Packaged temporary tattoo sheets showing a flock of grey birds in flight and fine line feathers on a white background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Bird flock and feather temporary tattoo designs

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

The image shows a product card and backing sheet for temporary tattoos. The upper design is a flock of small grey birds rising diagonally across the sheet, and the lower sheet has several feathers drawn in fine grey outline with light hatching. The designs are set against a plain white background, with the packaging's text and border visible around them.

Fine line Bird Flock Feather Temporary tattoo Flying bird

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the rain is getting under the awnings and you'll want to hear the end of this before the stallholders start pulling their shutters down. Put your hands round that cup. Good. Now. Every morning for forty years Mrs Abernethy sold feathers off the end of the cobbled row at Tollgate Market, and nobody ever asked her where they came from, because the pigeons in this town are not the sort that moult. The gulls, maybe. Hers came from the wood beyond the reservoir.

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One wet Tuesday a boy came up the row with a flock of starlings wheeling over his head, a dozen of them, black and grey, going the wrong way for the weather. He had been sent to fetch her a message from the church roof, nothing more. She took his coin and gave him back a feather no bigger than his thumbnail and told him to hold it up against the sky. The birds peeled off from the flock and drew a line across the grey, slanting up toward the clock tower, as if someone with a careful hand had sketched it there for them.

That is the trouble with a feather, my dear. It only falls because something has let go of it. The boy stood in the rain until the last bird was a speck above the chimneys, and when he looked down his palm was empty, though he swore the feather had stayed behind. Mrs Abernethy shut her stall that night and never sold another. The stall beside hers, the one with the fine grey feathers laid out on the wet board like a row of sleeping things, belongs to her nephew now, and he will tell you it is only stock.