Close-up of a finger with the words Trick or Treat in pale script lettering beside a small skull tattoo, in a fine line style.

Trick or treat script and skull on a finger

Lettering · Hand · Colour · Photo

A finger shows the words Trick or Treat written in a flowing script, with a small skull outline at the side of the finger on the left. The lettering and skull appear to be fine lines in a light ink, with little visible shading. The background is a busy patterned fabric in bright colours, and the photo is taken at a slight angle with soft lighting.

Lettering Fine line Hand Script Skull Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Marguerite had sold the last of the cinder toffee at ten past eight, which left the shop on Lune Street smelling of burnt sugar and wet umbrellas. Outside, the rain had given up, and the streetlamps wore haloes of mist. She was counting coins into the drawer when the bell over the door jangled and a boy in a bin-bag cape marched in with his fists on his hips.

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"Trick or treat," he said, as though reading it off a card. Then, before she could answer, "I've come for the skull jar." He meant the brass-lidded jar on the top shelf, the one her husband had filled with sugar skulls every October for thirty years. Nobody had asked for it since the funeral. Marguerite fetched the stepladder, climbed up with her knees complaining, and lowered it into the boy's waiting hands. He weighed it solemnly, then unpicked a bootlace from his trainer and laid it on the counter like a pledge.

"That's not payment," she said. "That's a lace."

"It's the best lace I've got," he said, and she laughed, and the laugh surprised them both. She unscrewed the lid to check the jar was whole and found, rolled tight at the bottom, a slip of paper in her husband's careful capitals: TREAT YOURSELF, MAGS. SAVE ME THE LAST SKULL. She had forgotten he ever wrote that. She had forgotten a great many small things.

She tipped the sweets into the boy's cape until the bin bag bulged, then wrapped the last sugar skull in tissue and pressed it into his palm. He ran off into the mist, the jar clutched to his chest. Marguerite stood at the window a while, the bootlace coiled beside the till, and then she switched off the lamp and let the street keep its own light.