Grey shaded tattoo of a cat with angel wings and small sparkles on the inner forearm near the wrist, with a pink beaded bracelet beside it.

Cat with angel wings on a wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A shaded tattoo of a cat seated in front of a pair of feathered angel wings, with small four-point sparkles around the cat's head and shoulder. The linework is dark and defined, and the wings and cat are filled with soft grey tones for depth. The tattoo sits on the forearm near the wrist, photographed close up against a grey carpet with a pink bracelet wrapped above it.

Forearm Cat Angel wing Wing Sparkle Star

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The frost had got into the drainpipes again, and Dolly Carrow had to wrap the kettle in a tea towel before she could fill it. Across the square the church clock said ten to six, and the milk van had not yet come. Ash, the grey tom who had kept the back step of the chemist's since the spring, had not come in from the yard.

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She found him on top of the coal bunker, sitting very upright with his tail curled round his feet. The yard lamp had gone out. Snow had fallen in the night, fine as flour, and it sparkled on the slates wherever the moon caught it. Ash did not look round when she called. He only shifted a little, as if something on his back were being settled into place, and she saw that the frost had gathered in soft ridges along his shoulders, like the feathers of a bird.

Her husband Frank had been a wireless operator on Lancasters and never spoke of it, but on the morning the telegram came about his brother, he had sat in this same yard with the cat in his lap until the sky went pale. "He's keeping watch," Frank had said, the only thing he said all that week. Dolly lifted Ash down. He was cold as a church bell, and he let her carry him, and the frost came away on her sleeve like ash off a dying fire.

The milk van came at six. Dolly poured a saucer and set it on the step, and the cat came in behind her. At the door he paused and looked back at the bunker, where a small patch of snow still glittered in the grey light, as though someone had brushed it with a fingertip. She left the back door open a crack, the way Frank used to, and let the frost stay where it was.