Hand-drawn tattoo design of a rabbit with tribal swirl ornament and a Roman numeral clock face, drawn in dark brown ink on beige paper.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Tribal rabbit and clock design

Black and grey · Flash

A dark brown ink drawing of a rabbit's head and body in profile, filled with bold tribal-style swirls and scrollwork. A pocket watch with Roman numerals sits in front of the rabbit, and further lettering or ornament trails below it. The linework is solid and sharp on a warm, uneven beige background, with the whole design centred in the frame.

Rabbit Clock Pocket watch Roman numeral Tribal Swirl Scrollwork

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Pell had carried the watch since her grandfather's funeral, and in all that time it had never once agreed with the orchard. The apples came down when they liked, the wasps kept their own hours, and the bell at the top of the lane rang for dinner whenever the cook remembered. Only the rabbit seemed to care what the brass face said. It sat at the wall of the Bramley rows every evening, nose working, watching her thumb the winder.

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Late August had turned the grass the colour of old straw, and the windfalls were already soft in the long shade under the trees. Her grandfather used to say the rabbit was the orchard's clerk, that it kept the true hours and the rest of them were merely late. She had laughed at him. Now she set the watch on the wall stone and waited for the rabbit to come and stare at the numbers, the way it always did.

This evening it did not come. She found it instead inside the press house, stretched across a crate of Discovery apples, its ears flattened against the cider barrels as if listening for something under the floor. The watch in her palm ticked on, and when she looked at the face the hands had jumped back to ten to six, the same hour her grandfather had died. Somewhere outside, the wasps had gone quiet.

She knelt and set the watch beside the rabbit's paws. The creature looked at the face, then at her, and then it sprang out through the door into the slanting gold of the orchard, leaving the small brass thing ticking on the flagstones. Pell followed the white tail down the rows until the light went out of the trees, and she let herself be late for supper.