Black ink tattoo of the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, drawn in a crosshatched engraving style, on the side of a person's ribs.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

White Rabbit tattoo on the ribs

Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a standing rabbit in a checked jacket, holding a round object in one paw, with long ears and a waistcoat-style outfit. Fine hatched and cross-hatched linework builds the shading on the fur, clothing and tall grass, with a few dotted and scratched marks for the ground. The design is in black ink only and is centred along the curve of the ribs.

Ribs Rabbit Alice in wonderland Jacket Pocket watch Grass

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mr Haskett had been late for breakfast every morning since the Whit bank holiday, so by the third week of August the whole house had learned to put his egg on the stove when the church clock struck eight. I carried the toast up from the kitchen, which meant I heard him coming down the stairs at a trot, buttoning his checked jacket wrong and muttering about tides. He always had his pocket watch out, snapping the lid open and shut as if the time might slip away while he wasn't looking.

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Mother said he was a clerk from Leeds on a fortnight's rest, though nobody in Sandgate ever saw him stand still. He walked the front at dawn with the watch in one hand and a stick of chalk in the other, marking the sea wall with small crosses where he reckoned the water would reach by Thursday. The printed tide tables hung in the hall, and he would not look at them. He knew the sea better, he said, and it was not the sea's fault if people kept their clocks wrong.

On the last Saturday the wind came in off the Channel smelling of rain, and Mr Haskett did not come down at all. Mother sent me up with the spare key. His bed was made tight as a drum, and on the washstand lay the watch, its hands stopped at a quarter to nine. Beside it was a note in careful copperplate: Gone to the end of the groyne. Do not wait breakfast. I am most dreadfully late.

I ate his egg myself, cold, on the sill of his empty room. The next morning there was one fresh chalk cross on the sea wall, a little past the last of his old marks, with the room number written beside it. The tide came in exactly where he had said it would, and I stood on the front with the toast going cold in my hand, waiting for a checked jacket to come trotting along the prom.