Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Abstract watercolour bird and hand on ribs
Ribs · Mixed · Photo
A photograph of a tattoo on the left side of a torso, with the arm raised. Two dark linework forms, one resembling a bird in flight and the other a hand or figure, sit over loose washes of red, purple and blue. The sketchy outlines and soft, bleeding colour give the piece an abstract, painterly look against the skin.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The kestrel will not come down to the glove unless the wind is wrong for it, and the wind has been wrong since Lammas. You stand on the broken lip of the curtain wall at Carrick Hollin with your arm raised and the leather gone stiff with rain, waiting for the bird to decide you are worth the trouble.
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Below you the keep has lost its roof to a winter nobody bothered to record. Ivy has taken the chapel. Sheep graze in the room where the lord's clerk once counted tithes, and the only thing still hanging in the great hall is a rusted hook that catches the afternoon light, red as a coal. Your brother said the place was cursed. You told him curses are only weather that has been waiting longer.
The kestrel drops off the sill in one long fall, goes wide over the moat, then finds the thermal rising off the warm stones and climbs until it is nothing but a notch against a sun the colour of spilled wine. You do not chase it. You lower your arm slowly, flex your fingers, and listen to the bell of the village church that nobody has rung since the flood.
When the bird comes back it does not land on the glove. It settles on the wall beside your boot, folds its wings like a sealed letter, and waits. You crouch, open your palm flat on the stone, and let it step on. Whatever the castle kept, it has given back the one thing worth having: a hand that is not reaching for anything at all.
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