can Do It!' banner on the thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Skeleton Rosie the Riveter on the thigh

Traditional · Thigh · Colour · Photo

A skeleton version of the Rosie the Riveter pin-up figure wears a red polka dot bandana and a blue work shirt, flexing one bony arm with a clenched fist. A tan banner across the bottom reads 'We Can Do It!' in black lettering. Bold black outlines define the forms, with solid blue, red and tan fills and soft shading on the shirt and skull.

Traditional Neo-trad Thigh Skull Skeleton Bandana Banner Fist Polka dot

Find an artist for this

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

The saw has been hanging in the shed since the telegram came, and today you take it down because the ash for the spokes won't cut itself. Your brother-in-law used to sharpen it on Sunday evenings with his pipe clamped in his teeth. Now you do it yourself, hair tied up in a red spotted scarf that still smells of his tobacco, and the ladder against the back wall groans as though somebody is climbing it.

Keep reading

The forest starts where the last cottage in Hollin Bank gives up. The men have gone to the coast and the women go in at seven with crosscut saws and a handcart. Old Mrs Pryce swears the men who felled the oaks in her grandfather's day never knocked off, that their bones still lean against the trunks waiting for the whistle. You laugh at her until the afternoon the wind drops dead and you hear a steady drawing rhythm in the trees, a saw that is not yours.

You follow it through the brambles to a clearing where a skeleton in a faded blue work shirt is leaning into a log, a knotted red bandana over its skull and its grin wide enough to ring. It does not stop when it sees you. It jerks its chin at the far end of the trunk, and you grab the handle without thinking. Two of you pulling, bones knocking together, the pair of you laughing the way the dead laugh, with no breath needed for it.

By dusk you have six rounds stacked on the cart, and the skeleton has slipped back into the bracken with a clatter of finger bones. Nobody in Hollin Bank believes a word of it. But next morning the cart is loaded before anyone wakes, the wood is squared off and neat, and on the top round someone has chalked a fist, and a careful hand that is not yours has added a little banner underneath.