Colour tattoo of a green-skinned zombie pin-up woman in a purple dress holding a severed blonde head, on the calf in a traditional style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Zombie pin-up holding severed head on calf

Traditional · Calf · Colour · Photo

A zombie pin-up woman with green skin, dark curled hair and rouged cheeks poses with one arm raised behind her head. In her other hand she holds a bleeding, severed blonde head, with a drip of blood falling below it. Bold black outlines, solid fills and a purple dress with a red sash give the piece a flat, classic look, shown on a bare lower leg against a plastic-wrapped background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The calendar had hung in Dunmore's Motor Works since March, and by the Fourth of July the girl on it had stopped looking like anyone's sweetheart. You noticed the rouge first, how it had crept past the cheekbones like a sunburn, then the way she stood, one hand lifted to her dark curls as if someone across the lot had called her name. You had painted her yourself, every black outline and every fold of that purple dress, for the price of a tank of petrol and a promise to keep your mouth shut about the Ladies' Auxiliary.

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Nobody in Ashby Falls had asked her to come back. But Peggy Lyle had been crowned Miss Ashby that spring, and Peggy had laughed at the calendar in front of the whole Rotary Club, and Peggy had kept the crown, the tiara and the good name that went with them. So when the green girl walked out of the photograph, she went straight to the Rotary picnic on the courthouse lawn, her red sash trailing in the grass, a yellow-curled head tucked under one arm like a handbag.

You found her beside the bandstand, where the brass band had stopped mid-polka and the bunting hung limp in the heat. She set the head down on the bandstand steps with great care, as if it might still be listening, and then she turned to you and tapped the calendar pinned to your shirt pocket. You had not known you'd brought it. She held out her hand, palm up, and waited.

So you gave her the brush. You let her steady your wrist and repaint the rouge herself, then the lips, then the little beauty mark above them. When the band struck up again, she danced with you across the lawn, and by sunset she had stopped looking like a warning and started looking like a woman who had finally been allowed to finish her own picture.

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