Coloured drawing of a green-skinned zombie pin-up nurse in a bloodstained white uniform, holding a glass jar containing a brain.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Zombie pin-up nurse holding a brain jar

Colour · Flash

A full-length illustrated figure of a zombie pin-up nurse with long black wavy hair and green skin, wearing a white apron stained with red blood. She holds a glass jar containing a pink brain outstretched in one black-gloved hand, and her green legs show stitching and a scissor detail at the thigh, with black high-heeled shoes. The clean outlines, flat colour fills and shading give the drawing a classic pin-up illustration look on a plain white background.

Zombie Pin-up Brain Jar Blood Stitches Scissors Glove High heel

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sister Vera Quill had never once dropped a jar in twenty-six years on Ward Nine, and she was not about to start on the night the ferry came in short of hands. "Hold the lamp steady, Pruett," she said, and I held it, because the alternative was Vera's opinion of my handwriting.

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Her patient that night had been a Mr Algernon Tebbutt, a pawnbroker's clerk who had been dead since Tuesday and had not yet been told. He sat up on the trolley when she leaned over him, which I considered poor manners, and she pressed him back down with two fingers and a murmured apology to the Almighty. Then she lifted the jar from the cabinet, held it up to the lamp so the grey matter wobbled like blancmange at a christening, and said, "Waste not, Pruett. The Infirmary pays by the ounce."

I have carried worse things down those stairs. I once carried a bishop's gallstones in a teacup. But I had never seen Vera smile, and she was smiling now, a red smear on her apron where she had wiped her hands, her scissors swinging from the ribbon at her hip like a clock on a gallows.

We went down the cellar steps at half past two. The tide was out, the dock lamps were drowned in fog, and somewhere beyond the breakwater a steamer sounded twice, the way steamers do when they have lost their way and would rather not admit it. Vera set the jar on the bench between us and tapped the glass with one black glove. "There," she said. "Now Mr Tebbutt can finally have an opinion about the weather."