Two sketch-style tattoos on thighs: a left thigh with a woman's face, a sailing ship, a red rose and a bird, and a right thigh with a red-haired woman in black line and watercolour wash.

Sketch-style portraits on two thighs

Thigh · Mixed · Photo

The left image shows a tattoo of a woman's face in loose, sketched linework, with a sailing ship above, a red rose over one eye, a bird with outstretched wings, and handwritten script down the side. The right image shows a woman with red hair and a hand near her chin, drawn in fine black sketch lines with red and brown watercolour washes. Both pieces sit on the upper thigh and use a mix of black ink and colour accents.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Don't look at me like that, Ada. I've seen a gull take a whole kipper off a man's plate in Scarborough and never once say sorry. The Mary Kell taught me that much, the winter she limped in with her foremast gone and the rest of us stood on the quay in our oilskins, counting heads.

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Her figurehead was a woman with a red rose pinned at her collar, carved by a Norwegian who drank his wages in the Ship and Anchor. When the sea took her port side, the mate, Tom Ainsley, went over the rail after a bosun's chair and came up with a black-backed bird in his fist, its wing hanging wrong. He nursed it in the galley for a week, named it Dunnock out of spite, and it would not eat unless the cook sang hymns at it.

Then came the scratching. Ainsley cut words into the bulkhead beside his bunk with a marlinspike, a line a night: some will swim, some will sink. He worked until the paint gave way and the letters showed pale as teeth. Nobody asked him what they meant. We found out the morning we raised the Humber, when the bird flew off and left a single red petal on his pillow, pressed flat as a letter.

I still keep that petal in my Bible, Ada. Ainsley never came back for it, and I never worked out which of us he meant to swim.

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