Black and grey fine line tattoo of open books turning into flying birds, rising up the inner forearm towards the wrist.

Books turning into birds on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A row of open books on the forearm gradually turns into birds as it climbs towards the wrist, with the largest book at the bottom and small birds in flight at the top. The linework is thin and clean, with light grey shading on the pages and wings. The tattoo sits against plain skin in a casual indoor photo, with a teal sleeve and furniture in the background.

Fine line Forearm Book Bird Flight Open book Flock

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lamp hisses in the back kitchen of the terrace on Colliery Row, and coal dust has settled on the windowsill again, grey as a pigeon's back. Your father's boots are steaming by the range. Mrs Hollis from the chapel has left a parcel of library books on the table with a note saying they are overdue, which is the only sort of news that ever arrives on that step without a cough behind it.

Keep reading

Nobody in the village reads for pleasure. You do it under the blanket with a torch, one page at a time, pressing the spine flat so the crease won't show. The first book you finish is about a lighthouse keeper who learns the name of every bird on the coast. You copy the names into the back of your school jotter: fulmar, guillemot, kittiwake. They feel like coins you are not supposed to have.

On the Thursday the shift whistle goes at two and does not stop, and the pit yard fills with women in headscarves. You stand at the gate with the books under your arm. Then the pages begin to lift. Not all at once. The corner of the top volume rises like a wing testing the air, and the words slide out of the margins in small dark marks that turn over and over until they are birds.

They climb past the slag heap and the chapel roof, the largest first, a slow heron-grey, then smaller and quicker behind it. Your father looks up from the gate, shading his eyes with a blackened hand, and you hear him say your name. You do not stop to answer. Behind you the empty covers drop onto the cinders, and you do not look back to see who picks them up.