Colour neo-traditional tattoo of a snarling tiger with green foliage and a grey circular ornament on the inner forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Snarling tiger on a forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A large snarling tiger head fills most of the forearm, with its mouth open and teeth visible, bared against a pale wrap. Bold black outlines define the fur stripes, spotted cheeks and eyes, and the shading is soft and blended. Warm orange and yellow dominate the tiger, with green leaves around it and a grey ornamental circle with swirling linework near the wrist.

Neo-trad Japanese Forearm Tiger Leaves Foliage Ornament Big cat

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, the lot of you, and mind the kettle, it's older than the Dunmore Brothers' tent and twice as temperamental. You'll want to hear about Bahadur. Everybody does, because the old handbills promised he could leap through a ring of fire, and the handbills were liars, but he was still the finest thing on the lot. By last winter the show was broke, the big top had holes you could post a letter through, and Mr Ferris had sold the elephants to a zoo in Yorkshire for the price of a used van.

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Bahadur would not go into the ring. He stood at the back of his cage with his lip curled, and when the trainer came with the cane he showed every tooth he owned, yellow and long as a clothes peg. Only Nell Aske sat with him. She mended the costumes in the wardrobe wagon and brought him a flask of cold tea each evening, and she never once raised her voice to him. She'd sit on an upturned crate with a length of green silk across her knees, and the old cat would press his grey muzzle against the bars and breathe at her like a bellows.

The night Ferris brought the buyer round, a man with a sheepdog and a bad temper, Bahadur got up off the straw and roared so the caravans rattled on their axles. The dog went under the wagon and would not come out. The buyer put his hat on and walked back to his car without a word. Nell came out of the wardrobe wagon afterwards, wiped her hands on her apron, and pressed a brass disc into Ferris's palm. It had been a ringmaster's cufflink once, and she had scratched waves round its rim with a hatpin. He could sell it for the price of the van, she said, or he could keep it for the cat.