Small black ink tattoo of two skeleton figures on the forearm near the wrist, one upside down and one standing.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Two skeleton figures on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows two simple skeleton figures in black outline: one is inverted, with arms and legs extended, and the other stands upright beside it. The linework is bold and even, with the figures filled in solid black and no shading. The ink sits on pale skin against a dark chair and a tiled floor, and the image is a close, straight-on view of the forearm.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the rope, Alfie, and stop your gawping at the water like it owes you money. Yes, that's the one. Walter Crane went off the end of Pellow Pier the summer of fifty-three, head first, arms out like a gull, and the tide was out so far he landed on the sand and lay there a full minute before he came up laughing.

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His brother Ernie never went in. Ernie stood on the planks with his hands in his pockets, the way you're standing now, and he counted. That was his trade. He counted gulls, lamp posts, the number of times the bell on the ferry rang before it turned round. Walter used to say Ernie would count his own funeral if they let him near the hymn sheet.

So when Walter finally did climb the rail one foggy October and go over backwards, Ernie didn't shout. He just began counting. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, the whole way down, and by the time he reached forty the fog had swallowed the pier light and there was nothing to see but the grey roll of the sea.

Walter came back on the Thursday tide, picked clean, which is how the town knew he'd been properly gone. Folk said the sea had stripped him like a herring. Ernie just nodded, carried the bones home in a fish crate, and laid them out on the kitchen table to see if the count came right. It did, every time, and that's the only mercy I know of in this business.

Ernie's still out there on the planks, mind. He stands with his hands in his pockets, counting. Go on, love, tell me the number.

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