Small zebra tattoo on an ankle
Ankle · Black and grey · Photo
A small black tattoo of a zebra's head and body sits on the outer side of a pale ankle, with the head facing left. The stripes are rendered in solid black lines and dark fills, with little or no shading. The ink is black against skin and the photo is taken close up, with the foot resting on grey fabric.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Right, sit down, the lot of you, before the urn goes cold and Mr Hargreaves starts counting heads again. You'll remember the summer the travelling menagerie pitched on the cricket field behind the bus depot. Nobody here believed a zebra could be bought for the price of a second-hand Bedford, but Madame Orla had one called Penny, and Penny did not care for being looked at.
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Penny was thin as a coat hanger and striped the way a fresh sheet of ink is striped, sharp-edged and black against the bone-white. She had a habit of turning her head to the left, always to the left, as if something unpleasant stood there waiting. Most evenings it was the ringmaster's cigarette smoke. That August it became Dennis Ferrow, the new boy from the paper round, who carried a paper bag of sugar lumps and a foolish grin.
On the last night of the fair the field flooded after a storm, and the gate was left open by someone who will not be named at this reunion either. Penny walked out onto the high street at a trot so neat that the Co-op's blinds did not even rattle. She went past the chapel, past the chip shop, up the hill to where the school gates stood shut. Then she cleared the railings as if they were nothing and stood in the middle of the netball court, head turned left, waiting for someone to notice she had come home.
Nobody came, except Dennis, with his sugar, and the two of them sat on the wet tarmac until dawn. That is all the story is, really. She went back with him in the morning, the sugar lumps were gone, and the stripes on her flank had come up a little darker from the rain. Drink up. Mr Hargreaves is looking at me.
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