Black and grey realistic tattoo of an anchor with a shaded feather on the upper arm, photographed from the side.

Anchor and feather on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A shaded anchor sits on the upper arm with a feather curving across its shank and down towards the lower edge. The linework is dark and defined, with soft grey shading giving the feather barbs and the anchor metal a three-dimensional look. The tattoo is in black ink and greys against a plain skin tone, with a white top and a red and teal wall behind.

Realism Upper arm Anchor Feather

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lift in Ferrier House had been out since Tuesday, so I was halfway up the stairs with a carrier bag of tins cutting into my fingers when the wind came through the broken pane on the fourth landing and dropped a grey feather onto my trainer. I picked it up because Nan always said feathers were lucky, and because it was the only thing in that stairwell that had come from somewhere better.

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My brother Danny had been at sea for eleven months on a tanker out of Immingham. He sent postcards of anchors, not the pretty kind but the kind painted on the side of a ship, with the chain running down into grey water. The last one had come on Thursday and was propped against the kettle. On the back he'd written only "Still here. Keep the flat warm." I'd read it so often the corner had gone soft.

On Saturday I climbed the last flight with the feather tucked behind my ear and found the roof door propped open with a brick. Someone had painted an anchor on the concrete parapet in faded grey, shaded the way you'd shade rope so it looked heavy enough to drag a boat down. Across its shank lay a feather, weighed flat with a stone. I stood there a long time. The wind kept trying to lift the real feather from my ear and I kept letting it.

Danny rang at nine from a signal somewhere off Orkney, the line crackling like frying bacon. I told him about the feather and the stone on the parapet. He laughed and said anchors don't fly, Lou, so whoever painted that had got it backwards. Then the call dropped, and I stood at the window with the phone warm in my hand, watching the estate lights come on one floor at a time.