Man photographed from behind with a large eagle tattoo across his upper back in realistic shaded greys with a red detail, and a lettered sleeve on his left arm.

Eagle with wings spread across a back

Realism · Back · Mixed · Photo

The photograph shows a shirtless man seen from behind, with a large eagle spread across his upper back and shoulder blades. The bird is rendered with shaded greys and fine feather detail, and a red element sits beside its head. A sleeve of lettering and imagery covers his left arm from shoulder to wrist, with some colour visible in the sleeve.

Realism Back Shoulder Upper arm Forearm Eagle Wing Feather Lettering Sleeve

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The windfalls had gone soft in the grass by the time the eagle came down into Harcourt's orchard, and Maud Ashby, who had counted every bruised apple since May, was not pleased about it. She went out at dusk with her basket and her stick, meaning to shout it off the wall, but the bird was already on the lowest bough of the old Bramley, grey as wet slate, with a strip of red at its throat like a ribbon someone had tied there and forgotten. It turned its head and looked at her the way a tithe-man looks at a field, and she found she had nothing to say.

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Each evening after that it came back. It took one apple, never more, and left a grey feather on the gatepost. Maud gathered them into a tin. Her brother Jem laughed and said the thing was after the cider, but the barrels were full and nobody had touched them. The village had a story about Edwin Harcourt, who planted the orchard the year his wife drowned in the mill race, and who told anyone who would listen that the trees belonged to the sky as much as to him. Nobody had believed him then either.

On the last evening of August she sat on the wall until the light went thin, and the eagle came over the hedge with its wings wide and grey in the dusk. She held out a russet on her flat palm. It did not take it. Instead it stood on the post, folded its wings, and waited, the way a man waits for a door to open. Maud understood then that she had been counting the wrong thing all summer.

She set the apple on the stone and walked back to the house without looking round. In the morning the apple was gone, and in the tin there was one more feather, longer than the rest, with a single red thread caught in its quill.