Anchor with flying birds on a wrist
Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A solid black anchor sits on the inner wrist, with a cluster of small black bird silhouettes spreading out from its shank towards the hand. The anchor is drawn with bold, filled shapes and the birds are simple, scattered marks of varying sizes. The image is in black ink only, shown in a photo of a raised hand with a denim sleeve, black trousers and boots on a light tiled floor.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The anchor came up out of the mud at slack water, and the starlings went with it. Nobody on the quay had seen that before. Dad said the tide had loosened the weed, but I had watched that flock settle on the iron every evening for a month, and I knew they had been waiting for it to move.
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The Marjorie Ann had lain off the breakwater since Grandad's funeral, her anchor dug into a bed of old shingle and her chain furred green. Nobody wanted to sell her and nobody wanted to cut the rope. So Uncle Tom rowed out in the dinghy with a bar and a can of diesel, and the slipway winch groaned for an hour while the rest of us stood in our coats and pretended not to watch the water.
When the crown finally broke free, the birds lifted in one grey sheet, wheeled once over the harbour wall and broke apart into smaller and smaller pieces, as if someone had flicked ink across the sky. The anchor hung dripping from the crane, blacker and heavier than it looked, and for a moment it was the only solid thing in the whole town.
Mum put her hand on my shoulder and said we could take a fluke home for the back garden. I told her to leave it on the quay. Something that heavy ought to be allowed to rest on dry stone for once.
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