Black and grey flash drawing of a cartoon cherub with dark wings, a bobbed hairstyle and soft clouds behind, resting its chin on one hand.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cartoon cherub with wings and clouds

Black and grey · Flash

A cartoon character with a bobbed black hairstyle, large eyes and a strapless top rests its chin on one hand, with a dark feathered wing spreading behind it. Soft shaded clouds fill the grey background, and the bold black outlines are smooth and even. The drawing uses only black ink and grey tones.

Cherub Wing Cloud Cartoon character Angel Feather

Find an artist for this

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

You are the cherub on the cloud that nobody has asked to come down. The post office at Hollin's Edge has sent up three letters this week, all addressed to Cupid, all asking for the same thing: a husband for the baker's daughter who lives where the lane meets the beech wood. You have read every one with your chin propped on your fist, and decided none of them is your business. The clouds drift past your ankles, grey as pewter, and far below the trees are a dark green smudge that goes on for miles.

Keep reading

Your wing aches where it always aches, folded behind you like a closed umbrella. In the village a dog barks at nothing. The baker's daughter comes out with a basket and stops at the edge of the wood, the way everyone stops, because the path forks there. One fork leads back to the road. The other leads to the old oak where people leave the letters they never posted. She sets the basket down and looks up, straight at your cloud, and you lower your eyes at once, which is a foolish thing for a cherub to do.

She takes a folded paper from her apron, reads it aloud to no one, and tucks it into a knot of bark. You wait for the wind to carry it off, which is how the work is meant to go, but the wind is lazy today and the paper stays put. So you fly down, which you were told never to do before the third bell, and you pull it free. It says only: Come and see me on Sunday, and bring your own bread. Nothing about love at all.

On Sunday you are sitting on the stile with your wing folded when she arrives with two loaves and no basket. She does not look surprised. She says you took your time. You say the clouds were heavy. She sets one loaf on your knee, and you find you do not mind being a messenger who got the message wrong.