Black and grey pen drawing of a skull built from guitars, headphones, a microphone and trailing cables, with no body placement shown.

Skull made of guitars, headphones and microphone

Black and grey · Flash

A detailed pen drawing of a skull whose features are formed from electric guitars, a pair of headphones, a vintage microphone and loose cables. The linework is fine and dense, with hatching and cross-hatching giving the wooden guitar bodies and metal parts a worn, textured look. The image is shown in greyscale on a plain grey background, with the design centred and the cables extending out to the edges of the frame.

Skull Guitar Microphone Cable Music

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody at the Coldharbour rehearsal rooms knew who had built the skull, only that it turned up on the shelf above the desk the week after Dessie Pryce's van went into the canal at Tipton. Rhodri swore it hadn't been there when he locked up on the Friday. Maggie swore the headphones had been on the hook, not the floor, and nobody could argue with her about that without sounding daft.

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We called it Mr Dessie because it had his grin, or what we took for his grin, the rows of frets lined up like teeth. One wet Thursday Rhodri ran a lead from the jack panel into its microphone and the thing hummed. Not loud. A low note, like someone clearing their throat under a floorboard. Nobody plugged it in again after that, but the cables kept growing. Maggie found a coil of flex halfway up the stairwell, and another wound round the bass amp like ivy.

The night we finally gave up the lease, I pulled the last plug from the wall and the skull's jaw dropped open, slowly, the way a man does when he's about to tell you something he's promised to keep quiet. Then the room went still. Even the fridge stopped.

I didn't take it to the tip. I drove it home in the back of the van, wrapped in an old blanket, and somewhere past the reservoir the cables started to sing. I pulled into a lay-by and sat with the engine off until they stopped. When I got in that night, there was a fine grey lead lying coiled on my kitchen table, still warm, running out of the back door toward the canal.