Black script word Believe with a small shaded bird flying above it, tattooed on a wrist.

Believe script and dove on a wrist

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A black script word reading Believe runs across the wrist, with a small bird in flight above its final letters. The lettering has smooth, even outlines, while the bird is shaded with grey tones to show its wings and feathers. The ink is black and grey against pale skin, and the tattoo is centred in the frame with a plain, neutral background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The last pigeon came home the wrong way up, which Harold said was the sort of thing the lads at the Crown would have a laugh about on Saturday. Mona did not laugh. She eased the ring off its leg with the tip of a kitchen knife and held the scrap of paper to the window so the rain could not blur the pencil.

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It was her brother's handwriting, though Tom had been dead eleven years. He had written the note the night before the Otley race, the way they all used to, in tiny capitals on onion-skin: BELIEVE. Nothing else. Mona had always taken it for one of his jokes, the kind that only landed if you were standing next to him when he made it.

She went out to the loft with the paper in her apron pocket. The birds shifted on their perches, grey and dove-coloured, watching the door. Harold had kept the place exactly as Tom left it, down to the chalk tallies on the slate, and she found herself counting the empty pegs the way you count stairs in the dark. Only one bird was missing, the blue cock with the torn left wing, and she knew now where he had gone.

She found a stub of pencil in the tin on the windowsill and wrote the word again underneath his, pressing hard so it would last. Then she tied the paper back on the ring and carried the basket to the back step. When she lifted the lid the bird rose over the allotment wall, banked once against the low grey sky, and was gone. Mona stood a while longer with the empty basket, then went in to put the kettle on.

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