Collage of four tattoos: a red and black sugar skull woman on the upper arm, a white cartoon robot on purple splashes, an owl's amber eye, and a black and grey woman holding banknotes on the forearm.

Collage of four tattoos: sugar skull, Baymax, owl and money

Realism · Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

The collage shows four separate tattoos. A sugar skull woman with a spider web across her face and red hair sits on the upper arm in neo-traditional style with bold outlines and red and black shading. A smooth white cartoon robot stands on a soft purple splash background, and a close-up of an owl's eye with an amber iris is rendered in greyscale with fine feather texture. A realistic black and grey portrait of a woman holding fanned banknotes covers the forearm, with smooth shading and hash-mark details.

Realism Neo-trad Upper arm Forearm Sugar skull Day of the dead Spider web Owl Banknote Money

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The owl was on the wall again when I unlocked the back door, perched on the lintel of the flour store the way it had every morning since Gran's funeral, its amber eyes fixed on the lane as if someone had paid it to watch. I set the kettle going and didn't look up. You learn not to meet the stare of anything that has been awake longer than you.

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By half three the proving baskets were full and the ovens were ticking up to heat. Dev came in late, smelling of the bus and wet pavement, and started knocking out the rye as if it had insulted his mother. We don't talk much before four. He nodded at the window. "Your bird's back." "It's not my bird." "Nobody's bird, then. Just sitting there." The lane lamp buzzed and went out, and the owl didn't move.

At ten to five I carried the first tray of cinnamon swirls to the front, glossy with egg. The shutters were still down, but someone was already at the glass, a hand cupped against the reflection, and I could tell from the way they stood that they'd been there a while, the way the owl had. I drew the bolt. The bell over the door rang once, thin and surprised.

Nobody came in. The figure on the step stared at the tray, then at me, then up at the roof where the owl had been. It had gone. Only a feather lay on the step, pale and damp, where it had been sitting. I took it inside and tucked it in the flour tin with the other things I can't bring myself to throw away. Then I lifted the tray again and went back out into the cold, and the owl was back on the lintel, watching me as though I were the one who needed minding.